When the Dogs Know Before You Do

Back then I was thirty-six, living in one of those gated communities with the odd distinction that the Appalachian Trail cut right through it. There was even a hiker shelter on our stretch of trail, a favorite stop for residents and the weekend Airbnb crowd. My father had recently torn a tendon in his leg, which took him out of hiking duty — and since he and my mother owned two rescue dogs, I volunteered to walk them up the trail myself. Theresa was a Beauceron, a breed the French police swear by, and Bud was a pitbull crossed with some kind of hunting breed. They couldn't have been more different: Bud was a shameless social butterfly who fell in love with every stranger he met, while Theresa kept her distance from new people, though she did tend to warm up to men more easily.

It was the tail end of summer sliding into fall, if I remember correctly, and by then nearly all the thru-hikers on the AT had already come through for the season. I'd deliberately set out late in the day — late enough that I could let the dogs run off leash without having to worry about running into anyone else on the path. They were overjoyed, sprinting ahead and doubling back, since it had been days since their last real hike. As we came up toward the shelter, I spotted two male backpackers posted up there. I clipped the leashes on and kept walking up. They looked a little startled to see me — which made sense, in a way. They might not have realized the trail passed through a private community, and here I was in casual clothes with barely any gear, a sight that probably didn't fit their picture of being deep in the wilderness.

I've talked with thru-hikers plenty of times before, so I said hello and asked how their journey was treating them. Small talk. But as we stood there chatting, something kept nagging at me: Theresa, who usually softens toward men, hadn't gone up to either of them — not even for that obligatory introductory sniff. She wasn't growling or bristling; there was nothing outwardly aggressive about her at all. She simply held back, watchful and measured, like she was studying them and waiting for them to reveal themselves. And Bud — my friendly, everybody's-best-friend Bud — had started out warm and then, the longer I spoke with the men, the more guarded he became, pressing closer and closer to my side. Normally he would have been all over them. Neither dog showed any open agitation. It was subtler than that, and somehow more chilling.

Then the conversation just died. Nobody said a word. A heavy, awkward silence settled over the shelter, and in the middle of it the two men turned and looked at each other — held each other's gaze for a few seconds. Every hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. Theresa and Bud had both moved in tight against my legs. I didn't stop to think it through. I just smiled brightly and said, "So nice chatting with you both — travel safe out there!" Then I turned and walked the dogs out. Neither one left my side until we'd put real distance between ourselves and the shelter. Only then did I unclip them and let them run, and we hiked back down to the parking lot. I drove home with my heart still hammering.

I have no way of knowing what was actually going through their heads. But that sudden silence, and that brief locked gaze — it had the unmistakable quality of two people sharing one dark thought, some wordless agreement passing between them. The impression that came through, clear as glass, was a question moving back and forth: could they take me, even with the dogs there? There was a flat, predatory coldness in their eyes during that exchange that I will never forget. I want to be honest about one thing: when I hike alone — which I almost never do, because I know how vulnerable it makes me — I carry a gun and a knife. That day I had neither. It was late in the season and late in the day, most of the community homeowners had gone back to their primary residences, and I genuinely didn't expect to cross paths with a soul. I trusted the dogs to be my protection. I was only about seven minutes from the parking lot, and my father knew exactly where I'd gone.

Thank God I was paying attention to how the dogs were acting that evening, because they understood the situation before I did. I'm still surprised — and deeply grateful — that they stood guard over me like that, even though they were my parents' dogs and not mine. Looking back, I probably should have reported the encounter, or at least told somebody. But nothing illegal had actually taken place, I never learned their names, and I figured no one would take action over a feeling. I never doubted myself about what happened, not for a second. Still, it left me with a lesson I'll pass on for the rest of my life: watch how your dog behaves around a stranger. They pick up on subtle cues and people's intentions in a way we simply can't — and that evening, Theresa refusing to even walk up to two men who'd been nothing but friendly said everything words never could.