It is a lot hotter than it used to be, the hot air burns my eyes and lungs. I sense something coming—and I think my sheep do too. They’re restless, they bleat nervously, looking over the horizon. I tread quickly, keeping them close. I love them but at this moment I cannot trust them not to panic.

Dry lightning cracks and rumbles. I whimper, tucking my tail between my legs. I am just as afraid as the poor sheep are now. I hate thunderstorms, but they are only the beginning of my worries? Where is the rain? Where is the grass? Where are my people? I haven’t seen them in days.

Hours pass, and I finally see it; it’s a wall of fire as wide as the stars at night are high. Panicked, singed birds fly overhead.

The smell is too much for me and any dog in the right mind would run. But I cannot leave my sheep. They need me right now.

My sheep are bleating, making for a stampede. I bark and bite at their heels. Order! Order! I cannot let them panic.

I coral them, chase them quickly over the dry, hot pasture. The ground burns my feet. The sheep stop, tail to tail. The gate is closed, locked. They cannot jump over or climb under like I can. The wall of heat is on us now. I could run—I could live, I look at the gate and for a brief moment I catch a sheep’s normally blank eyes. She’s panicked, just like me. I… I can’t leave them.

I bark encouragement as the heat and fire overtakes us. It burns my feet and ears, engulfing me and my sheep. I stay with them. Our ashes dust the earth, we are now equals.

I just hope I did my sheep right.