As if on cue, six reddish yellow eyes slowly rise out of the swampy water and survey us.

The boy sees the caimans and thrashes wildly. It takes all of my strength to hold him.

Meanwhile, Gisco is also freaking out. My dear mother did not raise her favorite son to be ingested by a cold-blooded scaly-skinned overgrown handbag. We’ve got to get out of here!

The dog starts swimming away at high speed.

I can’t possibly keep up with him, but I see that there’s no need. The frenzied hound is paddling in a big circle, scanning the swampy miasma with wild glances, desperate to escape but baffled which way to head.

Find us some dry land, Gisco. Our only chance is to make a run for it.

They’re faster than we are.

No way. Their legs are like tree stumps.

In a short sprint, a gator’s stumpy legs allow it to accelerate and run down a peccary, a person, a horse, or even a highly evolved and extremely motivated dog.

Then we’ll have to climb to safety, I suggest.

The terrified dog scans the trees overhead. The rain forest is a contest for sunlight, and a low branch is not much use. The nearest limbs of the understory are at least twenty feet above us. A monkey swings by on a vine and mocks us with a hee-haa.

It’s hopeless. Jack, we have only one option left.

What’s that?

Give them the boy. While they’re eating him, we can find some way to escape.

Gisco, how can you suggest such a thing? He’s one of us now. All for one and one for all. Plus, he’s helpless. What about the famed loyalty of dogs?

Gisco is watching the caimans swim closer. I can’t be loyal to others if I’m being eaten and digested. A dead Gisco is a worthless Gisco. So it follows that my first duty as a public-spirited and selfless dog is to save my own skin at all costs. Feed him to the gators and let’s swim for it!

Never. Let’s try to make a stand against them. We’re a pretty formidable tag team.

We’re also out of our element, not to mention our weight class. Do you happen to know how caimans kill?

No, I admit, watching the reddish yellow eyes get bigger and bigger. They’re no longer distant marbles. Now they look like glowing softballs.

They take a bite. Get a secure grip with their iron jaws. Then they drag their catch down to the bottom to drown it. Down in the mud and silt, they feed on the decaying corpse at their leisure. A feast like the three of us could last for weeks.

I admit it doesn’t sound fun.