It started as a routine morning. I had propped the ladder against our old apple tree, ready to trim its brittle limbs, when suddenly, my dog lunged. Teeth clamped onto the cuff of my trousers, he yanked me back down. Confused, I froze—and that’s when it hit me: he wasn’t playing.
The sky was heavy with storm clouds, the air thick and still, carrying that oppressive tension that comes just before rain. Still, I ignored the warning. The tree needed pruning, and the ladder stood ready.
The Unexpected Interruption
I began climbing, step by step. A tug at my leg made me glance back—and my dog was scrambling after me. His claws scraped the metal rungs, paws slipping, eyes locked on mine.
“What are you doing? Stay down!” I shouted, waving him off.
But he wasn’t backing down. Rising on his hind legs, bracing against the ladder, he clamped down again, pulling me so sharply I nearly lost my balance.
“Hey! Let go!” I yelled, heart pounding.
He wouldn’t budge. Something in his stare told me this wasn’t a game. It was a warning. A silent, urgent message: Don’t climb.
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