A simple puzzle toy. A terrifying afternoon. And the lesson I almost learned too late. The rain started just as I clicked the last piece of the puzzle toy into place. A soft, pitiful pattering against the kitchen window, like the sky itself was second-guessing the day. It was a simple thing, the toy—a blue plastic orb with sliding panels and hidden compartments, designed to hold a few of those tiny, liver-flavored treats he went bonkers for. My ten-week-old Golden Retriever, Gus, was a sweetheart, but he was also a hurricane in fur. My sister, a seasoned dog mom, had sworn by these things. "Mental stimulation," she'd said, her voice carrying the weight of a woman who had survived the teething phase of a Bernese Mountain Dog. "It'll save your sanity." I should have listened to the rain. I set the toy down on the living room rug, the scent of fresh rubber and my own nervous hope filling the air. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and...