I Called the Police on a Howling Pitbull at 3 AM. By Sunrise, I Was Begging For His Forgiveness When I Saw What He Was Hiding Under His Body.

Chapter 1: The Noise Complaint

The red digits on my alarm clock read 3:14 AM.

And the howling hadn’t stopped. Not once.

It wasn’t a bark. It was a guttural, soul-scraping wail that seemed to vibrate through the drywall of my master bedroom. It was the kind of sound that made the hair on your arms stand up, primal and terrified. But at 3:14 AM, on a Tuesday in November, it was mostly just infuriating.

“I’m calling them,” I whispered, throwing the duvet off my legs. The floor was freezing—the first real frost of the year had hit the suburbs of Dayton, Ohio, turning the grass into brittle shards of ice.

“Sarah, don’t,” my husband Mike groaned into his pillow. He pulled the blanket over his head. “Just let it go. Elena probably left the dog out by accident. She’s… you know how she is.”

“I know exactly how she is, Mike,” I snapped, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. “She’s a mess. Her lawn is a graveyard for rusty tricycles, her trash cans are never pulled in on time, and now she’s got that aggressive beast howling at the moon while decent people are trying to sleep.”

I walked to the window and peered through the blinds. The house next door—1402 Oak Street—was pitch black. Not a single porch light. No movement. Just that ungodly sound coming from the backyard.

It was Buster. A pitbull mix with a head the size of a cinder block and eyes that always looked nervous. Elena had adopted him six months ago. “He’s a rescue,” she’d told me with that tired, apologetic smile she always wore. “He’s really gentle.”

Gentle. Right.

The howl ripped through the air again, ending in a sharp yip.

“That’s it,” I muttered. I dialed the non-emergency police line. My thumb hovered over the call button, trembling slightly from the cold seeping through the glass.

“Dispatch, this is Sarah Jenkins at 1404 Oak Street,” I said, my voice tight with self-righteous anger. “I need to report a noise disturbance. It’s the animal next door. It’s been howling for three hours. The owner is unresponsive. And frankly, it sounds dangerous.”

I hung up feeling a grim sense of satisfaction. We had rules in this neighborhood. We had standards. If Elena couldn’t handle a dog, she shouldn’t have one. And if she couldn’t manage her life, well, that wasn’t my problem.

I stared at the dark house next door. “Shut up, you stupid animal,” I hissed at the glass.

I didn’t know then that Buster wasn’t howling at the moon. I didn’t know he was screaming for help.

Chapter 2: The Silence

The silence was what woke me up the second time.

It was 6:45 AM. The heavy, grey light of dawn was filtering through the curtains. The howling had stopped.

“Finally,” I sighed, stretching. Mike was already in the shower. I threw on my robe and went downstairs to make coffee. I felt justified. The police probably came by, slapped Elena with a fine, and told her to bring the beast inside. Maybe this would be the wake-up call she needed to get her act together.

I poured my coffee and walked to the sliding glass door to check the backyard.

The frost was thick today. It coated the swing set and the wooden fence separating our properties. I took a sip of the hot coffee, looking over the fence line.

That’s when I dropped the mug.

Ceramic shattered against the hardwood floor, sending hot liquid splashing onto my ankles, but I didn’t feel it. I couldn’t breathe.

Through the gaps in the privacy fence, I saw color. A bright, unnatural blue against the grey frost.

It was a pair of Cookie Monster pajamas.

Lying on the concrete patio of Elena’s house, curled into a tight, impossible ball, was Toby. Elena’s two-year-old son.

He wasn’t moving.

And draped over him, covering the boy’s small body like a thick, muscular blanket, was Buster.

The dog’s fur was white with frost. He was shivering so violently that his tremors were shaking the boy’s body beneath him. Buster’s head was resting on Toby’s back, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and fixed on my sliding glass door.

He wasn’t sleeping. He was guarding.

“Mike!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat so hard it hurt. “MIKE! CALL 911!”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I tore open the door and ran. I ran barefoot into the freezing morning, ignoring the bite of the ice on my skin. I scrambled over the low part of the chain-link divider near the back, catching my robe on the metal, ripping it free.

“Toby! Toby, baby!” I gasped, rushing toward them.

