The Only One Who Can

Run.

Don’t stop.

Don’t slow.

The air behind me still feels wrong, like the moment after a loud crash when your ears keep ringing even though the sound is gone. That hollow feeling. That space where something should be, but isn’t. Like a bowl that used to hold food and now only smells like memory.

He’s gone.

And I know who took him.

I burst through the front door like a missile with paws, claws scraping wood, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. The porch flashes past—

—and there they are.

Ms. Agatha in her porch chair, perfectly still, hands folded, eyes sharp as broken glass.

Mr. Whiskers stretched along the railing, tail hanging, looking like gravity reports to him personally.

They see my face.

They both know.

Ms. Agatha tilts her head. “That kind of morning, huh?”

I bark once, sharp, urgent.

Yes.

Mr. Whiskers flicks his tail lazily. “Overreaction.”

I don’t have time for cats.

This is bigger than porch politics.

This is bigger than mailmen, squirrels, and suspicious leaves that move when there’s no wind.

Something has gone wrong at the center of my world, and I cannot fix it alone.

My legs pump, short but fast — Jack Russell frame, Chihuahua panic engine. Small body. Maximum emergency. Built for tunnels, tight spaces, and terrible decisions made with confidence.

The street erupts in noise as I sprint. A roaring metal beast blasts past, wind slamming my ears back. I freeze just long enough to measure it.

Could I defeat it?

Possibly.

But not today.

Today is bigger than traffic.

A squirrel scent detonates in my skull.

I skid sideways.

He’s halfway up a tree, tail twitching, watching me with those smug little eyes.

“You see it?!” I bark.

He chitters something useless and vanishes higher.

Coward.

This is bigger than squirrels.

Even I know that.

Up ahead, Maggie and Stacy-with-three-e’s walk slowly, deep in human emotional processing. Their voices rise and fall in dramatic waves, like they are discussing something very serious that probably involves a boy who did not text back fast enough.

“Peanut!” Maggie calls.

Her hand drops automatically, rubbing my head as I streak past.

I almost stop.

Almost.

That’s how good she is.

Stacy laughs. “Must be another Peanut emergency.”

Correct.

You understand the situation.

I run on.

The Terror Twins — Lucas and Evan — rocket down the sidewalk on bikes, screaming for no reason that I can detect.

I zig through them like a professional.

They cheer like this is a game.

Fools.

They do not sense doom when it stands in their kitchen humming softly like a liar.

A lawn flamingo watches from a yard.

Too still.

Too pink.

I growl as I pass.

It does not attack.

I remain suspicious.

Then the memory hits again.

The moment.

This morning.

I walked into the kitchen like every day. Calm. Responsible. A professional guardian of domestic territory.

Food bowl — empty. Normal injustice.

Water bowl — acceptable levels.

Sunlight through the window.

Dust motes drifting.

Peace.

Then I turned.

The Cold Beast stood there, humming softly, pretending to be harmless. White. Tall. Smug.

I approached.

Sniffed the ground near its base.

Dust.

Crumbs.

And the place where he should have been…

Empty.

I shoved my face into the narrow gap behind it.

Darkness.

Cold.

Nothing.

No squeak.

No movement.

No comforting rubber smell.

The Beast hummed.

Mocking.

That was when the floor tilted.

That was when the air went wrong.

That was when I knew this was not a job for barking.

This was a Smith job.

Because Smith fights things.

Big things.

Things with teeth, claws, wings, glowing eyes, and emotional baggage.

I’ve seen him lift doors off hinges. I’ve seen him carry impossible things in one trip like gravity signed a waiver. I’ve watched him face creatures that move wrong, smell wrong, exist wrong.

I saw him once when shadows had teeth.

I saw him when something pale with long fangs came too close to our house. It did not return.

He even handled a jealous fire-breather who used to be married to my friend Matilda. That ended with smoke, yelling, and everyone agreeing to “move on.”

If he can fight vampires, demons, dragon exes, and things that hiss at light…

He can fight the Cold Beast.

I reach the land of cars.

There he is.

Smith.

Big. Solid. Calm. Completely unaware doom has already entered his home.

And beside him stands Bob — looks like a human, walks like a human, wears human clothes… but smells like a dog who has seen the underside of the world.

Bob listens.

He always listens.

I slam into Smith’s leg, spin, bark, run a few steps, turn back, bark again.

COME ON COME ON COME ON

“He says there’s an emergency,” Bob tells Smith.

Smith’s smell changes instantly. Alert. Ready.

“At the house?” he asks.

I bark once.

Smith moves.

YES.

The car ride is torture.

Too slow.

The world crawls past the windows while I pace in the back seat, whining quietly, replaying the silence, the humming, the empty space.

What if it’s too late?

What if he’s already gone forever?

What if the Beast swallowed him whole and is digesting him slowly in the dark?

No.

Don’t think.

Just hold on.

We arrive.

I explode out of the car.

Inside.

Hallway.

Kitchen.

There.

The Cold Beast stands against the wall, humming like nothing is wrong.

Liar.

I bark at it with everything I have, voice cracking with urgency.

Smith steps in. “What happened?”

I point my nose at the Beast.

A massive shape fills the doorway.

Bruno.

Calm. Immense. An Irish Wolfhound–Mastiff mix, built like furniture that decided to breathe and occasionally judge.

He looks at me.

Then the fridge.

Then back at me.

“Oh,” Bruno says.

Smith looks at him. “Oh what?”

Bruno speaks slowly.

Bob listens.

“He says Peanut’s squeaky toy rolled behind the refrigerator.”

Silence.

Smith stares at the fridge.

Then at me.

“…You ran across town.”

I squeak in confirmation.

Smith rubs his face. “For crying out loud…”

He grips the refrigerator and pulls.

It groans.

Dust bursts out.

Something red rolls forward.

I freeze.

The world stops.

Then—

SQUEAK.

Alive.

I dive forward, grab him, and run in wild circles of relief and victory, the tension draining from my body like air from a balloon.

Bob nods solemnly. “Threat neutralized.”

Bruno lies down. “Yeah. Until the vacuum comes back.”

Smith leans on the counter. “I thought we were fighting a monster.”

I stand tall, Red One in my mouth, chest lifted with the pride of someone who did not quit when things got dark.

We were.

Because when someone you love disappears into darkness…

You find the strongest warrior you know.

Even if the monster hums quietly and pretends to be harmless.