Miller stared at his dog in disbelief, his face paling as he watched the fearless little scrapper retreat. "What's gotten into you, Toby?" he whispered, genuine confusion in his voice. He looked at the three small, silver-grey shapes sitting in a silent, synchronized row on the rug. They looked harmless—small, fluffy, and perfectly still—yet Toby was acting as if he had walked into a den of something primeval.