I pass the same dog nearly every day on my run. He’s a beast of a creature—massive, snarling, all teeth and fury, the kind of dog you instinctively cross the street to avoid. Or at least, he would be—if not for one crucial detail: he’s tethered.

Not just any leash either. This dog is bound by a thick choker collar, attached to a heavy log chain that clinks and groans with his every lunge. The chain runs taut to a stake buried deep in the ground, reinforced with a slab of concrete as if his fury alone might otherwise rip it free.

Every day, it’s the same show. He hears me coming and charges full force toward the edge of his tiny domain. There’s even a worn rut in the dirt where his assaults always end—the outer limit of his reach. He growls, bares his teeth, and I jog past, heart racing but face calm. I’ve learned the routine. He’s all bark, no bite. A would-be menace rendered harmless by steel and cement.

But one day, everything changed.

I saw him before he saw me. Something was off. The chain hung slack. The collar was still around his neck, but the stake—his anchor—was gone. And he was standing free.

In that instant, I wasn’t a runner anymore. I was lunch. A slow-moving MRE in moisture-wicking shorts.

He lunged. I ran like I never had before. And as I sprinted for my life, I realized something: that dog had never really stopped being dangerous. I had just gotten comfortable with the illusion of safety. I mistook his leash for weakness, his restraint for defeat.

That old dog taught me a lesson I won’t forget: don’t ever confuse a lack of action with a lack of ability. Just because something can’t hurt you now doesn’t mean it won’t one day. Complacency is comfortable—right up until the chain breaks.

Maybe you can learn something from that dog too.