It was the perfect place for an evening dog walk.
The main paths were well lit, opening out into wide fields, then narrowing into bushy clusters and small wooded dells. Plenty to explore. Dog heaven.
It was a long walk that night.
Leads off — Thug gone at full speed, Mutley chasing. That’s how they did it.
Macy stayed closer, working the bushes, nose down.
Warm air. Good moon.
Ideal.
The park was quiet. A couple of regulars — the usual nods, brief hellos. The dogs doing dog things, disappearing on their own missions.
I’d drifted off the main path into the bushes. Better for them — more smells, more ground to cover.
I noticed the two men crossing the field. Thought nothing of it.
Ten minutes later, I caught them again in the corner of my eye. They’d turned onto my path.
I kept walking.
Then shifted direction slightly.
They corrected.
Closed the gap.
I changed route again.
They adjusted again.
Now we were deep in the park. Paths splitting, turning through the bushes.
They were getting closer.
Bigger than me. And I’m not small.
The walk dropped away.
Something else took over.
Why were they following me?
I forgot about the dogs.
My chest was going.
I could hear their feet on the gravel now.
I quickened.
They quickened.
I didn’t turn around.
They couldn’t have been more than a metre behind me.
I waited for it.
It didn’t come.
What did come was the snap of wood.
Movement.
Noise.
Then they were there.
Eighty kilos of black muscle.
Paws set. Locked. Hackles up.
These weren’t my dogs.
These were something older.
Teeth white. Growls low and deep.
I stood still.
The footsteps behind me changed. Slowed. Then moved away.
Not chasing.
Escorting.
I turned.
They kept pushing the figures back. No let-up.
Macy appeared out of the bushes.
Tennis ball in her mouth.
Excitement over.
I hadn’t even seen them move.
I’d always thought I was the one looking out for them.
I’d got that wrong.
