I Accidentally Hit a DOGMAN With My Car. What I Did Next Still Haunts Me
THE DOGMAN AND THE PROMISE OF SECRETS
December 2003. Something steps onto Highway 47 in northern Minnesota. Eight feet tall, wolf head, walking on two legs. I hit it going 40 mph. When I get out, it’s still alive, bleeding in the ditch, staring at me with humanlike intelligence in its eyes.
I should have called the police. Should have run.
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Instead, I loaded this creature into my car and drove it to my house. That decision changed my entire life.
My name is David Mercer. I’m 62 years old, and for 23 years, I’ve been carrying a secret that would make most people think I’ve lost my mind. Back in 2003, I was a nurse practitioner working at Mercy General Hospital in Duth, Minnesota. I believed in science, evidence, rational explanations for everything. I didn’t believe in monsters or cryptids or anything that couldn’t be explained by biology textbooks.
Then, on December 18th, 2003, one of those things that don’t exist smashed into the front of my Honda Civic on a dark rural highway. And instead of doing what any sane person would do, I took it home and spent three weeks nursing it back to health in my basement.
What I learned during those three weeks destroyed everything I thought I understood about the world. I’m telling this story now because I’m getting old, and this knowledge shouldn’t die with me. But more than that, I need people to understand that these creatures aren’t the monsters we’ve made them out to be in stories and legends.
What I experienced was complicated, terrifying, and strangely beautiful. And the choices I made during those three weeks still haunt me today.
1. The Cold Minnesota Night
Quick shout-out to all the channel members who joined this month. Your support means everything and helps keep these stories coming. Now, let me take you back to December 2003 and I’ll tell you exactly how this happened.
I need to set the scene properly because the circumstances of that night were critical to what happened. December in northern Minnesota is brutal. We’re talking temperatures that regularly drop below zero, snow that piles up faster than the plows can clear it, and black ice that turns highways into death traps. On December 18th, 2003, I had just finished a double shift at Mercy General. Sixteen hours on my feet, dealing with everything from heart attacks to car accident victims from the icy roads. I was exhausted in that bone-deep way where your eyes burn and your brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton.
I should have stayed at the hospital, grabbed a few hours of sleep in one of the on-call rooms, but I was stupid and stubborn, and I wanted to sleep in my own bed. So, at 11:47 p.m., I clocked out, scraped the ice off my windshield, and headed north on Highway 47 toward my house in the woods, about 30 miles outside Duth.
The drive normally took about 40 minutes, but in those conditions, I was taking it slow—maybe 35 mph on the straightaways, slower on the curves. The highway was completely empty. Not another car in sight, just me, my headlights cutting through falling snow and the occasional reflective eyes of deer watching from the tree line. I’d made this drive hundreds of times. I knew every curve, every hill, every place where deer liked to cross. I was alert despite my exhaustion, watching for animals. Both hands on the wheel. The radio was playing some late-night talk show that I wasn’t really listening to. I was running on autopilot, thinking about the warm bed waiting for me, about sleeping until noon the next day since I had the day off.
Then, at mile marker 127, something stepped out of the forest onto the highway. My brain tried to process what I was seeing, but it didn’t make sense. Too tall to be a deer, wrong shape to be a bear. It was standing upright, completely vertical like a human, but it had to be at least 7 and a half or 8 feet tall. And the head, even in that split second before impact, I could see it wasn’t human. The snout was too long, the ears too pointed and positioned wrong.
I slammed on the brakes, but I was going 35 on black ice. The car didn’t slow so much as start sliding sideways. I felt the impact through the whole vehicle. Heard a sound like a body hitting metal. And then my car was spinning. Everything became a blur of headlights cutting across trees and snow and darkness. I must have spun three full rotations before the car finally slid into a snowbank on the shoulder and stopped.
For maybe 30 seconds, I just sat there, hands still gripping the wheel, trying to breathe. My heart was hammering so hard, I could feel it in my throat. The engine had stalled. The only sound was the tick, tick of cooling metal and my own ragged breathing. Steam was rising from the hood where the radiator had cracked. I knew I’d hit something. Hit it hard. But my brain was still trying to categorize what that something had been. A person? No. Too tall. Wrong proportions. A bear standing up, maybe. But it hadn’t moved like a bear. And bears don’t casually walk across highways in the middle of winter.
