All of the feeling leached from Mooky's body. As the car continued to roll down the street, its headlights illuminated a massive canine figure, the same figure that had chased Mooky up trees in the past few days alone. Only this time it was closer, much, much closer, than it had ever been before.

Its dark snout was barely five inches away from Mooky's ear, rustling the hedge leaves as it let out a cloud of stinking breath in hard pants. Its teeth glinted in the passing car lights — long ones for tearing flesh, and shorter ones for crushing bones. Cat bones. His bones.

Blood roared in Mooky's ears, and panic flooded up his throat, threatening to steal away the last of his consciousness and leave him an easy kill for his prey. Black dots crowded his vision again, making his eyes burn as the dog stepped forward out of the shadows, lips drawn back, snorting and snuffling. But just as Mooky was about to give up, let unconsciousness claim him, he noticed something:

Why isn't it attacking?

After a confounding second, Mooky realized that the dog hadn't yet realized that he was there. Despite them being inches apart, the shadows and the strong scent of rhododendron, the same scent that had prevented Mooky from detecting the dog's presence, hid him.

But at the same time, the dog knew that something was there — he could see its curled lip as it snuffled around the leaves. The brute knew that a cat was nearby, but it was still trying to pinpoint exactly where.

Thank the stars! This meant that Mooky still had a chance at a head start versus the alternative, which probably entailed being scooped out and then clawed to shreds. He bunched his muscles, rallying his wits for the terrorizing run to the Russian's hiding place.

A paw prodded his backside.

"Mooky?" the Kitten asked. "What is it? What's—"

Mousetails! I forgot about him! Mooky slapped his tail over the Kitten's mouth, but it was too late—a loud, rumbling growl announced that they had been discovered.

Mooky slowly turned towards the Kitten — the young, furry cat was now fully aware that a foul-smelling brute was barely a breath away, hungry for cat meat. The young cat's paws scrambled and bunched underneath him, ready to run, but Mooky widened his eyes and shook his head—they couldn't run. Not yet! Not with the dog perched right outside the bush, ready to pounce on anything that came out. One of them, or both of them, would die.

The dog's growl grew louder — the leaves shivered as it thrust its snout inside, wet nose twitching as it scented the air. The jaw parted into another snarl as the presence of not just one, but two cats became apparent. The snout retreated, and for a second, Mooky was confused: why hadn't it attacked?

Then, he saw, through the pockets in the leaves, the dog's body crouch. It was going to pounce!

"Run, Kitten!" Mooky screeched, slashing unsheathed claws into the Kitten's backside. With a high shriek, the younger tom bolted out from beneath the bush, and it took every ounce of Mooky's courage to make him plunge out of the other side of the hedge, in the opposite direction.

Darkness greeted him, and it took him a precious second to adjust. A tree appeared in his path, and he swerved wildly to avoid it — right into the dog.

Thankfully, the surprise saved him — the dog, who had obviously not expected for its prey to run right into its paws, yelped and jerked backwards, giving Mooky the second he needed to recover and run full tilt in the opposite direction. But barely two heartbeats lapsed before the dog was after him, heavy paw steps seeming to shake the earth and hot breath scalding the tip of Mooky's tail.

It was ten times worse than it had been when the dog had chased him on that first day in the cul-de-sac — perhaps because it was dark, or because he knew he could not immediately seek shelter. Whatever the case, the dog's presence felt ten times bigger, and it seemed faster, more eager, more bloodthirsty. Wild panic completely overtook Mooky's other senses, and all other thoughts save for one fell away: Survive, survive, survive.

His base instincts granted him strength, and Mooky tore forward with a speed that he never knew he'd possessed, practically gliding over the road, the grass, the dirt, as he dove down into LoLo's yard, scrambling under the car before conquering Lizzy's yard faster than a lightning strike. His throat burned and his lungs rattled in his chest, withered from lack of oxygen, and yet he kept moving, knowing that under no circumstances could he stop, as death was right on his heels.

Time but no time at all passed as the dog chased him around the cul-de-sac, never seeming to lose ground even as Mooky dove under cars, scrambled under bushes, or dashed across porches with wild abandon, until the dog suddenly swerved in from of him, seeming to appear out of nowhere, jaws wide.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOF!"      

