One stormy morning, I set up a ladder to trim the apple tree by my house. The sky was heavy with clouds, but I was determined to finish the job.

As I climbed, I felt a tug on my trousers. Startled, I looked down—my dog was on the ladder, paws slipping, teeth clamped on my cuff. He yanked hard, nearly pulling me off.

“Stop it! Go down!” I scolded, but his eyes were locked on me, full of urgency. Each time I tried to climb higher, he pulled harder, refusing to let me continue.

Annoyed but shaken, I finally chained him by the kennel so I could work in peace.

The moment I touched the ladder again, a blinding flash lit the sky. Lightning struck the apple tree with an ear-splitting crack, splintering bark and filling the air with smoke. I staggered back, stunned. Had I been up there, I wouldn’t have survived.

Heart pounding, I turned to my dog. He stood there, tail wagging faintly, gaze steady—as if he knew all along.

I dropped to my knees, hugging him tight. “You saved me,” I whispered.

That day, I learned a truth I’ll never forget: sometimes our animals sense dangers long before we do.