Instead of following the path Sophie thought was right, Barnaby leaned into his harness and turned left, cutting through a thicket of pine. He moved with a slow, deliberate cadence, his thick coat acting as a warm barrier against the damp chill. Sophie gripped his fur, trusting the rhythmic thump-thump of his steady gait.
That night, as the fire crackled, Barnaby lay by Sophie’s feet. He was a mountain dog, after all—happiest when his "herd" was safe and his chin was resting on a pair of warm slippers.
Are you thinking about of your own, or are you just a fan of the breed ?
As they began their descent toward the village, a sudden mountain mist rolled in—thick, grey, and disorienting. Sophie froze, the familiar path suddenly erased. The woods turned into a wall of shadows.