The Benjamins lived below street level, the garage set atop the multi-story house like a hat. Their dog, Felicity, always waited for me on the love seat by the front window, the creak of the gate at the top of the stairs announcing my arrival. From her perch, she watched me descend through overgrown rosemary that flanked the stone steps. She remained there until the very last moment, body tense, moaning gutturally with anticipation. As the key turned in the lock, she was off, bounding around the corner to greet me with an exuberance unmatched by any of the other dogs I cared for. Even after months of walking Felicity, my heart leapt a little when this eighty-pound German shepherd came at me. Her enthusiastic welcome—massive mouth open in a dog grin and fist-sized paws pounding the hardwood—would be truly frightening if I didn’t know her so well. Rationally, I knew she would never do me intentional harm. She loved me. She was generally quite fond of all humans. But my knee-jerk reaction was to turn my back and protect my neck.
