Chapter 6: The Last Stand at Silver Hollow

He lifted his paw, squinting at me. "You think I’m as dumb as Duke? These idiots are celebrating and we haven’t even found Peanut yet. Wait, why are you grabbing my leg, you weirdo—ouch!"

I disinfected and wrapped his ear. "It’s okay, it’s just a scratch."

He grumbled, but didn’t pull away.

"Trust me, I’m a doctor! A real one!"

He puffed up, trying to sound important. Except the cartoon bandage on his ear kind of ruined the effect. The other dogs snickered, and even Muffin let out a purr of amusement.

Doc’s ears flicked, maybe in pain, maybe in annoyance.

He shot me a look—half thanks, half annoyed. I winked, letting him have his dignity.

I’d noticed his limp. His front leg was hurt—probably from the vendor’s stun baton. I pulled out a bandage, but he stopped me.

He looked away, stubborn as ever. I recognized that pride—he didn’t want anyone to see him as weak.

"Don’t."

He wouldn’t look at me. His voice got quiet.

"It’s nothing."

He shrugged, trying to play it off, but I could see the pain in his eyes.

He turned his face away. "I don’t want anyone to know I’m hurt. And—thanks."

It was awkward, but I knew he meant it. I squeezed his paw, letting him know I understood.

Listening to Muffin and the other pups, I pieced together what happened.

Their memories came in flashes—snarling men, rough hands, the cold bite of metal cages. Through it all, Peanut’s voice was steady, a lifeline for the others. He kept their hope alive, even when things were darkest.

Peanut and Muffin were grabbed together. In the cramped cage, Peanut kept comforting the others.

He’d nuzzle the smallest pups, licking their ears, telling them help was on the way. Even Muffin, who never let anyone close, leaned against him.

"Don’t be scared. My mom will come for us."

He said it like he meant it, and the others believed him. Even the most frightened pups stopped shaking, clinging to his words like a lifeline.

At the farmer’s market, the thieves separated the small breeds to sell for high prices. Muffin cried. Her owner, an old lady, had died; her kids tossed everything out—photos, keepsakes, even Muffin. All she had left was her stubborn pride. I could see why she’d bonded with Peanut—they were both survivors.

Muffin thought, Grandma’s gone, no one will come. But Peanut put his paw—FitBit and all—over hers.

He pressed close, sharing his warmth, refusing to let her sink into despair. It was small, but it meant the world.

"Don’t cry. My mom will save you."

His voice was soft but sure, a promise in the dark.

"What about you?"

Muffin’s eyes were wide, searching his face for hope.

"When my mom saves you, she’ll find me. Don’t be scared. Next time we meet, hot dogs for everyone."

Simple words, but he meant them. Even now, I felt tears prick my eyes, proud beyond words of my little dog.

...

Where the van took the rest of the dogs, nobody knew.

The rescued pups huddled close, haunted by the memory of the white van. The fear in their eyes made my blood run cold. I squeezed Emma’s hand, promising myself I wouldn’t stop until every last one was safe.

Just as hope was fading, Emma raised a hand.

She stood tall, her face set with determination. “We can’t give up,” she said, voice steady. “We’ll figure something out.”

"We can ask the cats."

The idea was so simple, so wild, that for a moment, I just stared at her. Then I realized—of course. The cats saw everything.

She emptied seven or eight cans of Fancy Feast from her backpack, lined them up like she was summoning a god. A few minutes later, a calico appeared.

The calico slinked out from behind a dumpster, eyes sharp and wary. The tuna smell was too much to resist. Emma crouched down, holding out her hand in peace.

"Kitty, kitty."

Her voice was soft, coaxing. The calico eyed her, then padded closer, drawn by the promise of food.

Emma produced a bag of catnip. "Have you seen this cat?"

She held up a photo of Muffin, her hands trembling. The calico sniffed, meowed, and trotted away, tail high. Emma’s face fell, hope flickering.

Emma looked crushed.

Her shoulders slumped, disappointment written all over her face. I wanted to hug her, but before I could, Doc leaned in, whispering in my ear.

I whispered to Doc, "Can you understand cats?"