As I got close, Buster lifted his head. He let out a low, menacing growl. He didn’t know me. To him, I was just the neighbor who glared over the fence. I was a threat.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I sobbed, falling to my knees on the freezing concrete, inches from the dog’s snapping jaws. “Please, Buster. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The dog looked at the boy underneath him. And then, he did something that broke me.

He let out a soft whine, licked the frost off the back of the toddler’s neck, and collapsed sideways, too exhausted to hold his head up anymore.

I reached out and touched Toby’s cheek. It was cold. Like marble. But then, I felt it. A tiny, shallow puff of air against my hand.

He was alive. But just barely.

And looking at the back door of Elena’s house, wide open and swinging in the wind, I realized the horror was just beginning.

Chapter 3: The Broken Door

“He’s barely breathing, Mike! Where are they?” I screamed, clutching Toby against my chest. My own body heat felt like nothing against the terrifying chill radiating from his small limbs.

Mike had vaulted the fence seconds after me. He was on the phone with dispatch, his face pale as a sheet. “They’re two minutes out. Stay with him, Sarah. Don’t move him too much.”

I looked down at Buster. The dog hadn’t moved since he collapsed. His breathing was ragged, shallow hitches that rattled in his chest. He had spent nine hours—nine hours in freezing temperatures—using every ounce of his body heat to keep this boy alive.

And I had called the police to complain about the noise. The guilt hit me harder than the cold, a nausea that twisted my stomach.

Sirens cut through the morning air, shattering the suburban quiet. Blue and red lights bounced off the frosted windows of the neighborhood.

Everything happened in a blur of chaos.

Paramedics rushed into the backyard, their boots crunching heavily on the frozen grass. One of them, a young woman with a focused expression, immediately took Toby from my arms.

“Core temperature is critical,” she barked to her partner. “Let’s get the warming blanket. Move!”

As they rushed Toby toward the ambulance, another vehicle pulled up. A white van with “Animal Control” stenciled on the side.

A man with a catchpole stepped out, eyeing Buster.

“No!” I scrambled up, my legs numb. “No, don’t touch him!”

“Ma’am, step back,” the officer said, his voice bored, routine. “We got a report of an aggressive animal at this address last night. Dispatch said there’s a victim on scene.”

“He’s not aggressive! He’s a hero!” I was hysterical now, grabbing the officer’s arm. “He saved the boy! He kept him warm all night! You can’t take him like a criminal!”

Mike pulled me back, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Sarah, let them work. They have to clear the scene.”

I watched through tears as they looped the noose around Buster’s neck. The dog didn’t fight. He didn’t even lift his head. He just let them drag his stiff, frozen body onto a stretcher and load him into the back of the van like a piece of trash.

“We need to clear the residence!” a police officer shouted, unholstering his weapon as he approached the open back door of Elena’s house.

I froze. In the panic over Toby and Buster, I had forgotten the terrifying question that hung over everything: Where was Elena?

Elena, who loved Toby more than life itself. Elena, who worked double shifts at the diner just to pay for his daycare. She would never leave him outside. Not ever.

“Police! Coming in!”

Three officers moved into the dark kitchen.

I stood in the freezing yard, shivering in my torn robe, holding my breath. The neighbors were all out on their porches now. Mrs. Higgins from across the street was clutching her chest. The mailman had stopped his truck.

For a long moment, there was silence from inside the house.

Then, a voice crackled over the police radio on the officer standing near me.

“Dispatch, we have an unresponsive female in the kitchen. Possible head trauma. Looks like she’s been down a while. Send a second bus. Now.”

My knees gave out. Mike caught me before I hit the ground.

It wasn’t negligence. It wasn’t bad parenting.

Elena hadn’t left her son. She hadn’t ignored the dog. Something terrible had happened inside that house, and while she lay dying on the kitchen floor, her dog had done the only thing he knew how to do.

He had broken out to save the baby. And then he had called for help the only way he could.

And I had just listened, annoyed, and turned off the light.

Chapter 4: The Waiting Room

The fluorescent lights of the Dayton General ER buzzed with a sound that felt like it was drilling directly into my skull. It had been four hours since the ambulance left Oak Street.