Terror made Mooky's mind short-circuit — suddenly confronted with this great, stinking wall of fur and teeth, he didn't know what to do, and for a second he continued to barrel straight towards the dog. Straight towards death.

But luckily, fear had not crippled his feet, which were driven by instinct — right before he could deliver himself straight to his enemy's jaws, he made a hairpin turn, tearing off to the left with seconds to spare. He felt the dog's teeth hammer down a hair's breadth from the end of his tail, and then he was consumed with running again: survive, survive, survive.

A light was up ahead. Light meant safety, shelter. He gunned towards it, and only realized that it was the open doorway of the home of One-ear's sort-of owner when he tore past the threshold.

The dog was still hot on his heels.

The moments after that were chaotic and confusing. A barrage of unfamiliar sights and sounds assaulted Mooky's eyes and ears when he entered the house, effectively blinding him and deafening him, as he had no time to process them: the pungent perfume of a powerful cleaner. The shining facets of a pretty chandelier. A television, the screen churning with color. Lumps of furniture, a thick carpet, then a slick floor...

And then, of course, the owner, the big female human with the apron. When she saw the dog, barking and swiping at Mooky as he dove under a table and then leapt to the top of a china cabinet, she dropped the things she was carrying and let out a flabbergasted screech. She ducked through a doorway and then reappeared a moment later with a broom, which she held in a death grip.

"KENNY!" she screamed with fury, swiping at the dog; it ignored her and jumped up at Mooky, who was crouched at the top of the shaking china cabinet, hanging on for dear life. "KENNY!"

She batted at the mutt again, who yelped and tumbled sideways into the cabinet. Seizing the chance, Mooky launched off the top, upsetting several plates as he did so and sending them crashing to the floor. He hit the back of an armchair, then jumped down to the floor before streaking back out the door, back out into the night. Barking, and its source, followed him, as well as screaming.

"KENNY! KENNY! That does it! That mangy mutt is going to the pound, Kenny! You hear me?"

The threats broke into the empty space in Mooky's head, the one that had been overtaken by the drive for survival: the Catcher. She's calling the Catcher! It was working. The plan was coming to a head. The beast was running rampant, just as they'd intended. Now they just had to wait for it to show up.

But how long might that take? How far away were these humans that had once taken away Tiger? More importantly, would Mooky have all of his eyes and ears when they showed up? He wasn't sure of how much longer he was going to be able to keep this up—beneath the adrenaline making his blood boil, his muscles were cooking, and he was wheezing as though his lungs had just dried up and died. They may as well have — he couldn't seem to keep down any air, and lack of it was threatening to make him collapse.

But he couldn't stop, not yet. Get to the Russian's position, first, he thought desperately as he scanned the darkening street. He was coming up on Lizzy's house, where his blue-furred friend was stashed nearby. Do that, and then you can—

A tearing, burning sensation suddenly raked down his side, surprising — and horrifying — him. He lost his balance, tumbling down a short grassy bank into a yard — Lizzy's yard. Noise filled his head as he stopped at the edge of the hedge—blood roaring in his ears or a ringing from the sudden, brutal blow, he didn't know. But as Mooky dragged himself under the thick, sculpted bush, into the protective shadows, the stench of blood clogged his nose, and beyond the din in his ears, he could hear the dog, still behind him, still snarling.

He'd been hit.

But how? I thought I was ahead of it— Then Mooky found he didn't really care about the how of it. He just wanted this horrible, burning pain to stop. He collapsed to his belly, chest heaving even as he tried to be as still as possible. He could still hear Kenny's mutt, and worse, he could feel its presence right at the edge of the hedge. In the moonlight, he could see its wide, cruel maw snuffling at the bottom of the bush, could see its big paws. One of them was wet. Wet with...

That's how it knew he was there, Mooky realized. He'd streaked off after it had hit him, but it must have simply followed the stench of his blood directly to the bush. After all, if he could smell it, so could the dog.

What do I do now? Mooky had never been more terrified in his life — cornered in a bush, with a hungry dog outside ready to scoop him out. Fear and pain paralyzed him — if the beast nosed its way in, he doubted he was going to be able to run now, or very far. Even now, he found that the feeling was draining from his left foreleg and back leg. Chancing a look down at them, he was just barely able to see three long claw marks extending across the left side of his body, from one leg to the other, all three welling with blood. He tried to tell himself that they were just scratches, but for some reason the darkness made them look like mortal wounds. With this amount of pain, could they be anything else?