My hands were shaking as I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed open the driver’s door. Snow immediately blew into the car, along with air so cold it felt like breathing knives. I stepped out onto the highway, my nurse’s clogs crunching on ice and snow, and looked back toward where the impact had happened. I could see the skid marks from my tires, dark lines across white snow. And about 40 feet back, I could see something lying in the ditch on the other side of the road. Something big and dark against the white snow. It wasn’t moving.
Every instinct I had as a medical professional told me to go check on whatever I’d hit, see if it needed help. But another part of me, some primitive survival instinct, was screaming to get back in the car and drive away. Don’t look. Don’t get involved. Whatever that thing is, it’s not your problem.
But I was a nurse. I’d taken an oath to help people, to provide care when it was needed. And even if this wasn’t a person, it was a living creature that I’d injured. I couldn’t just leave it there to die in the snow.
I pulled out my cell phone, one of those old flip phones that barely worked on good days, and tried to call 911. No signal. We were in a dead zone, miles from the nearest cell tower. I was completely alone out here with whatever I just hit.
I walked back toward the ditch, moving slowly, carefully. My breath came out in white clouds. The falling snow was getting heavier, already starting to cover the skid marks. As I got closer, I could make out more details of the shape in the ditch.
It was definitely an animal. Fur, dark brown or black, hard to tell in the darkness, but it was huge, easily the size of a large bear, maybe bigger, and it was lying on its side in an awkward position that suggested broken bones. I could see its chest rising and falling, shallow breaths that sent small puffs of steam into the air. It was alive.
I approached to within about 10 feet and stopped. My headlights from the car, still pointing at an angle from where I’d slid off the road, illuminated the creature enough that I could finally see what I’d hit. It was not a bear.
The body was roughly humanoid in shape. Two arms, two legs, torso, head, but everything was wrong. The proportions were off. The arms were too long, the legs too muscular, and digitigrade, meaning it walked on its toes like a dog. The torso was barrel-chested, powerfully built, covered in thick fur. And the head—the head was canine, not exactly like a wolf or a dog, but close. The snout was long and powerful, filled with teeth I could see even from here, because its mouth was slightly open as it breathed. The ears were pointed, lying flat against its skull.
The eyes were closed, or maybe just slits. I couldn’t tell.
I stood there in the falling snow, my medical training warring with my basic instinct to run. This thing shouldn’t exist. Creatures like this were folklore, campfire stories, internet legends, dogmen, werewolves, things that weren’t real. Except one was lying in a ditch 15 feet from me, bleeding into the snow.
I could see blood, dark against the white ground, spreading from somewhere under its torso. The creature’s breathing was becoming more labored, more wet sounding. Punctured lung, maybe internal bleeding, definitely. If I didn’t do something, it was going to die out here.
And that’s when I made the decision that changed everything. I decided to help it.
2. Bringing It Home
Looking back now, 23 years later, I still can’t fully explain why I made that choice. Part of it was my medical training, the automatic response to help anything that was suffering. Part of it was curiosity, the scientist in me wanting to understand what this creature was. And part of it, I think, was something deeper, a sense that this was a moment of significance, a crossroads where my choice would matter in ways I couldn’t predict.
I approached slowly, talking in a low, calm voice, even though I didn’t know if it could understand me.
“Hey there. I know you’re hurt. I’m going to help you, okay? I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”
I was babbling, my nervousness showing through. The creature didn’t respond. Its eyes remained closed, its breathing shallow and rapid. I knelt in the snow beside it, my pants immediately soaking through with ice-cold water, and began a quick assessment. Head injury, definitely. I could see blood matting the fur on the right side of its skull where it must have hit the pavement, possible concussion or worse. The right foreleg or arm was bent at an angle that suggested a fracture, and the way it was lying suggested spinal or pelvic injuries.
I placed my hand gently on its chest to feel its breathing.
The moment my hand made contact with its fur, the creature’s eyes snapped open.
I froze. We were maybe 2 feet apart, me kneeling beside it, my hand on its chest. Its eyes were amber-colored, almost golden, and they were looking directly at me with an alertness that shouldn’t have been possible given its injuries. These weren’t animal eyes. There was intelligence there, awareness, recognition that a threat was very close.
The creature’s lips pulled back from its teeth in a snarl. I could see its canines, easily 3 inches long, designed for tearing flesh. A low growl rumbled from deep in its chest, vibrating against my hand.