I sat in a plastic chair that dug into my spine, still wearing Mike’s oversized coat over my ruined pajamas. My feet were shoved into a pair of hospital socks a nurse had taken pity on me enough to provide.

“Sarah, drink this.” Mike handed me a styrofoam cup of vending machine coffee. It smelled like burnt rubber and sugar.

“I can’t,” I whispered, staring at the double doors marked TRAUMA – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. “I can’t do anything until I know they’re okay.”

Every time the doors swung open, my heart hammered against my ribs. I kept seeing Toby’s blue lips. I kept seeing Elena’s stillness on that kitchen floor.

And in the quiet moments between the chaos of the ER, I heard the howl. That ghostly, desperate sound echoing in my memory. I had called it annoying. I had called it a nuisance.

“Mrs. Jenkins?”

A man in a wrinkled grey suit stood over us. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes that matched mine. He held a small notepad.

“I’m Detective Miller,” he said, pulling up a chair. “I need to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Ms. Elena Rossi.”

“Is she…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“She’s in surgery,” Miller said, his face unreadable. “Severe cranial swelling. It’s touch and go. The boy, Toby, is stable but hypothermic. He’s in the PICU. He’s a fighter.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thank God.”

Miller clicked his pen. “You made a call to dispatch at 3:14 AM. A noise complaint.”

The shame washed over me, hot and suffocating. “Yes. I… I didn’t know. I thought the dog was just barking at a squirrel or something. I thought Elena was just being irresponsible.”

Miller looked at me for a long moment. It wasn’t judgmental, just factual, which somehow made it worse. “Did you hear anything else? Shouting? Glass breaking? A vehicle leaving?”

I wracked my brain. “No. Just the wind. And the dog. The dog was making this awful sound. Not a normal bark. It was like… screaming.”

“That dog,” Miller said, flipping a page, “is currently at the County Animal Control center. The responding officer noted it was ‘guarding the victims aggressively.’ Because of your report on the call—stating the animal was dangerous—and the state of the scene, he’s been flagged as a threat.”

“No!” I shot up from the chair, spilling the coffee. “No, you don’t understand! He saved that boy!”

“I’m just telling you the protocol, ma’am,” Miller said calmly. “But right now, I’m more interested in what happened inside the house. The back door wasn’t just open. The deadbolt was kicked in.”

I froze. “Kicked in?”

“This wasn’t an accident,” Miller said, his voice lowering. “Ms. Rossi didn’t slip and fall. Someone entered that home, assaulted her, and left her for dead. We found muddy boot prints in the kitchen. Size 12. Heavy tread.”

My hand flew to my mouth.

“Do you know anyone who might want to hurt her?” Miller asked. “An ex-boyfriend? A debt collector?”

I thought about the man I’d seen a few times over the summer. A tall guy driving a beat-up Ford truck. He always parked on the lawn. I remembered hearing voices raised in the backyard back in August. I had closed my windows to block out the noise.

“I… I ignored it,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “I thought it was just… drama. I didn’t want to get involved.”

“The ‘drama’ you ignored,” Miller said, closing his notebook, “was likely domestic violence. And last night, it almost became a double homicide.”

He stood up. “If you remember anything—a car, a face—call me. In the meantime, pray for your neighbor.”

He walked away, leaving me sitting in the wreckage of my own apathy. I had prided myself on having a “clean” neighborhood. I had judged Elena for her messy lawn, her loud life. But while I was worrying about property values, she was fighting a war I refused to see.

And the only soldier she had was a dog I had just sent to execution.

Chapter 5: Death Row

The smell of the County Animal Control facility was a mix of bleach, wet fur, and despair. It was 2:00 PM. I hadn’t slept in thirty hours.

Mike had tried to stop me. He said I needed rest. He said there was nothing I could do. But I couldn’t sit in that hospital waiting room anymore. Elena was still in a coma. Toby was sedated. I needed to fix the one thing I had broken.

“I’m here for the pitbull brought in from Oak Street this morning,” I told the woman at the front desk. She was chewing gum, looking at a computer screen through thick glasses.

“Case number?” she asked, not looking up.

“I don’t have a number. It was early morning. The owner is Elena Rossi. The dog’s name is Buster.”

She typed slowly, her long acrylic nails clicking against the keys. She stopped, frowned, and looked at a clipboard on the wall.

