— Everyone who walked through those doors is gone — I stammered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.
— How? — he choked out. — They all looked like they were just… sleeping.
My husky, Max, attacked my briefcase at exactly 6:47 on a Tuesday morning. He clamped his powerful jaws around the leather handle and ripped it clean off the body of the bag with a violence I didn’t know he possessed.
He had never been aggressive. Not once in the entire five years we had shared this apartment. Max was the quintessential gentle giant, the kind of dog that allowed toddlers to clamber all over him at the dog park, the type who would immediately roll over to solicit belly rubs from absolute strangers. He was a creature of such sensitivity that he would whimper in distress if you raised your voice even a decibel above a conversational tone.
But that morning was different. Standing between me and my bedroom door, with his teeth bared in a snarl and his ears flattened against his skull, he looked like a completely different animal, something feral.
— Max, what the hell? — I grabbed the ruined briefcase, attempting to wrestle it away from him.
He yanked back with even more force, shaking his head violently from side to side—the exact way he treated his rope toys—until the handle tore completely free from the stitching.
That was three hundred dollars of fine Italian leather, utterly destroyed in seconds. I had a critical presentation scheduled for 9:00 a.m. sharp. It represented six months of grueling work on a comprehensive rebranding campaign for our biggest client, Meridian Pharmaceuticals. My boss, Robert Henderson, had made the stakes crystal clear over the past week. This specific presentation would be the deciding factor in whether I was promoted to Senior Creative Director or remained stagnant as an associate for another year.
— Make or break, Marcus — he had said just yesterday, rhythmically tapping his pen against the edge of my desk. — Don’t let me down.
I absolutely could not be late, let alone miss the presentation entirely.
— Move — I said, utilizing my firmest command voice.
It was the tone that always worked when Max was being stubborn about coming inside from the backyard during winter. This time, he didn’t budge. Instead, he planted himself squarely in the doorway, transforming his body into a solid 70-pound barrier between me and the hallway.
The growl that rumbled from his throat was low, primal, and terrifyingly deep; it sounded nothing like the playful vocalizations he made during a game of fetch. This was a clear warning. I grabbed my laptop bag from the chair, thinking I would just shove my essential documents into that instead.
The split second I picked it up, Max lunged forward and snatched it right out of my hands. He shook it with such ferocity that my laptop went flying, hitting the floor with a sickening, plastic crack.
— Are you insane? — My voice came out significantly louder than I intended. — That’s my work. I need that!
My phone began to ring, cutting through the chaos.
It was Jake, my co-worker and best friend since college orientation. We had been hired at Morrison Creative Agency during the same week, suffered through the same soul-crushing training sessions, and covered for each other through brutal hangovers and family emergencies.
— Dude, where are you? — Jake’s voice carried that sharp edge it always developed when he was stressed. — Henderson’s already setting up the conference room. You know how he gets when…
— My dog just went psycho. I’m not kidding, Jake — I interrupted, breathless. — He destroyed my briefcase, then my laptop bag. I can’t get past him to even leave my bedroom.
Jake laughed. It sounded tinny and distant through the phone speaker.
— Your dog ate your homework? That’s the best excuse you’ve got?
— I’m serious. He’s blocking the door. He won’t let me leave. I’ve never seen him like this.
— Man, you’ve got like 20 minutes before Henderson completely loses it. Client’s supposed to arrive at 8:45. You need to…
— I know, just tell him I’m coming. Give me 15 minutes.
I hung up and turned back to face Max. He was sitting now, but he remained planted directly in front of the door. His ice-blue eyes were locked on me with an intensity that made the skin on my arms prickle.
I had read somewhere once that dogs could sense things humans couldn’t—storms, earthquakes, oncoming seizures. But this felt different. This felt personal and deliberate. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down, and that’s when I caught it—just for a second. A faint, strange metallic tang drifting from the kitchen vent down the hall. It was barely there, something I dismissed immediately as the neighbors renovating again. After all, I lived in a residential unit on the fifth floor of the same mixed-use complex that housed our offices on the tenth. Construction noise and weird smells were just part of life here.
I tried a different approach. I went to the closet and pulled out an old, battered backpack from my grad school days. I figured I would just throw everything in there and make a run for it.
The moment Max saw the backpack, he exploded into motion. He jumped up, grabbed the backpack strap between his teeth, and bolted into the en-suite bathroom with it.
— Max, I swear to God!
That was when I noticed my work badge sitting on the kitchen counter where I had left it the night before. Without that badge, I couldn’t get past building security. Morrison Creative was located in a high-rise downtown that had implemented strict protocols. No badge meant no entry, with zero exceptions.
I moved toward the counter.
Max burst out of the bathroom like he had been shot from a cannon, snatched the badge in his jaws, and disappeared back into the bathroom. I heard the distinct crunch of the plastic ID holder cracking between his teeth.
I stood there in my best suit—the charcoal Tom Ford I had bought specifically for this presentation—completely helpless, watching my career implode because my dog had apparently lost his mind.
