He slammed against the passenger window so hard the whole truck shook. His barking was frantic and nonstop, claws scraping against the glass.
“Mooney!” I shouted. “Hey! Knock it off!”
He didn’t even look at me.
Then he made a sound I had never heard before—a high, broken whine. His tail dropped low and his body trembled.
Mooney barked at strangers all the time.
But this wasn’t his normal bark.
This sounded desperate.
I rushed over and cracked the door open.
“Relax, man, it’s fine—”
He shot past me like I wasn’t even there.
Mooney hit the icy pavement, slipped once, then sprinted across the parking lot on three legs—straight toward the old man.
“Mooney! Heel!” I yelled.
He ignored me.
He collided with the man’s knees and pressed himself against him, whining like he had just found someone he had lost forever.
The gas can clattered to the ground.