“Rossi. Pitbull mix. White and brindle.” She looked at me. “You can’t see him. He’s in Quarantine B.”

“Why?”

“He’s tagged ‘Double Red’. Aggressive behavior at a crime scene. Plus, there’s a note here about a neighbor complaint regarding dangerous temperament.” She turned the screen toward me.

There was my name. Sarah Jenkins. Report: Animal sounds dangerous/uncontrollable.

“I’m the neighbor!” I slammed my hand on the counter, startling her. “I’m the one who made the call! I was wrong! That dog isn’t dangerous. He’s the reason the little boy is alive!”

“Ma’am, lower your voice.”

“I will not lower my voice! That dog laid in the freezing cold for nine hours to keep a toddler warm! He alerted the neighborhood! If I hadn’t been so deaf, I would have heard him sooner! You have to let me see him.”

The woman sighed, sensing I wasn’t going to leave. She picked up a phone. “I’ll get the supervisor. But don’t get your hopes up. Usually, with a violent crime scene and a bite record, they don’t make it out.”

“He bit someone?”

“He snapped at the Animal Control officer when they tried to take the kid away,” she said, shrugging. “Defending a kill, probably.”

“Defending his boy,” I corrected, my voice shaking.

Ten minutes later, a heavy-set man in a uniform led me through a metal door. The noise was deafening. Hundreds of dogs barking, yelping, throwing themselves against chain-link fences. It was a prison.

We walked to the very back, to a row of cages isolated from the others.

“Don’t put your fingers through the wire,” the supervisor warned.

Cage 402.

Buster was there. But he didn’t look like the monster I had described to the police. He was curled in the corner on the cold concrete floor, facing the wall. He wasn’t barking. He wasn’t even looking up.

He looked small.

“Buster?” I whispered.

His ear twitched. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head.

His eyes were sunken, rimmed with red. He looked at me, and I saw recognition. But no anger. Just a profound, crushing sadness. He let out a low, mournful whine—the same sound I had heard before he collapsed on Toby.

He didn’t understand why he was here. He had done his job. He had protected the pack. And his reward was a concrete cell and a date with a needle.

“I’m so sorry, Buster,” I pressed my forehead against the cold metal mesh. “I promise you. I’m going to get you out. I’m going to bring you home to Toby.”

The supervisor checked his watch. “He’s scheduled for assessment tomorrow. If he fails—and they almost always fail when they’ve snapped at an officer—he’ll be put down by Friday.”

“He won’t fail,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Because I’m going to prove what he really did.”

Chapter 6: The Tape

Wednesday morning brought a grey sky and a breakthrough.

I was back at my house, frantically looking for anything that could help. Mike was outside, salting the driveway, trying to wash away the memory of the ambulance.

My phone rang. It was Detective Miller.

“Mrs. Jenkins? I need you to come down to the station. We found something.”

“Is it Elena?”

“No. She’s stable, but still unconscious. We canvassed the neighborhood again. The house two doors down—the Millers at 1408—they have a doorbell camera that faces the street, but the wide-angle lens catches a sliver of Elena’s driveway and front porch.”

I drove to the station in record time. Miller brought me into a small room with a monitor.

“Watch this,” he said.

The video was grainy, black and white night vision. The timestamp read 11:42 PM.

A truck pulled up to the curb. A man got out. I recognized the walk. It was the ex-boyfriend. He walked up the driveway, looking around nervously. He disappeared around the side of the house toward the back door.

The timestamp ticked forward. 11:58 PM.

The back door (barely visible in the corner of the frame) flew open.

“Here,” Miller pointed.

A figure stumbled out. It was Elena. She was holding Toby. She was running.

But the man was faster. He grabbed her by the hair, dragging her back. She was fighting, kicking, screaming silently on the tape.

Then, a blur of white motion.

Buster.

The dog launched himself out the door, latching onto the man’s arm. The attacker staggered back, dropping Elena.

Elena fell hard. She didn’t get up.

The man kicked Buster. Once. Twice. The dog flew backward, hitting the siding of the house. But Buster scrambled up instantly, placing himself between the man and the fallen woman.

The man pulled something from his belt. A crowbar. He swung it.

