Chapter 11 Rhys
Chapter eleven
Rhys
We’ve arranged to meet the police early because they are struggling to find the farm.
Noah straightens as they approach, shoulders tense like a dog waiting to see if the hand coming toward it is friendly or not.
He answers their questions quickly and confidently.
I realize I’m holding my breath. They need Noah to give directions, which means I'm at the front of the cavalry line. This place wasn’t too difficult for me to find alone, but I approached it as an owner looking for puppies, rather than someone trying to find a hidden business.
Noah shouts directions at me as if each one is a reminder that I shouldn’t already know them, but before long we reach the top of the winding road.
This is where I pull over and let the cops go first. The kennels look smaller from the outside than they did last night.
Quieter too.
The morning air carries the faint smell of wet straw and disinfectant, but underneath that is something sharper. Fear has a smell when enough animals share it.
In the car park at the bottom, I position my two ambulances. They are really just vans with dog crates built in, used more for transport than treatment, but the floor space at the back of each one is dressed with blankets and a few other props so my nurses can run checks and pose for the camera.
Noah stays in the car, rocking back and forth as he waits. Then the police approach him. I want to be there, partly to protect myself from any accidental or deliberate slips from him, but another part of me wants to protect him. To hold his hand as his life, terrible as it was, is ripped away.
It's obvious he hated this life here, but the alternative is the man who killed his bosses.
There aren't many people who would consider that an improvement.
After waiting an hour for the police to explore, and then for Noah to show them around, finally we are called in to check on the dogs.
My role is oversight. I watch my team from the ambulance, bringing out the adult dogs one by one.
My main ambulance, which has done nothing but transport animals from the branch surgery to the main hospital, is now a triage center for nervous dogs in various stages of reproduction.
Each dog is accompanied by a Post-it note from Noah, stating her pregnancy status. The handwriting is small and neat, the kind that comes from writing the same information hundreds of times.
He’s been tracking every cycle, every birth, every litter. The work of a man trying to impose order on something fundamentally cruel.
Bitch 1. Mated 2 weeks ago. No scan done. Age 4 years.
Bitch 2. Whelped 2 weeks ago. Nursing 8 puppies. Age 3 years.
Bitch 3. Puppies removed for sale 4 days ago. Awaiting next season for mating. Around 5 years old.
Bitch 4. Pregnancy at full term. 12 pups on scan. Approx 6 years old.
I pay more attention to her. Twelve pups in a six-year-old dog is a lot for her poor body. No wonder Noah was particularly worried about her. She's at high risk of needing veterinary support during labor.
“How many more dogs?” I call as the fifth dog waddles out behind Tree.
“Rhys, it's horrible in there. The police count is 24 breeding females, 2 males, and 32 pups, ranging from a few days old to ten weeks.”
For a moment, the numbers refuse to settle in my mind.
Fifty-eight animals.
“We won't have room for all of them,” I croak. “This is far bigger than I initially thought.”
Two men running this, and Noah doing all the work. No wonder he is exhausted. “Okay, let's rethink this.”
My mind slips effortlessly into full veterinary mode. No more thinking about Noah or my cover. These dogs need to travel to my hospital now, in as few journeys as possible.
“I want the nursing dogs in van two, each with their pups. Keep their dog number and the number of pups clearly listed. I want pregnant dogs in van one. We need to keep a very close eye on Bitch Four. Pregnant and nursing dogs are our priority.”
The film crew lap up every word.
But there is a problem. Van One is already full of pregnant dogs, and they’re becoming stressed by the situation. I can't leave them sitting there.
“We can get this litter in these boxes,” Noah’s voice carries across the open space as he heads out of the kennels carrying two puppies.
Behind him, three police officers are also holding little wriggling bundles, and another film crew captures every moment as he leads the way to a shed.
Inside is a pile of small containers. “Two pups in each box from the older litter. We can fit three in each of the smaller ones.”
“Bring them over here,” I call. “We can secure those in the ambulance and get them out of here.”
Noah looks up, a beaming smile on his face. “Safe.” The word leaves him as if he’s been holding it in his lungs for months.
That one word sums up all his hopes and dreams.
The first ambulance leaves full of pregnant females and boxes of eight-week-old puppies.
The second ambulance has space for one more.
Noah is spending more time outside now as more of the dogs he knows so well are making their way outside.
Police officers stand around holding leashes.
Some dogs are tethered to posts. All of them have paper identification tags clipped to their leads.
“We are not going to have enough room for everyone.”
“It's okay, we can make two trips.” Noah shrugs, walking over with two alert dogs on slip leads.
“I think we're going to have to.”
“These are the boys. They shouldn't really travel with the females. Can I put them in your car?” This Noah is not the man I abducted last night.
That man was exhausted and frightened. This version is in his element.
Bright and confident, with a plan already turning behind his eyes.
I give him a hint of a nod and he's off.
“Dr Calder, we have some good news.” Officer Hendley approaches me, nodding at the long lane winding through the farmland. Coming down the lane are two large vehicles. One marked up for the local police dog handler, the other bearing the logo of a local veterinary practice I’ve never heard of.
“Officer Noland has offered the use of his van,” Hendley introduces me to the man climbing from the police van.
“I can transport four in mine, and I contacted the veterinary practice we use for our dogs. They have volunteered their ambulance.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, heavy with relief. For the first time since we arrived, the knot between my shoulders loosens.
For a moment, I am surplus to requirements. The film crew needs consent from all these new people for the filming, and the police reports need updating, as each dog is officially evidence for the time being. With the paperwork finally out of the way, the last dogs are loaded in.
“I need to grab my things.” Noah announces, leaving toward the house with a police escort. I chuckle at the idea of him being evidence rather than a witness. He was as much a victim here as the dogs were.
While he grabs his things and the police do one more walk-through for livestock, I watch. They're not Dalmatians, and there aren't 101 of them, but I think I might have bitten off more than I can handle here.
The series director sidles up to me. “That boy is a natural on camera. He’s effortless, confident, clear. He might even steal your spotlight on this.”
Across the yard, Noah is crouched beside a nervous spaniel, talking softly while a nurse slips a lead over its head. All thoughts of his own needs forgotten.
He doesn’t even notice the cameras anymore. “This is all because of him. He deserves the spotlight.”
I feel pride, not for myself, but for him.
I could adopt him and all these dogs and become the puppy king.
But underneath this rescue mission, I am still a man with secrets.
Deep, dark secrets that can ruin lives faster than we could rehome a single dog.
I want this to be over so I can go back to my clean life of rules and routines.
Except the problem with rescuing something is that sometimes it follows you home.