I had no intention of stopping. I had already had a difficult morning and was running late for a customer meeting. But there they were, four small boxer pups, coated in muck and trembling like leaves, huddled beside a ditch on County Road 12.
Without thinking, I pulled over. No mother in sight. Not a single dwelling in the area. It was just them and a half-collapsed, empty box in the grass.
I picked them up with an old hoodie and made a late call. brought them home right away, bathed them briefly in the laundry sink, and then let them to rest on a stack of towels. I thought I may get them scanned for chips and post about them on the local lost pets group.
It was then that I saw one of them had a yellow collar. It was dirty and worn, but under the clasp was a small, handwritten tag. Not a phone number, not a name. “Not Yours” is all it takes.
For some reason, that made me shiver.
When my friend Tate, a veterinary technician, saw the tag, he became very silent. told me that he had previously seen something similar, but he would not disclose the location.
He paused for a long moment before responding, “These pups might not be as lost as you think,” when I pressed him. Be cautious about who you tell.
I then understood that this was more than just finding a few puppies homes.
I locked my doors first thing in the morning. Whether I was paranoid or not, those two words kept coming back to me: Not Yours. That was written by whom? And why?
Later, Tate stopped over with his scanner to look for microchips in the pups. The one with the yellow collar beeped loud and clear, while the other three had none. We found a veterinary facility three counties away that I had never heard of thanks to the chip information. The receptionist sounded astonished when I called. She remarked, “Oh, that dog hasn’t been registered here in years.” “We are no longer able to retrieve its owner information.”
Years? These puppies were no older than eight weeks. The numbers didn’t add up.
Tate remained silent while I considered this. “Look, Clara, there are people out there who… well, they breed dogs for reasons you don’t want to know about,” he continued, leaning forward at the end. That collar can be a warning sign. As if the person who abandoned these puppies didn’t want anyone to pry into their lives.
“What is snooping into?” Even though I already knew the answer, I still asked.
“Rings of fighting,” he muttered. “Or worse.”
My stomach grew constricted. Although dogfighting was prohibited worldwide, it was difficult to find in rural regions like ours. Keeping these puppies safe felt much more important than putting pictures online or contacting shelters if they were involved in something similar.
I kept the puppies hidden at my place for the following four days. I jumped every time someone knocked on my door, even though they were all sweethearts with big paws and unsteady legs. I was being silly, I told myself. How likely was it that someone would come and look for them?
Then I heard tires crunching up my gravel driveway late one night.
I noticed a dilapidated truck sitting outside when I peered through the slats. Two males with baseball caps pulled down and thick boots came out. One clutched what appeared to be a leash, the other a flashlight.
Like a freight train, panic struck me. I hid with the dogs in the bathroom after turning off all the lights and grabbing my phone. Since Tate lived twenty minutes away, I was unable to text him, but I was able to quickly message my neighbor Jessa, urging her to phone the sheriff if she heard anything odd.
Hours passed in the blink of an eye. After after one loud knock, the men tried the doorknob. I could hear people whispering outside, but fortunately I was always locked up tight. One voice sounded remorseful, the other low and angry.
The second man declared, “They’re not here.” “They were most likely discovered by a child and taken to the pound.”
The first hissed, “Damn it.” “We will find them if they are still alive.”
Still alive? My heart fell. By that, what did they mean?
After a while, they sped off, their tires spewing pebbles. Before I dared to move, I waited an additional hour. Jessa responded to the SMS by saying, “The sheriff is on his way.”
Deputy Ruiz paid close attention to my tale when he came, although he appeared doubtful. He questioned, “Are you certain it was those same guys?” “Many people lose their dogs here.”
“I’m sure,” I firmly stated. “And they definitely weren’t trying to adopt.”
Ruiz said he would watch, but I could tell he felt I was going overboard. Nevertheless, he consented to look around for any unusual behavior.
Social media was the unexpected source of the following twist. I went against Tate’s advise and uploaded images of the puppies to the internet without mentioning the collar. Comments poured in within hours, most of them generous offers to adopt. However, one was very noticeable.
“This puppy looks familiar,” a user going by the handle @DogMom92 said. She included a picture of a mature boxer with the same yellow collar. “This is Max,” she captioned the photo. He vanished half a year ago. Is this his puppy?
I sent her a message right away. Max had vanished after fleeing her property during a thunderstorm, according to @DogMom92. After looking everywhere, she finally concluded that he had either been taken or struck by a car. Although she was unaware of any combat rings, she did remark that Max had undergone multiple breedings before to her adoption.
breeding. Fighting. Dogs are missing. Everything began to fall into place.
I told Deputy Ruiz @DogMom92’s account with her consent. He dismissed it at first, but his tone changed as I clarified the timing and the collar connection. He said, “Let me investigate this.” “We must break any patterns that may exist.”
Ruiz arrived to my place with news a week later. His squad had located a lone residence tucked away in the woods after receiving several reports of missing boxers. During strange hours, neighbors reported seeing trucks arrive and go. The next day, animal control organized a raid.
I pleaded for assistance, but Ruiz insisted that I remain. Rather, I paced my living room all night long while holding one of the pups. What if nothing was discovered? What if they did, or worse?
I will never forget the horrors I saw during the raid. Crammed inside dirty cages were dozens of dogs, some hungry, some injured. Max was one among them, wounded but still alive. Two males were taken into custody by the authorities on suspicion of illegal breeding and animal abuse. There was evidence that they had been providing both fighters and dishonest purchasers.
I nearly joined @DogMom92 in her tears when she and Max were reunited. She consented to take all of the puppies until they were old enough to be placed for adoption. She declared, “Max deserves his family back.” “And they do, too.”
Ultimately, I discovered that sometimes taking chances is necessary to accomplish the right thing. Not only did those four young boxers need to be saved, but they also served as a reminder of the positive effects of speaking up for those who lack a voice.
Don’t wait if you’ve ever been hesitant to help someone (or something) in need. You have the power to transform everything, both for them and for yourself.
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