Buster took the blow to the shoulder but didn’t retreat. He snapped and lunged, driving the man back.

“Look at the boy,” Miller whispered.

While Buster was holding the line, taking blow after blow, little Toby had crawled off the porch and into the shadows of the patio furniture.

The attacker, realizing the dog wouldn’t let him get to the woman without a fight and probably fearing the noise, panicked. He ran back to his truck and sped off.

The timestamp read 12:05 AM.

Elena was motionless on the ground. Buster nudged her. He licked her face. She didn’t move. He tried to pull her by her shirt, but she was dead weight.

Then, the dog turned to where Toby was hiding. He nudged the toddler.

The video cut out as the motion sensor timed out.

“He didn’t attack Elena,” I breathed, my hand over my mouth. “He fought off an intruder. He took a crowbar to the shoulder and still stayed.”

“And then,” Miller said, his voice thick with emotion, “he realized the mother wasn’t waking up. And the baby was freezing. So he moved the baby to the patio, curled around him, and started howling for help.”

Miller looked at me. “You were right, Mrs. Jenkins. That dog isn’t a menace. He’s the only reason there aren’t two body bags in the morgue right now.”

“Does Animal Control know this?” I asked urgent.

“I just sent them the file,” Miller said. “But there’s a problem.”

“What?”

“The attacker,” Miller said, turning a photo over on the desk. “His name is Mark Danton. We have an APB out on him. But he’s not just an ex-boyfriend. He’s the biological father of the boy. And legally… until Elena wakes up to press charges or we catch him… he has rights to the property. Including the dog.”

My blood ran cold.

“He called the pound this morning,” Miller said grimly. “He claimed the dog attacked him while he was visiting his son. He wants Buster destroyed immediately.”

Chapter 7: The Signature

I drove to the Animal Control center like a woman possessed. The windshield wipers slapped frantically against the sleet that had started to fall.

My phone was on speaker in the cup holder. “I’m two minutes out, Detective Miller! Did you call them?”

“I’m trying, Sarah!” Miller’s voice cut through the static. “The admin line is busy. I’m en route with a warrant, but if Danton is already there with proof of ownership, they might process the order before I get through the door. Stall him.”

“Stall a violent criminal?” I choked out, swerving around a slow-moving sedan.

“Just don’t let them kill that dog.”

I skidded into the parking lot. There it was—the beat-up Ford truck from the video. Mark Danton was here.

I slammed my car into park and sprinted toward the entrance, my boots slipping on the slush. I burst through the double doors, gasping for air.

The lobby was quiet, except for the low murmur of voices at the counter.

Mark Danton was leaning against the desk. He was big, wearing a Carhartt jacket that looked too clean. He was holding a pen.

The supervisor—the same man from yesterday—was pushing a clipboard toward him. “Alright, Mr. Danton. Since you’re the biological father and listed on the lease, we can proceed with the owner-requested euthanasia. Given the bite history, it’s immediate.”

“Good,” Mark said, his voice smooth, devoid of any guilt. “I don’t want my son growing up around a vicious animal. It attacked me for no reason. Just put it down.”

He lowered the pen to the paper.

“STOP!”

My scream echoed off the linoleum walls. Everyone froze. Mark turned slowly, his eyes cold and flat.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” the supervisor sighed, looking annoyed. “Please, we’re handling a private matter.”

“He’s lying!” I marched up to the counter, placing myself between Mark and the paperwork. My heart was hammering so hard I thought I might pass out. “That dog didn’t attack him for no reason. He attacked him because he was beating Elena to death with a crowbar!”

Mark chuckled, a dark, menacing sound. “Lady, you’re hysterical. You’re the crazy neighbor who called the cops on the dog in the first place, remember? You told the police it was dangerous. Now you’re playing hero?”

He leaned in close to me. I smelled stale tobacco and peppermint. “Go home, Sarah. Mind your own business before you slip on the ice too.”

The threat was clear. My knees shook, but I thought of Toby’s frozen blue pajamas. I thought of Buster taking a blow meant for a woman he loved.

“I won’t go home,” I said, my voice trembling but loud. “And you aren’t touching that dog.”

Mark’s face hardened. He looked at the supervisor. “I’m the owner. I’m signing the paper. Do your job.” He grabbed the pen again.

