“Shoot my K9!”
The words tore out of me as Titan pinned a seven-year-old girl against the frozen ground—because whatever he was protecting her from was still moving beneath the leaves.
And I knew I might have seconds before someone made the wrong decision.
For eight years, I had served as a K9 handler with the Seattle Police Department.
Titan was never just equipment.
He was my shadow.
My shield.
On more than one night, the reason I made it home to my family.
People called Belgian Malinois “heat-seeking missiles wrapped in fur.”
Titan had earned it.
Five years together.
Hundreds of apprehensions.
Dozens of narcotics seizures.
Perfect obedience scores.
Off duty, though, children could turn him into an oversized golden retriever. He waited patiently for permission before letting small hands touch him.
He had never ignored one of my commands.
Until that bitterly cold Sunday.
Centennial Park was hosting a routine community outreach event beneath low gray clouds. Families moved along the paths in fleece jackets. Teenagers threw a football near the fountain. Parents pushed strollers while the smell of roasted nuts drifted through the sharp winter air.
Titan walked beside my left leg.
Loose leash.
Relaxed ears.
Gentle tail.
I was calm enough to drink coffee from my thermos.
Then his entire body locked.
The fur along his spine rose.
A growl rolled from deep inside his chest.
I had heard that sound only once before.
A dark alley.
An armed suspect.
“Titan, heel.”
