1 I unclipped the rescue harness from my dog’s back and announced I was done. We weren’t going back into the mountain. Steven, clutching his tiny chihuahua, went pale. “If you don’t take your search dogs back up there, I’ll kill them,” he threatened. I just unhooked the leash and let my dog, a highly trained German Shepherd, bolt for home. I knew how this story ended. In my first life, when the wildfire broke out, Steven claimed he could talk to dogs. He demanded I hand over my search and rescue team, the dogs I’d spent years training. I thought he was insane, of course, and went into the mountains alone with my dogs to find the trapped hikers. But no matter how hard I pushed, Steven, with that ridiculous chihuahua in tow, always beat me to the victims. Every single time, just as my dogs would get a scent, he’d already be there, a so-called hero. I ended up finding no one. He, on the other hand, was credited with saving over a dozen lives. The final report listed more than thirty fatalities. Steven blamed me. He told everyone that if I had just given him my dogs, everyone could have been saved. The victims’ families believed him. In their grief and rage, they cornered me. They beat me and my dogs to death. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day the fire started. “Damien, just give the dogs to Steven!” The familiar voice of my fiancée, Sara, snapped me back to the present. “He can understand them! He’ll find the hikers faster!” I looked around, the scene sickeningly familiar. This was the moment it all began. Steven, holding the chihuahua that Sara and I had raised together, was grandstanding, claiming his mystical ability to speak “dog.” “Damien, are you deaf?” Sara snapped, impatient with my silence. I tightened my grip on the leash, my voice tight. “You actually believe this nonsense?” I looked at the other volunteer rescuers gathered around us. “Are you going to trust an experienced K9 handler, or some random guy who suddenly claims he’s Dr. Doolittle?” The volunteers didn’t hesitate. They chose Steven. To prove his “gift,” Steven let out a string of bizarre, guttural noises. My three search dogs, usually calm and focused, became agitated, barking wildly at the sky. Steven shook his head, a pained, pitying look on his face. “They say you abuse them,” he announced gravely. “That you feed them the cheapest food. They say you worked one of their packmates to death during training. You’re no handler. You’re a monster.” The crowd’s mood turned ugly. Murmurs of “animal abuser” and “disgrace” rippled through the group. As they started to advance on me, my three dogs, my loyal partners, formed a protective barrier in front of me, snarling at the angry mob. “See?” someone yelled. “They’re vicious! They can’t even tell good from evil!” Steven stepped forward again, closing his eyes as if in deep concentration. “They say their friends and family are back at your training facility. They have to obey you, or you’ll hurt them.” Rage boiled in my gut. It was a classic protective stance, any dog owner would know it. But he was twisting it, painting me as a villain. I knew arguing was useless. I had to show them. “I’m not giving you my dogs,” I said, my voice ringing with authority. “If you want to save lives, follow me.” In my past life, I had charged into that burning mountain, driven by a desperate need to help. This time, I had a different mission. This time, I remembered where every single one of those thirty victims was trapped. This time, I’d see how he could possibly be faster than me. My plea fell on deaf ears. The volunteers all rallied behind Steven. The most painful part? Sara didn’t choose me either. She stood right beside him, just like before. “Sara?” I asked, a sliver of hope still flickering. “You don’t believe me either?” “Of course not,” she said, her voice cold. “You might be a great trainer, Damien, but you can’t talk to dogs. Steven is a miracle worker. Now I can finally know what my baby is thinking!” Her “baby” was the chihuahua in Steven’s arms. Sparky. A dog I had helped raise, a dog I had grown to love. Sara used to say she’d never let a stranger hold Sparky. But I’m a dog handler. I could see the tension in Sparky’s body, the subtle signs of distress. Sara, who had spent years with that dog, had to see it too. But she chose to ignore it. A bitter smile touched my lips. Years of partnership, thrown away for this charlatan. But there was no time to argue. People were dying. “Let’s go,” I commanded my dogs, and we plunged into the smoky woods. Behind me, I heard Steven’s smug voice. “Even without your dogs, Damien, I’ll still find them first! Everyone, teams of five! Let’s move out!” The volunteers surged into the mountain. I pulled out my satellite map, the one I had marked with the locations from my memory. I gave the commands, and my dogs, the best I had, shot off in the designated directions. They didn’t disappoint. Within half an hour, they were signaling a find. I raced after them, my heart pounding. In my first life, it had taken an hour