I feel like this column needs a “don’t try this at home” warning label. What follows isn’t my finest hour, but as they say, “if you can’t be a good example, at least be a horrible warning.”

They also say “pride goeth before a fall” and I can vouch for that one. I was only four days deep in my new dog training adventure. I gave the boys a day to recover from the stress of two days of information overload and hours in the car, and then we jumped back into it. I was starting to feel just a little bit confident when they both responded to the techniques we had learned.

The recent rain had caused some unexpected postponements of the kids’ games and we had an unexpectedly quiet evening. I was still trying to crawl out from under the mountain of laundry generated while I was gone for the weekend and had to restock the pantry. I didn’t think much of it when the dogs ran out the door as the kids carried the grocery bags in; when we are home, they are in and out all the time.

The kids were engaged in a squabble over who had to put groceries away, who had to empty the dishwasher, and who had too much homework to do to help with any chores. While I was trying to negotiate a peaceful evening, I realized that I could hear one of the dogs barking and carrying on in such a way that meant only one thing: he had something cornered or up in a tree.

While Steve always said Duncan had a high prey drive, I’ve only recently started to understand what this really means for him and how frustrated he has been because he hasn’t been given the opportunity to exercise it much. I decided to give him a few minutes to enjoy being in his groove before attempting to call him in. And that’s when the fun began.

I walked to the edge of the yard and gave the command that only hours earlier he had responded to like a whip. I doubt he heard me over the barking. By now, I was getting a little concerned, but I was still hopeful that I could resolve whatever this was peacefully and get Dunc to release and come to me willingly. By this time, Hens who had been getting gleefully rewarded for following the same command all weekend had parked himself by my side and was anxiously awaiting his treats.

This was the point where I should have started doing things differently. I know this now. I should have taken Hens back to the house, put on some more appropriate clothes and footwear, and I definitely should have grabbed a leash and a real flashlight. I did not do any of those things, and foolishly, I forged ahead through the woods to where Dunc was still carrying on like a maniac. As I got closer, I could see that he had clearly treed something and was bouncing off the ground like Tigger trying to jump up the tree. Henson immediately took off and joined the party.

About 90% of the time that he’s had something treed and been worked up in a such a lather, the culprit was a stray cat. This time, though, we were in a slightly different neck of the woods. I was anticipating a possum, or a raccoon. I knew it had to be bigger than the chipmunks he frequently chases out of the woodpile, or the squirrels that he harasses when they come to steal from the birdfeeders. I aimed the light on my phone up the tree, looking for a beady little pair of eyes. It took a second before I saw anything, and then suddenly two eyes started to shine, two eyes that were a lot farther apart than a raccoon’s eyes, or a possum’s eyes. Then a large, dark shape started to come in to focus behind the eyes. Twenty feet above my head was a bear.

Within the next three seconds, my thought process went as follows: I’m going to get eaten by a bear. The dogs are going to get eaten by a bear. My dogs are going to eat a bear. My kids can’t find half of my bear eaten body. The coyotes and turkey buzzards will find me long before my kids pull their heads out of their homework and/or video games to come look for me. I wonder how sturdy that tree is? Dear Lord, I’m going to have a bear fall on my head. Maybe the dogs and the bear are going to eat me.

If I even try to touch Duncan right now, he’s going to mistake me for the bear and I’m finished. If I interrupt Duncan right now is he going to lose every hunting instinct he has and will I break him forever. Ten minutes ago, my biggest problems were that the kids couldn’t put the groceries away or do their homework, and now I’ve got wildlife. (I didn’t say any of this was rational, I’m just saying all of this flashed through my head in a matter of moments.)

When I finally gained some composure, I decided to use a lifeline and texted a friend. The advice was relatively straightforward … get the dogs, get home, and try not to get bit. (I didn’t ask if I should worry about the dog or the bear bite … either would have been bad.) It was a rough quarter mile back home, through a whole pile of sticker bushes, but we all made it. Whether it’s up to my neck in pond water, or 20 feet from a bear’s butt, these dogs are going to push me to every limit that I have. I understand that now, and yes, they’re still worth it.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.