I saw bikers breaking into the dog shelter at 3 AM to steal dogs and I was about to call 911 when I noticed what they were carrying out.
I’d read in the paper about dogs going missing around the county. People were saying they got sold to fighting rings for twenty bucks apiece, so when that chain hit the gravel, my stomach turned over.
I grabbed my phone, dialed 9-1-1, and stood there with my thumb hovering over the green button.
I should have pressed it. I still don’t know why I didn’t.
Maybe it was how quiet they were. No laughing, no flashlights swinging around, just four grown men moving like they’d done this before and hated every second of it.
The first one came out carrying an old black Lab with a gray face. He wasn’t dragging her on a rope. He had her wrapped in his own leather vest, cradled against his chest the way you’d carry a sleeping child.
The second had two puppies tucked inside his jacket. The third carried a three-legged hound down the steps one careful step at a time while the dog licked his beard.
Dog thieves don’t carry dogs like that. Dog thieves don’t stop on the steps to kiss a hound on the head.
I lowered the phone. That’s when the fourth biker came out the door.
He was the biggest of the four, maybe six-four, with a white beard down to his belt. In his arms was a scruffy little brown terrier mix with one floppy ear and a white patch on her chest shaped like a lopsided heart.
My coffee cup slipped out of my hand and broke on the floor.
I knew that dog. I knew her name was Pepper, I knew she hated thunder, and
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