K-9’s Second Wind

The steady drip, drip, dripping of the faucet is the only real thing in Nat Harper’s world. Liquid blooms into a perfect teardrop, reaches its breaking point, and free-falls into the porcelain basin below. Another will follow in its tracks, the cycle repeating for days, weeks, months on end until the world becomes a series of storms and brief respites of calm.

“Nat, stay with me.”

Nat looks into the tiny screen propped on the counter. Her face is reflected back: red, blotchy, and miniaturized beneath the concerned expression of her best friend. Bea fills the frame as she leans in closer, frowning.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Nat says, staring at her shaking hands.

“After what happened, experiencing panic attacks is normal—”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me,” Nat mumbles, numbness trickling through her.

“Force of habit,” Bea replies. The silence hangs heavy between them. Nat scoops the phone into her hand and sags against the vanity, forcing herself to look into Bea’s eyes.

“Every time I step out of this house, I...” She trails off as her throat begins to close again. “The world is not safe anymore.” Bea stares at her for a long moment, frown deepening. Nat can see the cogs turning as Bea cycles through the toolbox of skills she hands her clients.

“Well, maybe you need a way to make the world safe again.”

“How?” Nat croaks. Bea twists her lips into a small smile.

“Have you considered getting a dog?”

***

This was a mistake. Nat opens the door, sound assaulting her from all angles. She holds her breath as she approaches the reception desk, staring down the boy parked behind it. He’s hidden beneath a beige baseball cap, blonde waves flaring out the sides.

“Hello,” Nat says stiffly. The boy does not look up. She raps her knuckles on the counter, and he startles, removing an earbud and grinning guiltily up at her. His eyes lock on hers, and a flush rises up her neck. “Natalia Harper. I called this morning?”

“Right, you,” he replies, watching her closely. Nat’s stomach flutters. “Well, let me take you back.”

The swivel chair screeches as he stands, gesturing for her to follow. She trails him at a distance, heart pounding in her chest as the barking intensifies.

“I’m Peter, by the way,” he calls over his shoulder, holding open the door for her. Nat smiles weakly and steps through, flinching at the paws pounding on metal.

“How’re we doing, gang?” Peter calls out, strolling into the room. Nat covers her ears as the sound reaches a crescendo. She clutches at her chest and gulps down a few breaths. “So what’re we looking for? A cuddler, like Pork Chop?” He gestures toward a tiny Lab mix wiggling like mad as he licks the bars.

“I was thinking something a little bigger,” Nat says with a grimace.

“Got it. What about Dandy?” He drops to his knees beside the kennel of a wild-looking Heeler-mix who circles five or six times before colliding with the door.

“I’d like a dog that could protect me,” Nat says, frowning at the ball of fluff. Peter raises his eyebrows and sits back on his heels, tapping his chin.

“I’ve got just the dog for you.”

He guides her toward the very last kennel. At first, she’s certain it’s empty, the food and water bowl lying untouched by the door. She draws back as he pulls open the kennel door. But when she peeks around the bend, she spies a thin German Shepherd hunched on a fraying bed, head propped on a beaten-up blanket. He looks up, eyes exhausted as though he, too, has had enough of the noise.

“This is Hank. Former police dog. Handler took him in after the old boy retired. Shame she didn’t make it out of the line of duty herself,” Peter says, shaking his head sadly. “Rest assured, Hank will keep you safe.”

Doubt crawls into Nat's belly as she stares down at the dog, taking in his thinning fur, the graying of his muzzle, the way he looks up at her like he already knows what she’s thinking. She spies the scar rippling along his shoulder, and something tugs at her chest.

“I’ll take him.”

***

Hank walks with a slight limp, but he’s surprisingly sprightly for nine years old. He tugs her along on their walks, sniffing enthusiastically at sidewalk cracks as though they hold old answers.

They settle into an easy routine: Hank accompanying Nat to the campus library, greeting patrons with a low tail wag as she shelves books. Napping in the sun as she makes dinner. Curling closer to her side when she wakes from the nightmare, hands clawing at her shoulders, her waist, her wrists. The dog is not a cure, but he is a safety raft in the storm.

His loyalty is put to the test three weeks later.

The day is brisk, leaves twirling around Nat as she picks up the pace toward home. Hank is lagging behind, his lame leg giving him the trouble she’s learned to expect when the cold creeps in. She’s turning back to nudge him onward when she spots the man.

He waves a hand at her, jogging toward the place where she stands frozen. Nat’s eyes widen, and she tugs at Hank's collar. He digs his nails into the pavement, legs shaking. Nat looks up again, heart pounding in her chest, and tries to drag the dog. Hank lets out a yelp of pain. The man is frowning now, gaining ground.

Nat drops the leash and tumbles backward. She has only moments until the freeze takes hold. She turns and runs, praying Hank will follow suit. But the footsteps behind her are too heavy to be the dog’s. A hand closes around her elbow, and she spins.

“You dropped this,” The man says, releasing her elbow at the sight of her expression. He quickly steps backward, and Nat’s eyes fall to the beaded wallet in his outstretched hand.

“Oh,” she squeaks, swallowing hard. She looks back toward Hank, now lumbering across the sidewalk toward her, tongue lolling lazily. The man leans down to give him a pat, then scoops up the leash and offers it to Nat. She takes it wordlessly.

