The silence in our house used to be a gentle hum—the refrigerator’s low thrum, the whisper of wind through the pines outside, the soft rhythm of my own breathing. But that was before Gus. Now, silence is a luxury I can’t afford, because when Gus goes quiet, something is about to happen. And when Gus goes quiet, I start to get scared. It began with a sigh. A long, dramatic exhale that ruffled the golden fur on his shoulders as he lay in a heap of tangled legs on the living room rug. He was nine weeks old, a clumsy, velvety bundle of oversized paws and a brain that seemed to be held together by loose springs. The sigh was his prelude, a fake-out, a warning shot. He’d been a whirlwind for six straight hours, a blur of golden fur and needle-sharp teeth, chasing dust motes and barking at his own reflection in the oven door. My nerves were frayed, raw wires exposed to the chaos of puppyhood. I saw the sigh as a white flag. The last battle of the day was over. Relief, sweet and potent, wa...