Last month, we caught our 43rd leak before it became a catastrophe. A Golden Retriever named Luna alerted in a hospital basement. She stopped a maintenance crew from turning on a generator that would have ignited a pocket of trapped gas.
Luna’s handler sent me a photo of her that morning. She was sitting proudly next to the fixed pipe, wearing her vest. Embroidered on the side was: K-9 Guard Solutions. Jake Montgomery Memorial Program.
I keep that photo on my office wall. Right next to it hangs the destroyed briefcase from that Tuesday morning five years ago.
The leather is still torn. The teeth marks are deep and visible. The handle is completely separated from the bag. It looks like a piece of garbage to most people.
Sometimes clients ask about it. “Why keep a broken bag?”
— Because that’s the briefcase my dog attacked to save my life, — I tell them.
They usually go quiet after that. They look at the bag, then at the photo of Luna, and they understand.
Max is nine now. He’s slower. He sleeps more on the rug in my office while I work. But sometimes, he’ll still lift his head and sniff the air, checking, always checking.
I look at him and I don’t feel the crushing weight of “why me” anymore. Instead, I feel a profound sense of purpose. My friends were gone, and I couldn’t change that. But I was still here. And this chance, given to me by a stubborn husky with a taste for Italian leather, was one I had to use wisely.
It’s not about survivor’s guilt. It’s about survivor’s responsibility.
Every time a dog in a K-9 Guard vest alerts to a danger, every time a building is evacuated safely before a headline can be written, I know I’m fulfilling that responsibility.
That briefcase on the wall isn’t a symbol of destruction. It’s a symbol of salvation. It reminds me daily that sometimes, the things that block our path are actually saving us. And that sometimes, the greatest act of love is simply not letting someone walk through a door they aren’t meant to open.
Always trust your dog. Always.