“Sorry to startle you,” he says, bowing his head and walking off in the opposite direction. She stares after him, the edges of her vision blurring. Hank sinks onto one hip beside her.

***

“He just stood there, Bea. Didn’t even try to defend me,” Nat says, sinking deep into the velvety cushions of her couch, phone held aloft as she watches Hank. “Some police dog. I bet shelter dude just said that so I would take the damn dog off his hands.”

The dog is curled beneath the coffee table, snout buried in his tail and eyeing her apprehensively. He groans, then slumps against her leg, flexing his paws. Her stomach twists.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” Nat sighs.

“So wait, what happened after?” Bea asks, frowning.

“What?”

“With the man.”

“Oh, right, him.” Nat stiffens and drops her gaze to her nail beds. “He gave me my wallet. I guess I dropped it.”

“So he wasn’t actually a threat?”

“The dog didn’t know that,” Nat snaps back.

“Maybe. Or maybe he saw things more clearly than you did, hun.”

***

Bea’s words ring in her ears as Nat settles on a park bench to eat her lunch, eyeing the students rushing to their afternoon classes. The bustle sets her on edge, and she clutches the leash tight.

Hank’s ears are perked, but his shoulders are relaxed, tongue lolling as he watches figures strolling by. Nat can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath against her leg. Her own breathing is shallow, a familiarity in crowds where the memory of hands on flesh bears down on her. But today, she is reluctantly coexisting in the chaos, anchoring herself to her unlikely ally. Her eyelids flutter closed as she syncs her breath to his, every extended exhale a fight.

Half a dozen breaths later, the vice around her chest begins to loosen, and she blinks into the morning sunlight, drawn upward by the creeping red lining the leaves of the Silver Maple overhead. She trails her fingers through Hank’s coarse fur, and he leans into her touch.

She glances around, bodies bustling by on all sides, and manages a feeble smile.

***

The rain pounds the pavement. forming a delicate arch around Nat. She shifts her umbrella to cover Hank, lumbering along behind her. He trips forward, peering over his shoulder, stiffness trickling through him.

Weeks earlier, Nat might have dismissed it, crediting the humidity in the air, the creeping arthritis in his bones for the behavior. But she’s watching him closely now, trying to riddle out the puzzle of his body language.

Hank has become her sounding board, and tonight he’s setting off alarm bells.

A rumble rises from beside her. Hank: bow-legged, hackles raised, ears alert. Another growl rips its way up his throat.

“Come on, buddy, let’s go home,” she whispers, the words shaky and soft. Her throat has already started to close. She coaxes the dog forward, and he takes a reluctant step.

The shadows swell and move around her, the figure of a man taking shape in the darkness. Nat freezes, heart pounding in her chest as the past folds in on itself. She’s screaming at her legs to run, but all she can do is clutch the leash tighter in her hands.

“Natalia,” the man says, words muffled by the falling rain. She blinks, trying to place the familiar face. “Looks like Hank’s settling in well.”

“Peter,” Nat says, the word spilling off her tongue as recognition clicks into place. She relaxes and lets out a light laugh. “He’s not what I expected, that's for sure.”

“Ha, his protecting days are behind him, aren’t they? Man, it really is raining cats and dogs out here. Do you two need a ride home?”

“Oh, that would be—” Nat starts, lowering her hand to Hank’s head. She breaks off, looking down in surprise. The dog is rigid, eyes locked on Peter. “Actually, we don’t have much further to walk. But thanks anyway.”

“You sure? It’s no trouble at all.”

Nat is watching Hank closely. His ears are perked, tail low and still, but there’s something in his expression she’s never seen before. Something like warning. She takes a step backward, flashing Peter a strained smile.

“I’m sure. Good seeing you.” She takes another step backward and turns her back on him. The leash catches, and she spins in time to see Peter lunging at her, hand closing around her wrist. Something sharp brushes against her side, and she looks down to see metal glinting in the moonlight.

Time slows to a crawl. She has fallen into an old nightmare, that’s all. Except the cool rain splashing her ankles is no dream, and neither is the breeze raising goosebumps on her exposed skin. Something soft brushes her leg. The nightmare is not the only thing that’s real.

A snarl rips through the air as Hank lunges at Peter, teeth closing around his forearm. Nat hits the ground hard and looks up to see Peter’s face contorted in pain, struggling to throw off the dog. Something clatters to the ground, and Hank releases his hold, crumpling as blood sprays the pavement. He’s on his feet again at once, legs shaking as he stands between Nat and her attacker.

The night flickers with light, windows coming alive around them. Nat crawls to Hank’s side, and the dog licks her cheek. He’s panting heavily now, ears pinned against his head, legs shaking. She knows it’s taking every bit of his strength to remain upright.

Peter hightails it toward the parking lot. Hank takes a step forward, but Nat closes her fingers around his collar.

Tomorrow she will wake in the aftermath of disaster, an echo of all those months ago. But there will be no frantic search for answers, no cursing the heavens, no walking through the world in fear of it happening again.

The flashlights glowing in the dorm windows above might as well be spotlights. Come morning, Peter’s face will be splashed across social media, alongside evidence of his attempted crime.

And Nat? Nat will snuggle into Hank’s side, smile serenely, and go back to sleep.