I had worked as a K9 handler with the Seattle Police Department for eight years, and my partner Titan had never ignored a direct command.
Not once.
Titan was a ninety-pound Belgian Malinois with a spotless service record. On duty, he was relentless. Off duty, he behaved like an oversized family dog who loved attention from children.
That freezing Sunday afternoon at Centennial Park was supposed to be routine.
Families filled the paths. Teenagers threw footballs across the grass. Parents pushed strollers while Titan walked perfectly beside my left leg.
Everything was normal.
Then his entire body changed.
Titan froze.
The fur along his back rose.
A deep growl came from his chest.
I tightened my grip on the leash.
“Titan, heel.”
He ignored me.
That had never happened before.
Then I saw what he was staring at.
A little girl, maybe seven years old, wearing a bright pink winter coat, was running across the grass after a yellow frisbee.
She was heading toward the overgrown bushes at the edge of the park.
Suddenly Titan exploded forward.
The leash tore through my gloved hand.
“Titan! NO! STOP!”
He kept running.
The girl bent down to pick up the frisbee.
Then she heard the sound of Titan charging toward her.
She turned.
Her smile disappeared.
And before I could reach them, Titan knocked her to the ground.
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