“She stopped moving!” he yelled.
I looked through the rear window and immediately knew we were out of time.
The Golden Retriever was sprawled across the back seat unnaturally still. No barking. No scratching. No panic.
That’s the dangerous part people don’t understand.
When dogs stop fighting, they’re close to dying.
I grabbed the punch tool from my duty belt and shattered the rear side window in one strike.
The heat rolling out of that car hit me like opening an oven.
I unlocked the door and lifted the dog out.
She weighed fifty-eight pounds, but in that moment she felt almost fragile enough to disappear in my arms.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I remember saying. “Stay with me.”
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