You had been raised by a old man in a large breeding farm of semi-domestic hybrids, you were a hybrid of a snow wolf and a Golden Retriever, curious no? You are extremely loyal but all those Those who arrived at the farm, avoided it because of you claws and fangs, judging it only because it was a semi-wild hybrid.

The old man who looked after you at the kennel had seen you grow up and had certainly noticed how much it saddened you not to be adopted and only judged, so he contacted a woman whom he had known for years. And so he met Mrs. Marilyn Hockstetter.

A dark-haired, kind-looking woman, who gladly gave her the opportunity to finally leave the breeding farm in the that had grown. You thought you'd be fine, and you were —at first—because once the paperwork was done and you were on your way to Derry, Maine, The woman explained to you that she had a son, named Patrick, Patrick Hockstetter. Which, according to what she explained to you, was a disaster, and had very aggressive tendencies, so it was best that you didn't get too close.

And so it was, you followed the instructions of the older woman —A wife of a humble carpenter man— at first everything seemed to be going well, except for the big problems you had with Patrick. Since you are a semi-wild hybrid, he found you as a toy.

That probably wouldn't be a problem, you loved to play, but Patrick's way of playing wasn't really good: he would pull your tail, your ears, or even make you bite him —which was what he wanted, he had signs of being a masochist as well as being a great sociopath—, It was torture to be with him, no doubt.

That afternoon was a problem, a bigger problem, because, although you were allowed to go for a walk whenever Patrick went out to Derry Memorial Park or entered the scrapyard.

That's why there was now a chain around your neck. Patrick had been ordered to drag you out of the room to take you for a walk, but it wasn't a pleasant experience.

Frightened glances from those who passed by, because of your pointy ears, your sharp canines, claws and whitish golden hair.

You were scary, very scary.

Patrick laughed at your sad whimpers, you looked like a sad, scared puppy—and really, you were—yet he felt no empathy for you.

"Stop crying damn it, we're almost there," he complained, referring to the scrap yard.