for the first victim to be found. I was a full thirty minutes ahead. No one could be faster. As I broke through a thicket of charred brush, I froze. It was impossible. Steven was already there. His team had already stabilized the injured hiker. He looked up at me, not with surprise, but with a look of smug satisfaction. “Well, well, look who finally showed up,” he sneered. “With that kind of speed, are you sure those are even search dogs? I’m starting to doubt your so-called expertise.” “You just got lucky!” I snarled, my hands clenched on the leashes. But I knew it wasn't luck. The fire had made the terrain treacherous, blocking paths and obscuring landmarks. A human’s sense of smell was useless here. Even a regular dog would struggle. My dogs were the best of the best. How could he have found them so quickly? It was the same question that had haunted my first life. Now, it was screaming in my mind again. I turned to leave, to find the next group. “Hey,” Steven called after me. “If you can’t handle it, just give me the dogs. I could work a lot faster with them.” “Damien, if anyone else dies because you were too slow, it will be your fault!” Sara added, her voice sharp with accusation. I ignored them and pushed on. But the same thing happened again. And again. No matter how early I was, no matter how precise my knowledge, Steven and his team were always there first. It was like he knew my every move. I stopped and knelt, running my hands over my dogs, searching for a tracking device. Nothing. So how was he doing it? If I didn’t figure it out, I was doomed to repeat my fate. Could he really understand dogs? But there were no other dogs on this mountain, except… Sparky. No, that was ridiculous. Sparky was a pet. A pampered lap dog. He couldn't be a search dog. I looked at my map. I knew of eight locations. Steven had already “rescued” five groups. In my first life, he only found four. The timeline was all wrong. I had to know. I decided to follow him. For two hours, his team wandered aimlessly through the woods. They looked like lost tourists, not a professional rescue team. They found no one else. Finally, exhausted, everyone headed back to the base camp to rest. When I arrived, Steven was already there, a megaphone in his hand, riling up the crowd. “If I just had one proper search dog, I could have found everyone by now! We wouldn’t even need to go back out this afternoon! I wonder how many people our great K9 handler Damien brought back with his three dogs.” He saw me then, and I knew. He had been waiting for me. This was all a performance, a re-enactment of the trap he’d laid for me in our first life. My three dogs made me an easy target. All eyes were on me. “So, how many did you find, master trainer?” Steven asked, his voice dripping with false concern. I wanted to punch him. He could see I was alone. “None,” I gritted out. “What? You had three dogs and you found no one?” A wave of outrage swept through the crowd. Steven fanned the flames. “I heard the dogs say that Damien just took them for a walk in the woods! He wasn't even trying to find anyone!” I wanted to scream. But they believed him. He was the one who could “talk to dogs,” after all. “I was searching!” I yelled, trying to defend myself. “But somehow, Steven always got there first! You have to believe me!” It was useless. They were already convinced I was the problem. They started demanding I hand over my dogs. Just as they were about to rush me, a group of people with cameras and microphones appeared. The local news. My heart, which had been pounding in my chest, finally settled. This was the one thing I had done differently. The first thing I did after I came back was call the press. The presence of the cameras stopped the mob in their tracks. They immediately shifted gears, praising Steven to the reporters. “It was all thanks to Steven! If he couldn't talk to dogs, we wouldn't have saved so many people!” A reporter turned to Steven. “Is it true you’ve rescued eight people so far, all by communicating with a dog?” “That’s right,” Steven said, puffing out his chest. “And if I had a real search dog, I could have saved even more. The most despicable part is that Damien, here, refused to help. I think he was just trying to hoard all the glory for himself.” The cameras swung to me. In front of everyone, I calmly began to unbuckle the harnesses from my dogs. “Since you all think I’m just trying to be a hero,” I announced, my voice clear and steady, “I won’t be taking my dogs on the afternoon search.” The crowd jeered. “Fine by us! Steven can find everyone by himself!” “Yeah, you’re useless anyway! Just stay here!” But to my surprise, Steven panicked. He grabbed my arm, his eyes wide with fear. “No! You and your dogs have to come!” I just smirked and unclipped their leashes. At my command, my three dogs turned and raced back towards our home. Steven screamed and ran after them, stumbling over a rock and falling flat on his face. “No! Come back! You can’t leave!”
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