It was just a typical crazy weekday morning rushing down County Road 12 I was thinking about other things in a hurry and running late to an important meeting when I slammed on the brakes.
I could see them near the ditch.
Four muddy boxer puppies huddled by the side of the road. They were shivering and obviously scared. No homes were around, no sign of a mother; just a soggy half-collapsed cardboard box that looked like it was tossed out. I hesitated for a moment it was uncharacteristic of me, I didn’t have time for this, but at the same time how could I drive by and just leave them there?
I stopped, grabbed an old hoodie from the back-seat, and carefully picked the puppies up. When I got home, I rinsed them off the best I could and bundled them in towels to try and stop the shivering. After they were settled in a warm spot, I got to the next steps of checking microchips and posting in a local lost pets group.
That was when I noticed the collar.
The yellow collar was frayed, and on the collar was a small piece of metal. It wasn’t formal. Just two words, scrawled in shaky handwriting, “Not Yours.”
A chill went down my spine.
Later that day, my friend Tate, a vet tech, came over and knows far more about the darker side of animal rescue than I ever wanted to. When he saw the tag, he turned pale.
“I have seen this kind of tag before,” he said slowly. “These could be more than just strays”
Tate explained to me that some markings—a tag like that—could be a certain form of identification, or even branding, in some illegal circles. We searched the puppies for microchips. Only one puppy had a microchip, and it tracked back to a veterinarian clinic many counties away. With no current owner information and no updates to help us find anything useful.
The puppies were mere babies; they were probably no more than eight weeks old.
Tate finally admitted his fear: “These dogs might be part of something more sinister. They could be part of an illegal breeder, or worse.” He followed that up with truth, telling me, “There are a lot of people out there who use dogs for purposes you do not want to think about.”
The collar suddenly became more than just creepy. It felt like a signal.
At that moment, I made a decision. I would not post anything online about them, I would not generate attention. I would keep them concealed for the next four days while we thought about what to do. But what I had been fearing for more than a week proved to be more than just paranoia.
Late one night, I heard something—slow tire crunching on my gravel driveway.
I carefully peeked out my window blinds. A very old and rusty pickup truck pulled up to the side of my property. Two men exited the pickup truck; one was holding a dog leash and the other was holding a flashlight.
My heart raced. I took the puppies and locked all of us in the bathroom, and I sent a quick text to my neighbor Jessa with my trembling hand: “Something is wrong. Please call the sheriff.”
I heard them knock on the door, and I heard their voices outside.
“They’re not here.… Most likely taken to the shelter.”
Then second guy said something that froze my blood.
“We will find them—if they’re still alive.”
I tried not to move. Not for at least an hour after the truck left.
When I finally poked my head out, Jessa was already texting me to confirm that the sheriff was on their way.
I still don’t know exactly where those puppies came from, or what they escaped from, but I know one thing: they were not just strays. And, on that Calder County Road 12, I may have done something way beyond just rescuing a few dogs—I may have saved them from something far worse.
