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During my ritualistic 3.5 mile hike, my dog, Ziggy, tugged at the leash, pulling until beads of sweat stained my forehead.  The calmness of the night offset the fear of the nearby woods.  Non-existent animalistic sounds.   It forced me to break out into a sprint to pass quickly.  “Come on, boy!  Let’s go. !”  Ziggy yanked at the leash.  An inopportune bathroom break.  After eyeing my surroundings, I kneeled down to tie my shoelaces.  Ziggy barked.  I lifted my head to scan my surroundings.  Nobody but the two of us and the tussle of the trees.  Maybe the racket of insects annoyed him.  He barked again.  This time, more aggressively.  Tugging at something that simply wasn’t there.  “Hush boy!  Shuush!”  I rubbed his head.  He whined.  The hairs on my arms stood up.  As I looked at the ground, I could see the shadow.  Rough fingers gripped my neck.  The leash slipped from my fingers.  Tribal branches tattooed my face as he dragged me into the woods.  2 hours.  Ripped clothing.  Nose and body  tainted with his scent.  Stubborn shoelaces that could’ve wait to be tied.  Violated. My tears moistened the dirt.

Ziggy planted himself on the curbside.  Determined.  Tail wagging at the approaching headlights.  He pulled over.  The man questioned, “Hey boy… all by yourself?”  Ziggy pulled at the leash, nose pushed to the ground as he directed him into the woods.