By Brett Ramseyer
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June 4, 2026
Sonny mopes in the morning if he must wait for the day’s first run. He bumps my leg with his nose, jumps razor sharp forepaw claws at my back, barks and bounces left to right, puts his muzzle on my knee and looks up at me with golden brown eyes, then lays at my feet with an audible sigh. This does not happen all at once. Instead, they are stages of impatience and of doggy grief having to wait one more goddamn second to spring out the door into a new day. If I shift my weight in my chair, close my laptop, or rise for a glass of milk Sonny’s ears stand straight up tuning in to the slightest sound like the satellite dishes of an 80’s spy movie listening for a nuclear launch. Sonny will get a jump on that run. And he usually does. He waits for me pacing across the expanse of the open garage door while I slip into my trail running shoes. When I cut between the cars with a “Let’s go, buddy!” he starts with a flying leap off the Michigan rock retaining wall and sprints down the driveway 50 yards ahead knowing the way. This morning the 48° start to the day warmed to 60° by 9:30 AM. The cloudless sky allowed sunbeams to cast shafts of light through the small gaps between leaves to reflect off the moisture not yet burned away under the emerald forest canopy. The dappled duff glowed in golden patches all around. Barely into my rhythm in the first quarter mile, my eyes still teary from the breeze across my early eyeballs, Sonny shot off the trail leaping logs in gigantic bounds. His ears flattened to his head and he disappeared into a blinding light of the glade beyond the first stand of trees. He raced out of sight and my heavy jog lumbered forward. Suddenly, a shock of white flashed in my periphery. My head jerked to the left, scanning for meaning to the movement. In a split second, Sonny raced back toward a hint of panic in his eyes. I experienced a literal “Ruh, Roh, Raggy!” moment in Sonny’s life as a one-hundred twenty-pound doe he was chasing two seconds ago now led a charge back at him. Sonny ran for the hills behind me and the mama deer passed five yards in front of me at top speed. Her eyes caught mine and she contemplated the calculus of what to do before pulling off the chase. To which Sonny circled back and chased again until she slipped behind the ridge. He rejoined me on the run at full gallop exhilarated and as happy as any dog can be, but we follow the winding double-backs of forest trails and in five minutes a valley over the deer took charge again and sent Sonny on two more cycles of running for his life. Charge. Retreat. The doe filled with mother’s courage scared off the predator because her twin fawns lay trembling in the high grass matted down like crop circles. Their scentless bodies spotted in camouflage doubtless lay curled, muzzles under a flank waiting for danger to pass and mother to return. Or perhaps it was a single fawn, the other nicked by coyotes last week and she determined not to lose another baby to a canine, gave courageous chase, led Sonny away from child. If Sonny knew what I do without seeing, I wonder if he would have circled, nose to the ground, ears attentive, and eyes alert until he found the suckling hiding and slaughtered it without second thought or hunger. Then trotted home a limp body clutched in his jaws, bouncing lifeless and newly killed. No matter, no unhappy ending today because a mother made it so.
