What started as a joyful family mission to adopt a furry friend spiraled into an evening forever etched in my memory. Our eight-year-old, Andy, had spent months making hopeful requests for a dog. Finally, my wife relented – though with firm ground rules – and we came home with a wiry bundle of nerves from the shelter Andy instantly christened Daisy. Right away, those two were thick as thieves, despite the skeptical glances my wife couldn’t quite hide. That very first night, Daisy was a whirlwind of anxiety – pacing the floor, whimpering, utterly refusing to settle. We dismissed it as understandable jitters in a strange new place. But dawn broke to a chilling discovery: both Andy and Daisy had vanished.
Pure terror took over. Andy’s bedroom window gaped wide open, and a flood of horrifying possibilities crashed over me. Hours crawled by, each minute amplifying the dread. Then, Daisy stumbled back alone – coated in mud, trembling with exhaustion. Her solitary return only deepened the suffocating fear and confusion gripping us. But shortly after sunrise, the phone rang. A neighbor reported spotting a boy near the woods bordering our property. We raced there, hearts pounding, and I found Andy. He was curled tight under an ancient oak, his small arms locked desperately around Daisy’s muddy neck. His whispered words, raw and trembling, shattered me: “I thought you left… ‘cause of me.” His overwhelming need for Daisy, his fear she’d disappear like a dream, had driven him blindly into the dark.
