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Earlier this summer, it was a perfect day—so I set off with my nine-month-old son, Theo, and three-year-old golden retriever, Maple, on my favorite hike up one of the highest peaks in our sleepy Vermont town. As the three of us embarked on the familiar trail, Theo snuggled against my chest and Maple trotted happily a few yards ahead, thrilled to be out on the mountain for the first hike of the season.

My husband and I had gotten Maple as a puppy just days after moving from our Brooklyn brownstone to a ramshackle ski cabin in rural Vermont. Since we were totally unequipped for a dog (we foolishly believed we were just going to “look” at a neighbor’s litter of puppies, not take one home), Maple spent her first few nights in a cardboard box lined with a well-worn quilt. I’d sleep with one of my arms dangling off of my mattress, hand on her back to comfort her. Since then, she’d been my constant companion, following close at my heels wherever I went, curling up on top of my feet when I worked at my desk, and snoozing on my lap (all 65 pounds of her) in the evenings. We’d go on great adventures—hiking the Appalachian Trail, plunging into swimming holes, snowshoeing through the backcountry of the Northeast Kingdom. When my husband and I got married, Maple was our ring bearer, and she proudly marched down the aisle to take her place by our sides. It may sound cheesy, but I really felt like I had found two soul mates.

But ever since Theo was born last summer, Maple had been having trouble finding her place in our expanded family. She was terrific with the baby, letting him clamber over her back, play with her treasured tennis balls, and stick his fingers in her ears, nose, and mouth—all without a grumble. Still, thanks to the tremendous amount of attention that a newborn demands, Maple had morphed from being our baby into being, well, our dog. Our epic walks were now abbreviated, ball-throwing sessions were replaced with bottle-feeding sessions, she was escorted off the bed at night, and with Theo in my lap all the time, there was no room left for Maple. I’m sorry to say we even forgot to feed her dinner a couple of times! Good-natured girl that she is, she took the change of pace in stride—but I noticed that she held her tail a little lower and spent more time alone, rather than being attached to my hip as she used to be.

So Maple was ecstatic to be back to our old escapades on the hiking trail that day (albeit with an extra guest, and moving a bit more slowly than she’d like). After about an hour and a half, we reached the top and gulped in magnificent, cascading views of Mount Mansfield. Theo poked his head out of his pack, blue eyes big and blinking with wonder. Maple rollicked over shrub-lined boulders, nose to the earth, deeply smelling all the rich new scents.

But once we began to descend, the weather suddenly shifted. Clouds clustered and thickened overhead, the air grew heavy, and I began hustling in anticipation of rain. Before long, the first droplets let loose, running down my sweaty neck and spattering against my mud-flecked calves, soon intensifying into a thunderstorm. I wrapped my long-sleeved tee around the top of the baby carrier to keep Theo’s head dry (he was fast asleep, thankfully), and within moments, I was sopping. Water coursed down my arms and legs in rivulets, I could barely see through the torrent of droplets, and I had to get down on my butt to slide down some of the steeper slick rocks.

We were about halfway to the bottom when I remembered that there was a shortcut through the forest. I’d only taken it once or twice, but I knew it would get us down the final stretch in a fraction of the time—plus, the dense foliage might give us respite from the downpour. So I turned onto the narrow, wooded pass, and just as I was envisioning putting Theo in a warm bath once we were back home, I stepped on a loose stone, tumbled forward, and felt a sickening pull in my right ankle.

Immediately, I checked on Theo, who was unscathed and miraculously still asleep. But when I tried to stand up, pain shot through my foot. I got out my cell phone and called my husband once, twice, three times—no answer. He must be in a meeting, I thought. And although the hike was pretty popular among locals, it was mid-week, in the midst of a storm, and I was on the little-known shortcut—chance were slim that I’d happen upon any helpful hikers. So I bit my lip and tried to push the pain from my mind as I hobbled along the trail, dragging my wounded leg behind me.

Maple ran ahead, as she often does when we’re out. I didn’t think much of it until I heard her let out several sharp, urgent yelps. I had only heard her bark like that once before, during a scary encounter with an aggressive dog, so I guessed she’d been attacked in the parking lot. Great, this is just what I need, I thought to myself. Maple’s in trouble, too. Well, she’ll have to fend for herself.

But to my total shock, as I rounded a corner a few minutes later, I saw Maple leading three people—two middle-aged women and a brawny young man—up the path through the relentless rain. As soon as they saw me, one of the women said, “Oh my goodness, you’re hurt and you’re carrying a baby! Your dog told us to find you.” She took Theo from my arms, while the young man scooped me up and carried me.

When we reached the parking lot, they drove us home and filled me in on the rest of the story. They had turned back from their hike when the rain began and had just gotten to the base of the mountain when Maple came racing toward them out of nowhere. She started barking and circling the trio, as if she were trying to lead them back up the trail. There was something so unusual about her behavior that they decided they had better follow her. She brought them, of course, straight to Theo and me.

And by the way, Maple didn’t find just anyone to come to our rescue—she picked a dream team. One of the hikers was a registered nurse, the other a physical therapist, and the third, her son, not only had the strength to carry me down a steep hillside, but also happened to be an orthopedic student. Once we arrived at the house, they helped me get settled onto the couch with an ice pack while we waited for my husband to arrive. (It turns out that I’d torn a tendon and detached a ligament and may need surgery in the fall.)

In the weeks following the whole ordeal, I picked up on a difference in Maple’s mood, a quiet pride and a sense of being settled in her skin. After initially being thrown off by the baby’s arrival, she seemed to finally understand that she still has a valuable role in our family. She’s back to her confident, playful self, teaching Theo how to throw (or at least drop) a ball and shadowing both of us throughout the day.

The way I treat Maple has changed, too. I realized that after having been consumed by the demands of new parenthood, I’d started taking her love and loyalty for granted. Now, I spend one-on-one time cuddling with her each evening after the baby has gone to bed, and I’ve improved my multi-tasking: When I’m holding Theo in one arm, I’ll often use my spare hand to rub Maple’s belly or toss her a tennis ball. We’re even back to our old sleeping routine. Maple tucks herself in next to my side, and I drift off to sleep, lulled by the comforting rhythm of her soft chest rising and falling.

Molly Triffin is a freelance writer living in Stowe, Vermont.

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