I should have run. Should have pulled my hand back and gotten as far away as possible. But I didn’t. Instead, I kept my hand where it was and maintained eye contact.
“I know you’re scared,” I said quietly. “I’m scared, too. But I hit you with my car, and you’re badly hurt. If I don’t help you, you’re going to die out here in the cold. I don’t want that. I don’t think you want that either. So, I need you to trust me. Just for a little while. Let me help you.”
The growling continued for another few seconds. Then, slowly, it faded. The creature’s eyes stayed locked on mine, evaluating, judging. I could almost see it thinking, weighing its options. It was hurt, vulnerable, and I was a potential threat. But it was also dying, and I was offering help.
Finally, its eyes closed again. The tension went out of its body. Not completely, but enough that I knew it wasn’t going to attack me, at least not immediately.
I stood up and ran back to my car. My mind was racing, trying to figure out how I was going to do this. The creature had to weigh at least 300 pounds, maybe more. I couldn’t lift it alone. And even if I could, how was I going to fit it in my Honda Civic?
I popped the trunk and started pulling things out. Emergency supplies, jumper cables, spare tire, everything. I folded down the back seats to create as much space as possible. It still wasn’t going to be enough, but it would have to work.
I grabbed the emergency blanket from my first aid kit and ran back to the creature. It was still conscious, still breathing, but its eyes were glazed now, going into shock, probably. I didn’t have much time.
“Okay,” I said, more to myself than to the creature. “This is going to hurt. I’m sorry, but I need to move you.”
I spread the emergency blanket out in the snow next to it, then began the agonizing process of rolling the creature onto the blanket. It was even heavier than I had estimated. Dead weight that barely budged even when I put my full strength into it. The creature made sounds during the process, whimpers and growls of pain that sounded disturbingly human, but it didn’t try to attack me. It seemed to understand that I was helping, not hurting.
It took me almost 20 minutes to get it positioned on the blanket. By that point, I was soaked in sweat despite the freezing temperature. My arms were shaking from exertion, and I was seriously questioning whether this was even possible. But I’d come this far. I couldn’t stop now.
I grabbed the corners of the blanket and started dragging. The snow actually helped, reducing friction, letting me slide the creature across the ground toward my car. Every few feet, I had to stop and rest. My muscles screaming, my breath coming in ragged gasps. When I finally reached the car, I faced the biggest challenge yet. I had to lift this 300-pound creature high enough to get it into my trunk and back seat area.
There was no way I could do it alone. I tried anyway.
I positioned myself at the creature’s head, got my hands under its shoulders, and lifted with everything I had. I managed to get its upper body onto the lip of the trunk, but that’s as far as I could go. My arms gave out and I nearly dropped it.
The creature’s eyes opened again. It looked at me and at the car, then back at me, and then to my absolute shock, it moved. Using its one good foreleg and its hind legs, it pushed itself forward, helping me get its body into the car. It was cooperating with both of us working together.
We managed to get most of its body into the car. Its legs were still hanging out, but I didn’t have the strength left to do anything about it. I have to drive slowly and hope they didn’t drag on the pavement.
I slammed the trunk closed as much as I could with the creature’s legs sticking out, then climbed into the driver’s seat. My car’s engine was dead. Radiator cracked and leaking coolant all over the highway. But I had jumper cables in my emergency kit that I’d just thrown out of the trunk. No, wait. I didn’t need to jump my own car. I needed it to start.
I turned the key, praying. The engine turned over once, twice, then caught. It was making a horrible grinding sound, and the temperature gauge was already climbing toward the red, but it was running. I put it in drive and very carefully pulled back onto the highway.
My car was handling terribly, pulling to one side from the front end damage, shaking and rattling from whatever I’d broken in the engine. But it was moving. I had a creature that shouldn’t exist bleeding in my back seat. A car that was barely functional. And I was driving through a snowstorm on a deserted highway in the middle of the night with no cell phone signal.
I needed to make a decision about where I was going. The hospital was 25 miles back the way I’d come. I could try to make it there, bring this creature to the emergency room, and let someone else deal with it. But that would mean questions, police involvement. The creature would be taken away, studied, probably killed or locked up somewhere. Everything in me rebelled against that idea. This was a living, intelligent being that had trusted me enough to let me help it. I couldn’t betray that trust.
