Spring has a way of tossing wild possibilities at our feet — the kind that can leave us breathless before we even realize we’ve started running.

Gulf waves roll in with a steady hush. The beach stretches empty in both directions. For a moment, everything feels right with the world. Then my four-month-old puppy, Sunnie, notices a cluster of shorebirds gathered at the water’s edge, and in an instant, she is running, ears flattened against her sides. I call her back.

She doesn’t come.

We’ve been taking puppy classes and working hard on recall. She has been a star pupil. But this morning — with birds lifting into the salty air and the wide beach stretching endlessly ahead — the possibilities are simply too tempting.

As she gallops away, I think of possibilities, too. It’s possible she’ll veer toward the road and into traffic. It’s possible I will never catch her. It’s possible our peaceful morning will end in disaster.

Sunnie’s young legs are turbo-charged, and the cluster of birds scatter skyward.

I call her name again, using the “happy voice” the trainer recommends. It is meant to promise treats and fun, but Sunnie may hear only the strain beneath it — or perhaps the stronger call of adventure. She doesn’t even glance back.

Panic surges. Adrenaline flows. My jog becomes a sprint. Bare feet land on sharp shells. I scan the empty shoreline for help — a jogger, a fisherman, a group of spring breakers. There is no one. Just wind, surf, and a cinnamon blur racing farther ahead and getting smaller.

The gulls wheel overhead, crying their outrage and scolding me. I can’t blame them. Why did I trust her and drop the leash? Why did I choose to venture out here when the beach is deserted? And why does she have to be so rambunctious?

Because it’s spring, I think, as I wildly motor after her. The season itself feels like this — everything speeds up at once. Businesses prepare for tourists. Calendars fill with graduations, travel plans, and warm-weather gatherings.

I can’t think about any of that now, though. I just need to catch my puppy.

I am gasping for breath when she stops abruptly.

She begins digging. Sand sprays behind her in frantic bursts.

I keep running. Maybe — just maybe — I can reach her before she bolts again. The morning seems to hold its breath. Even the waves appear frozen, like figures caught in a stop-action photograph by H. H. Bennett. A sharp shell digs into my foot, but I don’t dare stop.

At last, I reach her, happy to feel the sand she flings striking my legs. I grab the trailing leash and release a long, grateful breath.

Oblivious to my panic, Sunnie keeps digging with joyful determination. She has discovered a ghost crab hole and is convinced she will uncover the delicious-smelling critter.

Finally, she pauses, shaking sand from her coat and looking up as if to say, Oh, hi there. Where have you been? Isn’t this fun?

I pull the shell from my foot and try to slow my breathing. To Sunnie, this has been a wildly fun escapade. To me, it has been a stressful and entirely unplanned cardio workout.

Spring can do this to us. It dangles wild possibilities until we’re breathless and sends us racing toward quests we never expected. Stressful, yes — but exhilarating, too.

Sunnie would agree. Spring will surely keep calling her name. Next time it does, though, I plan to be ready — leash firmly in hand.