He rolled his eyes, like I’d just asked if dogs bark. “Of course. She’s going to gather the others. Just wait.”

Doc rolled his eyes. "Obviously. She’s going to gather the others."

He gave me a look, half smug, half reassuring. Relief washed through me, my breath coming out in a shaky sigh.

With the help of more than thirty local cats and Doc, our dog-cat interpreter, we finally learned where the van had gone.

The cats arrived in waves—tabbies, tuxedos, one enormous Maine Coon. They circled Emma, tails flicking, meowing like crazy. Doc listened, nodding gravely, then translated for the rest of us.

"You mean the calico heroine?" A big orange tabby sat, paws folded, sitting like he owned the place. "She left a message: if someone comes looking, tell them the van headed to Silver Hollow. She’ll keep leaving marks along the way. You have to hurry."

The tabby’s voice was deep and slow, full of authority. The other cats deferred to him, their eyes shining with respect. I realized we were dealing with feline royalty.

"But how do we find her marks?"

I asked, desperation creeping into my voice. The tabby regarded me coolly, eyeing me like he wanted something.

The tabby gave me a sly look. I braced for a bribe.

He stretched, flexing his claws, then glanced at the empty cans. I could almost hear him calculating.

"Two cans."

No way around it. I looked at Emma, hoping she had more food stashed away.

We all looked at Emma.

She dug through her backpack, but came up empty. Her face fell, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"No more left," she whispered, "put it on my tab."

She tried to sound tough, but her voice shook. The tabby considered her for a moment, then nodded, as if approving her credit.

The tabby licked his paws. "Twenty cans, when you find her."

He named his price, and Emma nodded, dead serious. I made a mental note: next stop, buy out the pet aisle at the grocery store.

He finally relented. "If you see an orange cat on the road, just ask. The Orange Cat Network is good. Hurry!"

He flicked his tail, dismissing us. Message received: we were running out of time.

Now we had a destination. I hit the highway, texting Emma’s family in a rush.

My fingers flew over the screen: “Emma’s with me, we’re safe, will call soon.” The car was silent except for the soft breathing of sleeping dogs. I turned the radio low, letting classic rock fill the quiet, headlights bouncing over the empty road.

In the darkness, my heart hammered in my chest. In the rearview, Emma and the dogs were a tangle of sleep.

I glanced back, watching Emma curled up with a snoring beagle, her face finally peaceful. The dogs sprawled across the seats, safe for now. I gripped the wheel, swearing I wouldn’t let them down.

"You scared?" Doc asked from the passenger seat.

Doc’s voice was softer than usual. I hesitated, then nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"...Yeah."

I said it, plain and simple. Doc didn’t judge—he just sat with me in the silence.

A little paw rested on my hand—cold and soft.

I looked down to see Doc’s paw covering mine, his eyes kind. It was small, but it helped. I blinked back tears, grateful for the company.

"I don’t usually like people, but this time, I’m with Duke. I’ll help you."

His words helped. Simple as that. I managed a shaky smile, feeling a little less alone.

...

We reached Silver Hollow at dawn. The orange cats led us right to the van’s last stop: an abandoned meatpacking plant on the edge of town.

The building loomed in the gray morning light, windows boarded up, the sign faded and peeling. The parking lot was empty except for the battered white van, its doors hanging open. The air reeked of rust, old meat, and something sour—a place you’d want to forget.

It used to be a slaughterhouse.

Just hearing the word made me shiver. The dogs whimpered, pressing close to me. Even the bravest among them looked uneasy. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm.

All the way there, I felt like a car was following me. At the next intersection, instead of turning left, I turned right. The car behind hesitated, then followed.

My pulse raced. I checked the rearview mirror, watching the headlights linger. I switched lanes, took another turn, but the car stayed with me. The tension in the car was thick enough to cut.

The pups in my car were terrified.

They huddled together, ears flat, eyes darting. Even Duke’s tail was tucked. I tried to reassure them, but my own nerves were shot.

"Are the dog dealers after us? Doc, what do we do?"

One of the pups whimpered, voice shaky. Doc glanced at me, his jaw set.

