That's what Storm is running to. Not Dalton, but the one thing she can resist even less than fleeing prey: the siren's call of water.
I shout, calling her back, but she keeps running. I don't know if she literally can't hear me, being too far away, or if she figuratively can't hear, the call of that water too great.
Damn it, we need to work on this. Buy a whistle and train her to come to it.
We also need to seriously consider that pool. It might help with her water fixation. I can't blame Storm--Newfoundlands are water dogs. She'll even try getting into the shower with us if we don't close the door.
I'm chasing her at full speed, but I'm not worried. We'll be delayed for a few minutes while she splashes and plays. Then I'll continue on with a very wet but happy dog.
I hear the crash of the water over rocks, and I realize I know where I am. We came this way a couple of months ago with Anders, just as the spring thaw was setting in. He saw this river, rock-filled and fast-running, and said it'd be perfect for white-water kayaking. Dalton said sure, if he could--
My steps falter as I remember the rest . . . standing on the edge of rock and looking down at the river as Dalton said, "Yeah, if we can airlift you down there."
Down into the canyon river, fifty feet below.
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"Storm!" I shout. "Stop!"
She doesn't slow. I yell louder. She keeps going.
I need a whistle. I need a leash. I need to do more goddamn training with her.
All of which is a fine idea, and perfectly useless at this moment.
We reach the rocks, and she's leaping over them, heading for that gorge.
"Storm! Stop!"
I shout it at the top of my lungs.
Less than a meter from the edge, she stops. The
n she looks back at me . . . and begins edging forward, like a child testing the boundaries.
"No!"
Another step. A look back at me. But, Mom, I really want to go this way.
"No!"
I'm moving at a jog now across rocks slick with moss. Storm has taken one more careful step toward the edge. Her nose is working like mad, picking up the scent of the water below.
"No."
Please, no. Please.
She whines. Then she takes another step, and she's almost to the edge.
"Storm, no!"
Goddamn you, no. Damn you, and damn me for being the idiot who didn't bring a lead.
She's stopped mere inches from the edge.
As she whines, I hunker down and say, "Come."
Whine.