“If you sign that,” I said, looking at the supervisor, “you are destroying evidence in an attempted murder investigation.”

Mark hesitated. The pen hovered millimeters from the paper.

“What are you talking about?” Mark snapped.

“The doorbell camera,” I bluffed, praying Miller was close. “The Millers across the street. It recorded everything, Mark. The crowbar. The assault. The way you ran like a coward when a dog fought back.”

Mark’s face drained of color. For a split second, the mask of the concerned father slipped, revealing the monster underneath. He dropped the pen and took a step toward me, his hands balling into fists.

“You bitch,” he snarled.

The glass doors behind me flew open.

“MARK DANTON!”

Detective Miller stood there, weapon drawn, flanked by two uniformed officers. “Hands where I can see them! Now!”

Mark looked at me, then at the police. He bolted toward the side exit.

“Get him!” Miller shouted.

The officers tackled him before he made it five feet. As they cuffed him, pressing his face into the cheap linoleum, I slumped against the counter, shaking uncontrollably.

The supervisor looked at me, then at the unsigned paper on the desk. He slowly pulled the clipboard back.

“I think,” he said softly, ripping the paper in half, “we’ll hold off on that procedure.”

Chapter 8: The Homecoming

Three weeks later, the snow had finally melted, leaving the world wet and brown, but alive.

I stood on my front porch, holding a banner that Mike had helped me hang between the porch columns. It read WELCOME HOME in big, clumsy letters.

A handicap-accessible van pulled into the driveway next door.

The passenger door opened, and Elena’s sister stepped out, unfolding a wheelchair. Then, they helped Elena down.

She looked different. Her head was shaved on one side where the surgeons had operated, the scar a jagged pink line against her pale skin. She looked frail, but her eyes—her eyes were bright.

And sitting on her lap, clutching a stuffed dinosaur, was Toby. He was fully recovered, his cheeks rosy from the chill air.

“Sarah,” Elena called out, her voice raspy.

I walked over, tears already stinging my eyes. “I’m so glad you’re back, Elena. I’m so, so sorry for everything.”

“Shh,” she reached out and took my hand. Her grip was weak, but warm. “Miller told me what you did. You stood up to him. You saved us.”

“I only finished what Buster started,” I said, looking toward the back of the van.

The animal control officer—the nice one, the young woman—opened the back cage.

Buster stepped out.

He walked with a slight limp; the crowbar had fractured his shoulder blade, but it was healing. He wore a bright red harness that said SERVICE DOG on the side.

He sniffed the air. He looked at the house. Then he looked at me.

I held my breath. I hadn’t seen him since the cage.

Buster trotted past me, straight to the wheelchair. He didn’t jump. He didn’t bark. He simply pressed his massive, blocky head gently into Elena’s good leg. Then he nudged Toby’s hand with his wet nose.

Toby giggled. “Puppy home.”

Elena buried her face in the dog’s neck, sobbing quietly. The dog stood like a statue, absorbing her grief, her fear, and her relief. He was doing exactly what he had done that night on the ice: he was holding them together.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Mike. He was watching them, wiping his own eyes.

“You know,” Mike said softly, “I don’t think I’m going to mind the noise anymore.”

I looked at the dog—the animal I had demonized, the creature I had tried to banish because he inconvenienced my sleep.

“He won’t make noise,” I said, watching Buster lay down at the wheels of Elena’s chair, his eyes closing in pure contentment. “He was only screaming because no one was listening.”

Elena looked up at me, smiling through her tears. “Come over for coffee tomorrow? The house is a mess, though.”

“I don’t care,” I smiled back, and for the first time, I meant it. “I’ll bring the donuts. And maybe some treats for the hero.”

That night, 1402 Oak Street was dark and quiet. There were no screams. No sirens.

But at 3:14 AM, I woke up anyway. I walked to the window and looked down into the yard next door.

Buster was there, sitting on the back porch, watching the fence line. He wasn’t howling at the moon. He was just watching.

I placed my hand on the cold glass, whispering a thank you into the dark.

We sleep safe in our beds not because the world is good, but because monsters have enemies, too. And sometimes, the only thing standing between us and the darkness is a good boy who refuses to let go.