Maggie Peterson, at 35, was a woman who could unravel the most complex mathematical equations with the same ease most people tied their shoes. Her mind, a brilliant mosaic of formulas and scientific theories, was her universe. By day, she illuminated the intricate dance of atoms and the elegance of calculus to rapt college students. By night, her world revolved around a different, equally golden, kind of equation: Hank, her three-year-old blue golden retriever.Hank was, by all accounts, a perfect dog. His fur, a shimmering cascade of honey and cream, made him a walking ray of sunshine. He possessed the boundless enthusiasm unique to his breed, his tail a perpetual blur of happiness, his nose an ever-alert sensor for stray crumbs or the faintest hint of a squirrel. Maggie had raised him from a floppy-eared puppy, sharing her quiet home, her contemplative walks, and a bond so profound it bordered on telepathic. She knew his every bark, every whine, every tilt of his head. Or so she thought.What Maggie didn't know, what no one knew, was the extraordinary secret Hank carried deep within his canine DNA. Under a very specific, utterly nonsensical, and often hilariously absurd set of circumstances, Hank transformed. The happy-go-lucky golden retriever, obsessed with tennis balls and belly rubs, would temporarily become something else entirely: a human-like superhero, a being of immense strength, invincibility, and undeniable power.