Five years prior to my birth, there was a suspected arson case that claimed the Hale House in the woods of Beacon Hills. John Stilinski, my father, went out to the scene to investigate as he was newly appointed deputy. The police discovered multiple remains of human bodies and canine carcasses in the basement. Eight, in total, including Mr and Mrs Hale, their relative Peter Hale, the couple's two other children and dogs that were beloved to be their pets. The third child, an infant boy, however, was never found. The police immediately launched a search mission to find the missing infant. Suspecting the arsonist would have taken the baby, they set checkpoints to major roads and warned all supermarkets to look for suspicious people who wander the baby supplies sections. The search went for days. John Stilinski went back to the Hale house in desperate hope, walking around the burnt house to seek for any trails of the arsonist. There was none, no trails, no evidences, but an ugly pup with black fur, curled up tight in a pile of fallen leaves, was what he found instead. He took the dog with him.

The infant, however, was never found.

I still can pull some hazy memories of me as a toddler, crawling all over a black dog that lies so indifferently in the living room. I remember the feeling of rough furs. There are few photos that caught me pulling his pointy ears. The dog certainly does not look happy. Mum used to tell me how he just sat there with me, protecting me from hurting myself, yet constantly irritated as if he despised the whole concept of babysitting. But he never growled or bared teeth at me, and I have passed my infancy without major injury so I'd say he did a decent job.

The situation didn't change much as time went by. I struggled to take him for a walk because he scarcely listened to my orders. In fact, he didn't listen to me at all, but oddly he was very protective of me once we went out for a walk. He never growled or barked at other dogs or their owners when he was out with my dad, but for some unfathomable reasons he would be constantly jumpy and on alert with me. Also he would roll over for my dad or mom, but never for me. The only occasion I could convince him to go for a walk was when I had a ball in my hand. It's pathetic, really, to even use the word 'convince', but that was what I really had to do. To convince my dog to go for a walk with me. My god.

There were some weird things with him, too. For example, he often got snappy on full moon, like having PMS. A male dog on PMS! And he howled. A lot. When dad took him to the vet, he said he might be a wolf mix. That explained the wild looks and full moon thing. Or that he didn't appear getting old even when he became 15 years old. I mean, normally big dogs don't live that long. Maybe his wolf blood did some magic on that matter, too. I don't know.

After mother got diagnosed with cancer, things went pretty bad. Her health deteriorated rapidly and we were lost. We grew restless. The dog, too, grew restless. The time blurred and stretched out as trips to the hospital became frequent. The faint odours of pure alcohol, disinfectant and antibiotics snaked through the door when we returned home. The fear gnawed at our hearts. I remember when I found my mother sitting on the sofa languidly, her brown hair falling off like dead leaves. He -the dog- was curled tightly beside her, facing her friable, exhausted face. I remember his eyes. They were filled with concerns. To this day I ponder what he was thinking. But I think he knew that he had to say goodbye to her soon.

As if to prove that, one day he disappeared on a full moon, and came back with mud all over his paws few days later. He lingered a couple days, wandering around the house, sniffing, gazing at things as if he was never going to see them again. Then the next day, he was gone. She passed away few days later. Her last breath slipped out like a ghost.

Devastation was what overwhelmed us. To lose two members of the family at one blow, one from cruel force and one from some unknown reasons, it was hard. We had some tough time to recover. But eventually, as it is how the universe works, we eventually got out of the hell. Now I stand here, before the door of an apartment which will be my new home for the forthcoming college years. I knocked on it a minute ago and it is now open, with my new roommate leaning against the doorframe. He has black hair that is nicely set with wax, gorgeous hazel eyes, stubble, amazing biceps and generally beautiful physique.

So, why am I telling you this now? About my missing dog and stuff? Good question. The answer is, I don't know. I needed something to babble about because,

"What…?"

-Because, this guy standing here, with surprised eyes, looks nothing like the quiet Asian guy the landlord described.

Instead, he oddly reminds me of my missing dog.