Gone to the Dogs

Sometimes, it only takes one wrong step and one missing dog to reveal exactly who is standing beside you. And who isn’t.

How it started

It was a syrupy spring afternoon. The kind of day that practically insists you step outside and make something simple of it. Fourth date. Just enough history to skip small talk, not enough to know how someone handles the unscripted parts.

We packed a picnic, grabbed my dog, and drove out of the city to a riverside trail.
Fresh air, wide-open spaces, nothing but time. A soft setup for someone who was naturally on the quieter side.

The plan was easy. Walk, laugh, let the dog entertain us. Maybe build a little more of that quiet understanding you hope eventually feels like home.

For a while, it did feel simple. Calm. Light.
Until I decided to let my dog off the leash.

The Shift

He is an old hunting dog, retired in spirit but not in instinct. One sharp crackle in the woods, one whiff of something I would never smell and he was gone.

Not just wandering, not just exploring.
Gone.

No sound. No sight. Just the wide, sudden emptiness of an open world without a compass.

I kept my head down, trying to stay calm, thinking through the next steps. We could split up. Call out. Cover more ground.

When I turned to her, ready to organise something, she just stood there, wide-eyed, asking,
"Is it my fault?"

It didn’t even register at first. How could fault-finding be the focus when my dog, my flatmate, was somewhere out there, alone?

The sun fell fast. The sky folded into itself. No dog. No help. Just me, pacing the stretch of river, calling into the empty dusk, while she leaned against the car, arms crossed, watching the sky grow darker.

A local woman saw the scene unfolding and pulled over. No questions, no hesitation.
She organised a small search party. Flashlights flickered through the trees. Voices called out into the rising dark.

The girl stayed in the car.

The Fallout

We drove back to the city in silence. Not the soft, comfortable kind. The hollow, clanging kind that fills every corner of a car until even the engine sounds lonely.

Later that night, my phone lit up.
"You probably don’t want to see me again after this."

I replied carefully, still numb from everything else.
"I have other things on my mind right now. Some understanding would be appreciated."

Minutes later, another ping.
"I knew it. You don’t want me."

There it was. The lens through which everything would now be seen. Blame. Abandonment. Insecurity. Crashing down over a situation that was never about us in the first place.

I replied, softly but firmly.
"You're right. It's probably best to leave it at this point."

The messages kept coming. Explanations. Pleas. Replays of what she could have done differently. Part of me did feel sad reading them. Sad because I understood, in a way, where it came from. The frantic need for reassurance. The fear of being left behind. But understanding it didn’t mean I could carry it.

Not that night. Not any other night.

The next morning, the call came. The local woman had found my dog. Cold, hungry, but alive. She fed him, kept him warm, and called me to come pick him up. I drove home with him curled up on the seat beside me, finally breathing again.

As for her? Somehow, that relationship already felt farther away than my dog had ever been.

Note to Self

When things fall apart, pay close attention to who leans in and who leans away.
Loyalty is not built on easy afternoons. It reveals itself when the woods grow dark and the familiar path disappears. Compassion has its place. But confusing someone's panic for a shared responsibility is how you lose yourself too.
Trust your instincts. Especially the ones pulling you back to the leash.