The morning started like any other, which is probably why the silence that followed felt so wrong. I was sitting on the kitchen floor, my back against the cool cabinets, while my four-month-old golden retriever, a clumsy tangle of oversized paws and sunshine-yellow fluff, stared at a single piece of kibble I’d placed on the linoleum between us. Three seconds. He looked at the kibble, then at me, his head tilted with that classic golden retriever confusion that usually makes me laugh. I clicked the training clicker, the sharp click echoing in the quiet room. He blinked. The kibble remained untouched. I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of rain against the kitchen window. The air smelled like coffee and wet earth from the garden. I pointed. “Get it, buddy.” Instead of his usual clumsy lunge, a movement so full of joyous, unstoppable life that it always made my heart swell, he just sat there. A low growl of frustration, barely audible, rumbled in my own...