One morning, Titan caught a hidden snake scent behind a barrier. He stopped, turned his head toward me, and barked once.
I felt my chest loosen.
“Show me.”
He oriented without moving forward.
“Good boy.”
The trainer nodded.
“That’s communication.”
I realized I had spent years thinking communication with Titan traveled in one direction.
Handler speaks. Dog obeys.
The park taught me otherwise.
Emily returned to school with a story no teacher believed until Karen showed the local news report. For several days, children called her Snake Girl. Karen worried the attention would scare her.
Instead, Emily drew Titan in art class.
She mailed the picture to the K9 unit.
It showed a huge black-and-tan dog lying across a tiny pink stick figure while a green snake flew through the air like a dragon.
Across the top, in purple marker, she wrote:
TITAN KNEW FIRST.
I put the drawing inside my locker.
Not on the outside.
The words were too personal.
A month later, Karen brought Emily to the training facility. Titan wore no tactical harness, only a flat collar.
Emily stopped ten feet away.
Titan sat.
Neither moved.
“Are you scared?” I asked her.
She nodded.
I respected that more than if she had pretended.
“You don’t have to touch him.”
She studied his face.
“Does he know I’m me?”
“Probably. Dogs remember more than we think.”