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? He struggled to think. The Russian's position was not far from here — his friend was probably waiting, wondering what was taking so long. If I could just get there, then—

A growl — a huge paw suddenly appeared, swiping underneath the bush. In terror, Mooky shrank away, backing up until his rump hit the edge of the porch. Even that small movement brought him great pain. Trapped, he thought with a wheeze. Trapped, trapped, trapped. There's no way out! He'd been hopeful for a moment, foolishly hopeful that this crazy plan would go about just as Susan had said it would, but he'd been an idiot. A fluffing idiot. Playing with dogs was like playing with fire — how could he think that he could possibly do this and not wind up dead? This turn of events was just desserts. It was karma. Righteous punishment for his foolishness.

Still, he couldn't help but pray. Pray that some higher power would take pity on him and spare him. Help me. Please, someone help me! Not like this. Not to a dog. Help me get out of this alive!

Barking. Loud barking. Mooky flinched, waiting for another paw to claw at him, for the dog to make another attempt to find him and drag him out... But then he noticed something. The barking seemed to be coming from a ways away. What the... Mooky ducked his head, peering along the ground, looking for the dog's paws.

They were gone.

What? What? What was going on here? Had the dog left? But why? Hadn't he just prepped his palate with cat blood? Why would he back off when Mooky was tired and injured and woozy, a virtual sitting duck sans the feathers?

Maybe he changed his mind? But deep down, Mooky knew better. He was not ignorant to the ways of dogs. The only reason they abandoned prey was because an easier catch had showed up in their crosshairs. Hope swelled in the cat's chest. The Russian... Or Susan? Have they come to my rescue?

He crept out to the edge of the hedge, angling his head towards the barking to see. He spotted the dog a ways away. But he did not see the Russian. Or Susan. What he saw was much worse.

Kenny's dog was standing in the street before the yellow house where Molly lived, crouched, barking, foaming at the mouth as though crazed by rabies. With a stroke of incredulity, Mooky realized that the dog was howling at Molly — the tiny human was sitting on the porch, close to the door, in one of those rocking contraptions that humans made for their young, swinging idly back and forth. Her eyes were wide, sparkling with moonlight, as she took in the dog snarling at her from the street. But she looked more fascinated than afraid — it was clear that she had no idea as to how dangerous the dog was.

For a moment, Mooky could only stare, trying to process the scene before him. A mad, rabid dog that had killed one of Susan's kits, and Molly, a young human who had petted him, been kind to him. What do I do? Would Kenny's dog... No. Kenny's dog would never attack Molly, would it? Mooky wanted to think not, but the brute was excited. He'd been chasing Mooky. He was baying for blood. And now here was another piece of prey, once decidedly more vulnerable and helpless than Mooky was. One that could be killed just as easily.

The dog seemed to realize that. Its barking ceased, flattening out into low snarls, and it crouched and began to creep forward, a hound on the hunt. Molly continued to swing, watching the predator creep forward, not scared in the least. Mooky's throat dried, and his eyes flashed to the open doorway of Molly's home. Her parents were nearby. They must have been, probably right inside the door. They would hear the dog and come to investigate, wouldn't they? From here, he could hear their heavy footsteps plodding in the halls of their home, hear their voices, discussing the evening meal.

None of them mentioned the dog.

Who was now close to Molly. Too close. Dangerously close. It snarled up at her, and then let out a hard, ear-piercing bark, one that cracked like thunder.

Molly squealed.

In that moment, Mooky knew that he had to act. He remembered the way Molly had petted his head, the way her parents had scratched his back so kindly, as his old owners used to, and something deep and uncompromising told him that he had to save her. It still wasn't clear whether or not the dog would actually attack, but to stand by and watch and see would be to have Molly's blood on his paws if the worst were to come about. And that deep part of him told him that he could not allow that.

That same part of him pushed him from underneath the hedge and out into the open, out into danger. It sent him across the yard, bid him to ignore the growing agony in his side, and pulled him across the black, moonlit asphalt, towards Molly's house. Terror banked itself in his belly, black and endless, as he pushed himself into a trot, then a canter, and then a full out run, but to his surprise, he didn't let the doubt stop him. He didn't stumble. He didn't hesitate. Because as he grew closer and closer, one thing became clear: he wanted to save Molly. And the thought gave him resolve.

