That morning looked ordinary enough, the kind you glide through without thinking twice. The sky was gray, heavy with clouds that promised rain, but I figured I had time to trim the old apple tree before the weather turned. It had been leaning awkwardly for months, and the branches were dead in places—a chore I’d put off long enough. I set up the ladder, grabbed my tools, and felt the familiar satisfaction of finally tackling something I’d avoided. My dog, Max, followed me with an alertness that didn’t match the calm morning. He paced circles around the yard, tail stiff, ears flicking at every sound. I chalked it up to his usual desire to be near me, the kind of loyalty he wore like a second skin.

I placed the ladder against the trunk and tested its steadiness. As soon as my boot touched the first rung, Max froze. His entire body went rigid, his eyes locked on mine with a tension I hadn’t seen before. I dismissed it with a quick laugh. “Relax, buddy. I’ll be down in a minute.” I climbed another rung, and that’s when I felt the tug. Not a gentle nudge—this was a sharp, insistent pull at the cuff of my trousers. I looked down, startled, and saw Max clamped onto the fabric, teeth gripping hard enough that I nearly slipped. “Hey! What’s gotten into you?” I said, trying to shake him off without hurting him. He wouldn’t let go. He braced himself, digging his paws into the dirt, eyes wild with a warning I didn’t understand.

Frustrated, I climbed down and guided him toward the kennel. Maybe he was nervous about the storm rolling in. Maybe he wanted attention. Maybe he was just being stubborn. I led him inside, latched the chain, and tried to soothe him with a pat on the head. He whined low, the kind of sound that vibrated more like fear than protest. “I’ll be right back,” I promised, stepping away