He exploded after it.
The sight made several adults around us tense for a fraction of a second. I felt it too.
Then Titan caught the disc, turned, and ran back with his tail high.
Lily laughed.
He dropped it at her feet.
She threw again.
That was when I realized the memory had changed.
For months, every time I pictured Titan crossing that field, I saw danger: the loose leash, the screaming child, the raised branch, the possibility of losing my partner.
Now the same run ended with a yellow frisbee and a little girl laughing.
Later, the department gave Titan a commendation. I accepted it because refusing would have made the ceremony about me. Titan wore the ribbon for approximately twelve seconds before trying to chew it.
Lily attended.
When a reporter asked her what Titan had done, she gave the most accurate summary anyone had offered.
“He was rude, but he saved me.”
The room laughed.
I crouched beside Titan and scratched behind his ears.
“That’s going on your evaluation.”
He leaned his full weight against my leg.
Years later, when Titan finally retired, the yellow rubber disc Lily had given him was still in the box of toys we kept by the back door. The edges were chewed ragged. The color had faded.
On his last day in uniform, I took him to Centennial Park before sunrise.
No crowd. No cameras.
Just cold air, wet grass, and the old oak trees.
Titan moved more slowly by then. Gray fur covered his muzzle. He sniffed every few yards as if reading messages left overnight.
At the edge of the field, I unclipped his leash.
He looked at me.
For five years I had trusted that click to mean control released under command.
That morning it meant something else.
“Go on, partner.”
Titan trotted into the grass.
I threw a yellow frisbee.
He chased it badly, missed the first bounce, found it anyway, and carried it back.