My house was only 10 miles ahead, remote, isolated, no neighbors within 3 miles. I had medical supplies there. Equipment I’d accumulated over years of working as a nurse. I had space in my basement where I could keep the creature hidden while I treated it. I turned the wheel and continued north toward home.
3. Bringing It Home
The drive took forever. I had to keep my speed below 20 mph to avoid jostling the creature too much and to prevent my dying car from completely giving out. Every few minutes, I’d glance in the rearview mirror, checking on my passenger. It wasn’t moving, just lying there with its eyes closed, breathing shallow and fast.
“Stay with me,” I kept saying. “We’re almost there. Just hang on a little longer.”
I don’t know if it could hear me or understand me, but I needed to say it anyway.
At 12:43 a.m., I pulled into my driveway. My house was a small two-story cabin I bought 5 years earlier, specifically because of its isolation. The nearest neighbor was 3 miles away. The property was surrounded by dense forest on all sides. It was perfect for someone who valued privacy and perfect for hiding something that shouldn’t exist.
I pulled my car as close to the house as I could, right up against the side entrance that led to the basement. Then I got out and opened the basement door, turning on every light down there so I could see what I was doing.
Getting the creature out of the car and into the basement was somehow even harder than getting it into the car had been. I had to drag it down five concrete steps, trying not to let it slam against each step, trying not to cause more injuries. By the time I got it positioned on the basement floor, I was shaking with exhaustion, but there was no time to rest. The creature was in critical condition. I could see that clearly now under the bright basement lights. Multiple lacerations, probable internal bleeding, definite concussion, broken bones. If I didn’t stabilize it soon, it was going to die.
I ran upstairs and grabbed my medical bag, the one I kept stocked with supplies I’d borrowed from the hospital over the years. Four equipment: antibiotics, pain medication, surgical supplies. I’d accumulated quite a collection, originally intending to use it for emergency situations in this remote location. I never imagined I’d be using it like this.
Back in the basement, I set up a makeshift treatment area. I sterilized my hands, put on gloves, and got to work. First priority was stopping the bleeding. I found the source, a deep laceration on the creature’s left side, where it must have hit the pavement after bouncing off my car. The wound was deep enough that I could see muscle tissue and possibly an organ beneath. I cleaned it as best I could, packed it with gauze, and applied pressure.
The creature stirred during this process, making sounds of pain that were gut-wrenching to hear, but it didn’t try to attack me. It seemed to understand that I was helping, not hurting.
Once I had the bleeding under control, I started in on the fractures. This was tricky because I didn’t know the creature’s physiology. Didn’t know if human medications would work on it or kill it. But it was mammalian, warm-blooded with blood that looked remarkably similar to human blood. I had to take the risk.
I administered fluids for the shock, antibiotics to prevent infection, and a carefully measured dose of morphine for the pain. Within minutes, I could see the creature’s breathing ease slightly. The morphine was working.
I spent the next 4 hours working on it. I cleaned and stitched the laceration on its side. A total of 47 stitches. I splinted what I was pretty sure was a fractured radius in its right arm. I treated the head wound, which thankfully wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, more of a bad scrape than anything requiring stitches. I checked for signs of internal bleeding and found some, but not catastrophic. The creature’s body seemed to be handling it.
By the time the sun started to rise, casting pale gray light through the basement windows, I was finished. I’d done everything I could. Now it was up to the creature’s own body to heal.
I sat down on the concrete floor, my back against the washing machine, and just stared at what I’d done. There was a creature lying unconscious on my basement floor. A creature that by all logic and science shouldn’t exist. A creature I’d hit with my car and then brought into my home.
The magnitude of what I’d done started to sink in. I’d committed myself to something I couldn’t take back. If anyone found out about this, my career was over. My freedom was probably over. I’d be arrested for god knows what. Keeping an exotic animal without a license at minimum, possibly much worse, depending on what authorities decided this creature was.
But more than that, I’d made myself responsible for this creature’s life. It was completely dependent on me now and I had no idea what I was doing.
I must have dozed off sitting there because the next thing I knew, it was full daylight and something was watching me.
3. The Creature Awakens
I opened my eyes to find the creature awake. Its amber eyes fixed on me with that same unsettling intelligence I’d seen on the highway. It was still lying in the same position, too injured to move, but it was definitely conscious and aware. We stared at each other for a long moment. I was trying to figure out what to say, how to communicate with something that might not understand language.