I checked the mirror. The car kept its distance, but stayed on us.

I weighed my options, then made a snap decision. If this was going down, it was happening in public.

I grinned, gunned the engine, and headed straight for the police station.

The dogs yelped as I floored it, tires squealing. The other car sped up, trying to keep pace. My heart pounded as I pulled into the station parking lot, slamming on the brakes.

"Officer!"

I locked my car and ran inside. "The car behind me—he’s a dog thief! He wants to steal my dogs!"

I was practically yelling. The officers looked up, startled by the commotion. I pointed out the window, breathless.

The driver behind me jumped out, yelling, "Officer! I caught a dog thief!"

He was shouting, voice all shaky. The scene was pure chaos—two strangers accusing each other in the middle of the police lobby.

I was livid. "You’re the thief!"

I shot back, my voice getting louder. The officers looked from me to him, clearly confused.

He added, voice breaking, "Her car’s packed with dogs!"

He gestured at my car, where every window was full of barking dogs.

The cops: "Uh..."

One officer pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly regretting his career choices. The dispatcher stifled a laugh, glancing at the security cameras. For a moment, nobody moved.

Inside, we all went quiet. Turns out, the guy was named Mark Evans, a local animal rescuer. Four years ago, his own dog was stolen. Since then, he’d joined the animal protection league, searching for his dog and rescuing others. He’d tracked the dog thieves to the same abandoned plant—the place the calico and the orange cats had led us to.

Mark’s story was heartbreakingly familiar. He pulled out a battered photo of his lost dog, eyes shining with hope. We laughed it off, both relieved. For the first time, I felt like maybe we weren’t fighting alone.

It was a simple misunderstanding. I was desperate to find Peanut, so I left Mark with the cops and got moving.

The road to the plant grew lonelier, no cats, not even a crow in sight.

The only sound was the engine and the dogs breathing. I gripped the wheel, nerves stretched thin.

At a fork, I stopped. Doc in the passenger seat spoke up.

Doc leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Something’s not right,” he murmured. I swallowed, trying to steady my hands.

"Duke, what’s up?"

Doc’s voice was low, cautious. Duke sniffed the air, his ears twitching.

Duke had been distracted, nose buried in my jacket.

He looked troubled, as if catching a scent he recognized but couldn’t place. I reached over, scratching behind his ears, hoping to calm him.

"I..."

He hesitated, eyes darting to the rearview mirror. Before he could finish, a flash of fur streaked across the road.

Before he could finish, a streak of fur darted into the road. Her coat caught the light, all orange and black and white. Emma burst into tears.

It was Muffin—her calico coat catching the dawn light, every step graceful and proud. Emma sobbed, shoulders shaking.

"Muffin!"

She scrambled out of her seat, pressing her face to the window. The dogs crowded around, tails wagging in excitement.

The dogs poked their heads out.

They went nuts, barking and howling. Even Duke’s stern expression softened as he watched Muffin saunter up.

"Who’s Muffin?"

One of the younger pups asked, eyes shining. The others hushed him, sensing this was no ordinary cat.

When they saw the proud calico, everyone went silent—like everyone was holding their breath.

"Missy?"

A tiny voice piped up, unsure. Muffin’s eyes narrowed, her ears flattening in annoyance.

Muffin glared. "Why do you call me Missy?"

She snapped, all attitude. The dogs shrank back, chastened.

"Shut it! Ask again and you’ll find out why I’m called Missy."

She wasn’t kidding, either. The pups giggled nervously, but nobody dared say another word.

She ignored the teary Emma, gave me a look and said, "Follow me."

She turned with a flick of her tail, leading us down the overgrown path. I glanced at Emma, who wiped her eyes and nodded, determination shining through her tears. We fell in line behind Muffin, the dogs trotting at our heels, ready for whatever came next.

The calico led the way. Soon, the old plant rose up ahead, dark and silent.

The building rose out of the mist like a haunted castle, windows dark and empty. I took a deep breath, bracing myself. This was it—the final stretch. With Muffin leading the way and the dogs beside me, I was ready for whatever came next.