He released a high caterwaul as he sped into the yard, and the dog spun around at the sound, Mooky launched himself at it, not giving himself even a thousandth of a second to contemplate what he was doing.

He landed on the dog's rugged skull. Its fur was more slippery than he anticipated, and he nearly slid off, especially when the dog yelped and began to shake its head wildly, trying to dislodge him. It took all Mooky had not to give in and hang on — tail lashing, he unsheathed his claws and dug them in as deep as he could, ten hooked anchors holding him to the dog's flesh. Then, as the mutt continued to stumble and whine, Mooky chose a spot and sank his teeth in as hard as he could.

His teeth sliced through fur and skin, down into the muscle underneath. Blood filled his mouth, warm and toxic; some snuck down his throat, threatening to choke him, but he hung on, refusing to give up. The dog's yelp transformed into a keening wail — it swung its body this way and that, trying to throw Mooky off, but he refused to let go, his grip more resolute than a tick's. Somewhere past the roaring in his ears and the shrieks of the dog, he could hear Molly screaming. Her parents would come soon, he thought. They'd come soon and help subdue the dog. Then the Catcher would arrive, and he would—

A paw appeared, slashing into Mooky's already wounded side, and agony erupted from deep within, so intense that for the second time that night, his mind short-circuited — he fell down to the ground in a bloody heap.

But the mongrel wasn't done with him yet — he felt its teeth pierce his neck, sinking into his scruff, and then he was off the ground, being swung about like a rag doll or a bloody chew toy. The world was reduced to hues of black and gray and silver. He brain rattled in his skull, and pain surged up his neck. This is it. I'm done for. I'll never see the sun again. He's going to eat me alive, and—

"Mooky!" A familiar voice cut through the madness — Susan! The dog yelped again and then hurled Mooky, sending him sailing through the air. When he hit the ground, he hit it hard, sliding on his own blood until he came to stop against a tree. From this position, he could see the dog crouching a few yards away, being wrestled down by two furiously yowling, scratching forms. Susan. And... Is that...? The other cat was dark, with even darker markings. One-ear? No, it can't be. Why would he come and rescue me...?

But it couldn't be the Russian. Because the Russian was crouching beside him, frantically licking his bloody side. The Kitten was with him, eyes wide and frightened. "Mooky?" the blue-furred cat asked. His voice sounded strange — he was close enough that it should have been clear, sharp, but instead it sounded echo-y, as though he were calling to Mooky from the end of the cul-de-sac. "Mooky, just hold on, all right? You're going to be okay. Mooky? Mooky, can you hear me?"

"Yes," Mooky said. Or tried to say. For some reason, he couldn't quite get the word out of his mouth.

"Mooky, please don't die," the Kitten said despairingly. "I haven't gotten to properly apologize to you yet. I still have to share some of my Meow Mix with you, and—"

"Quiet!" the Russian ordered. "Lick here! Clear away some of that blood!" The Kitten ducked his head and got to work, and the Russian leaned low and said, "Stay with us, Mooky. You did it, you hear me? One-ear's owner said she was calling the Catcher, and they'll be here any minute. There's no way they're not going to take this mutt now that he's tried to attack a little human. You did it, Mooky. You're a hero. You hear me? A hero." Pause. "Mooky?"

He was having trouble focusing. He could still see Susan and One-ear attacking Kenny's dog, and he could still see the Russian, see the blue of his eyes, but the image was degrading, becoming smudged, grainy. Sound was fading rapidly, and a deep coldness was beginning to spread across Mooky's body, swallowing his legs, then his belly, working its way up to his skull. He wanted to feel terrified, but he was too tired to be terrified. He liked the growing silence, and the absence of that horrible pain.

Is this what dying feels like...?

--

Author's Note: I think this is the chapter that needs the most editing. I actually didn't realize until I was posting this how absurd it is that this is all happening at night. Makes Molly being on the porch and One-ear's owner calling the Catcher make a lot less sense.

Also, since the kitties don't really have a timetable (they just want to do this ASAP), there's no reason it couldn't happen in a few days, when they've had better time to plan, instead of immediately.

Will rewrite soon!