The creature was probably trying to figure out if I was a threat.
“How are you feeling?” I finally asked, my voice from exhaustion. The creature didn’t respond, just continued watching me.
You’re in my house, I continued. My basement specifically. I brought you here after I hit you with my car last night. You were dying. I’m a nurse, so I treated your injuries. You’re going to be okay, I think. But you need to rest and let your body heal.
Still no response. But I thought I saw something shift in its expression. Not quite understanding, but recognition that I was trying to communicate.
I stood up slowly, my muscles screaming from sitting on concrete all night. I need to check your vitals. Make sure the bleeding hasn’t started again. Is that okay?
I approached slowly, telegraphing my movements. The creature’s eyes tracked me, but it didn’t growl or show its teeth. When I knelt beside it and reached for the four-line to check the flow, it didn’t try to stop me.
I went through a full examination. Temperature elevated, but not dangerously so. Heartbeat strong and steady. The bleeding had stopped. The stitches were holding. The creature’s body was already starting to heal, and it seemed to be healing faster than a human would.
“You’re doing really well,” I said, more comfortable now talking to it like I would a patient. “The next few days are going to be rough. You need to stay still. Let those injuries heal. I’ll keep you on fluids and antibiotics. The pain medication should help, but let me know if you need more.”
I realized how absurd that sounded. Let me know. Like this creature could talk to me. But then something happened that made my breath catch.
The creature opened its mouth and sound came out. Not a growl or a whimper, something else. Something that almost sounded like it was trying to form words.
“Hank,” I froze. Did you just… Are you trying to talk?
The creature’s eyes closed, the effort clearly exhausting it. But it had tried. It had understood what I was saying, and it had tried to respond.
4. Building a Connection
That moment changed everything.
I sat back, my heart pounding in my chest. This creature, this being, wasn’t just an animal. It wasn’t something I could explain away or dismiss as some freak occurrence. It was trying to communicate with me. And that realization made everything I thought I knew about biology, about the world itself, come crashing down.
Marcus. That’s what I would call him. The creature had tried to speak, and it had tried to form a name, even if I didn’t fully understand it. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for me to know we weren’t dealing with an animal here. This was something more—something that deserved my respect, my help, and perhaps my understanding.
I continued to monitor him over the next few days, checking his wounds, making sure his body was healing, but also trying to understand the creature better. He responded to my voice, even though his speech was limited to short phrases and sounds. He would blink in response to questions, nodding or shaking his head to communicate when words weren’t enough. It was a slow process, but we were beginning to build a kind of rudimentary language between us—gestures, sounds, eye contact.
But as I began to understand more about him, I also started to realize the complexity of the situation I had found myself in. What was I supposed to do with this creature? What were the consequences of my actions? The world would never accept this. Society would never be ready for it. What if someone found out? What if people started asking questions?
Marcus wasn’t a thing to be studied or captured. He was a living being, a sentient one at that. But the world didn’t see it that way. If the truth came out, he’d become a specimen in a laboratory, a curiosity to be dissected, understood, and exploited. And I couldn’t allow that to happen.
I had made a promise to Marcus that I would keep him hidden, that I wouldn’t expose him to the world. But even though I told myself I was protecting him, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of isolation pressing down on both of us. For the first time in years, I had a companion—someone who could truly understand me, even though we came from entirely different worlds. But as much as I wanted to believe we could live peacefully together, I knew that the world would never let that happen.
5. The Decision to Leave
A week passed, and Marcus was recovering at an astonishing rate. His wounds were healing faster than a human’s would, his strength returning with every passing day. I kept him in the basement, but I knew that it wouldn’t be long before he outgrew this space. It wasn’t just about the physical healing anymore. He needed more than just medical care—he needed freedom. He needed his family. His kind had to exist in the wild, not in a basement.
And I needed to let him go.
It was a decision I had been dreading, but I knew it was the only choice. I had to let Marcus return to the forest. He couldn’t stay hidden forever, and it wasn’t fair to keep him locked away from his world. But the thought of letting him go, of watching him leave, filled me with a deep sense of loss that I hadn’t expected.
