"Mrs. Patterson's cat is a menace who only comes in for gossip reconnaissance."
"Sounds like someone else I know." I nod toward Ranger, who's investigating a suspicious log with intense focus. "Reconnaissance specialist."
Callie laughs—that surprised sound I'm starting to live for. "Your dog has better manners than Mrs. Patterson's cat."
"Low bar, but I'll take it."
We round a bend, and the trail opens onto a weathered wooden dock stretching out over the water. Fishing equipment is stacked at one end, abandoned for the day. The mountains rise behind us, their peaks still touched with snow even in late spring.
"There's a legend about this lake," I say, leading us onto the dock. The boards creak under our feet. "Supposedly a WWII training plane crashed somewhere out there during exercises. Never recovered."
Callie peers out at the water. "Is that true?"
"That's the story. Old-timers swear they've seen it on clear days—the outline of the fuselage in the deep part." I lean against the railing. "Could be true. Could be small-town mythology. Either way, it makes for good fishing stories."
"Have you ever looked for it?"
"I've thought about it. Get some diving gear, explore the bottom." I shoot her a grin. "Very heroic. Very impressive."
"Very cold," she counters. "That water's snowmelt."
"Details."
"Important details. Like hypothermia."
"I'd brave hypothermia for historical discovery."
"You'd brave hypothermia to show off."
She's not wrong. "Maybe. Would it work?"
"Would what work?"
"The showing off. Would you be impressed?"
She considers this, her expression mock-serious. "I'd be impressed by your commitment to bad decisions."
"I'll take it."
Ranger appears at my side, having finished his log investigation. He sits at perfect attention, staring out at the water with the intensity of a dog who's spotted something very important.
"What's he looking at?" Callie asks.
"Probably nothing. He gets dramatic about?—"
That's when I see it. A squirrel. Perched on a rock about thirty feet down the shore, tail twitching, completely unaware of the missile locked onto its location.
"Oh no."
"What?"
"Ranger. Ranger, stay."
He doesn't stay.
One second he's sitting calmly beside me. The next he's a brown blur of fur and determination, lead ripping through my hand as he launches himself off the dock and toward his mortal enemy.
Here's the thing about Belgian Malinois: they're strong. Really strong. Seventy pounds of muscle and drive and an unwavering belief that they can catch anything they chase.