On the night I decided to release him, I went upstairs and pulled out the journal I had kept. I hadn’t written in it much since Marcus arrived, but now I knew that I had to document everything—the facts, the experiences, the truth. If something were to happen to him, to his kind, at least I would have a record of what I had witnessed, of the friendship that had formed between us.
When I went back downstairs, Marcus was already awake. He was sitting on the floor, staring at the walls with an intensity that seemed almost…sad.
“You’re ready to go, aren’t you?” I asked softly.
Marcus turned his head, his amber eyes locking with mine. He didn’t respond immediately, but the look in his eyes told me everything. He was ready. He knew what he needed to do. And he knew that he could never stay in the basement forever.
“Okay,” I said, my voice breaking slightly. “I’ll take you back.”
I could see the slight shift in his posture, a sign of relief, even in his stillness. He stood up slowly, testing his balance. His body was still strong, though the limp was slightly more pronounced now, but he was capable of walking.
The journey to the forest was a quiet one. The tension was palpable. We didn’t speak much—there were no words to be said. I could feel the weight of what was about to happen, of what I was about to do. Every mile that passed between my home and the forest felt like a weight on my chest, as though with each passing minute, I was losing a part of myself.
We drove through the night, the moon casting an eerie glow over the landscape as I turned down the narrow, unmarked dirt roads that led us deeper into the forest. The silence between us was heavy, but in some way, it felt comfortable. We had shared so much already. We didn’t need words anymore.
Finally, we arrived at the edge of the woods, a few miles north of my house, where the trees were dense and unbroken, and the wilderness stretched for miles in every direction. I stopped the car and turned off the engine. The stillness of the forest seemed to close in around us.
“Are you sure?” I asked quietly, looking at Marcus in the rearview mirror.
He nodded, his expression resolute.
“I can’t come back here,” I said, my voice shaky. “I can’t follow you. This is your home now.”
He met my eyes through the mirror, and for a moment, I thought I saw something in them—a mixture of gratitude and sadness, an understanding of the finality of this moment.
Marcus slowly got out of the car, and I opened the door to step outside with him. He stood in the moonlight, towering above me, and for the first time since I had met him, I saw how truly powerful he was. His muscles rippled beneath his fur, and his stance was unwavering, the very embodiment of the wild.
I walked around the car and stood beside him.
“This is where we part ways,” I said softly, my throat tight. “I’ll never forget you. What you’ve taught me… it’s more than I ever expected to learn.”
Marcus didn’t respond in words, but his eyes softened, and he placed one massive hand on my shoulder in a gesture I’ll never forget. It was a wordless goodbye, a thank you.
I took a deep breath, knowing what had to be done. I stepped back slowly and waved.
“Goodbye, Marcus.”
He turned and began walking into the forest, his massive frame moving effortlessly through the trees. I watched him disappear into the shadows, his form blending seamlessly with the night. And then, just like that, he was gone.
I stood there for a long time, my heart heavy with the knowledge that I had just said goodbye to a friend, to a being who had shown me a side of life I never imagined possible. A world that existed alongside ours, hidden from view, living in the deep forests, the forgotten corners of the earth.
As I got back into my car and started the long drive home, I realized that I would never be the same. The world had changed for me. I had seen something extraordinary, and I would carry that knowledge with me for the rest of my life.
Marcus was gone, but I knew that somewhere, deep in the woods, his family waited for him. And I hoped, with all my heart, that they would be safe.
5. A New Beginning
Over the years, life went on. I married Patricia, had children, and built a family of my own. I never spoke about Marcus, never shared the secret with anyone. But I kept a small carved bone that he had given me, hidden away in my office. It was a reminder of the extraordinary bond we had formed, of the incredible truth that had existed between us.
As the years passed, I started to see glimpses of something I couldn’t explain in the woods. Tracks too large to be from any known animal. Figures watching from the shadows. And sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I would hear a distant howl, the same sound I had once heard, and I knew in my heart that they were still out there, living alongside us, hidden in the wild.
I think about Marcus often. I think about his family. I think about the lesson he taught me—that intelligence and personhood aren’t limited to humans. That compassion exists in all forms of life, even in those we don’t understand.
I keep their secret, as I promised, because the world isn’t ready for it. But I will never forget. And maybe, one day, someone will find the truth. Maybe someone will stumble upon the hidden world where the Dogmen live, and they will understand what I’ve learned.
Until then, the secret stays in the forest, where it belongs.
