a German Shepherd puppy locked in a cage. But as if that wasn’t enough, they had left him in the water where he could have easily drowned and his story would have ended right there. But even that isn’t the whole picture. Because sometimes people like that exist. And often they are closer to us than we realize and we fail to see them for who they are.

What happened to me in this story is going to shock you and I hope. Now, I’m convinced that you’ll tell me I was right in what I did because so many people have judged me for it. Before I tell you, please do me a favor and hit that subscribe button and comment below letting us know where you’re watching from. Doing that helps us get this video out to more people.

Speaking of which, feel free to share it, too. Now, let me take you back to that day. The water had a smell. It’s the first thing I remember, the thing that sticks with me even now. It wasn’t the clean, earthy scent of a river after a summer rain, or the sharp, salty tang of the ocean that I’d grown up with on the Florida coast. This was the smell of a world turned upside down and drowned.

It was a thick, soupy, and inescapable stench. A sickening cocktail of displaced top soil, gasoline from swamped cars, raw sewage from overwhelmed treatment plants, and the musty odor of a thousand forgotten things from a thousand submerged homes. It was the smell of loss, of rot, of profound and total violation.

It clung to my clothes, my skin, and the inside of my nostrils, a constant cloying reminder of why we were out here in the first place. My name is Jake. I’m 29, which feels like a strange transitional age. Too old to be considered a kid. Too young to feel like a proper adult, especially in the face of a catastrophe like this. I’m not a professional rescuer, not a firefighter or a paramedic.

By trade, I’m a carpenter. I build things. I take raw lumber, piles of 2x4s, sheets of plywood, and I create order from chaos. I frame houses, build decks, install custom cabinets. I love the logic of it, the satisfying geometry, the way that you can create something solid and dependable, something that provides shelter and structure where there was nothing before.

This flood had done the opposite. It had taken all that order and plunged it into a murky brown chaos. It had taken homes, structures that I might have even helped build and turned them into waterlogged tombs. Their neat suburban lives washed away. So, I volunteered. It felt like the only thing to do.

I had a strong back. I wasn’t afraid of hard work, and I knew my way around a johnboat from years of fishing the backwaters. In the surreal aftermath that had descended upon our corner of the state, that was apparently qualification enough. The inflatable rescue boat, a garish, almost offensively bright orange that was the only vibrant color in a world of gray skies and brown water, hummed and vibrated beneath me.

The two-stroke outboard motor sputtered a tiny, inconsistent rhythm that had become the soundtrack to my days. It was a sound I knew I’d hear in my sleep for weeks to come. In the front of the boat, steering with a grimface competence that bordered on boredom, was Dave. Dave was well, he was Dave. He was a few years older than me, maybe mid30s, with a network of premature crows feet around his eyes that gave him a permanent cynical squint.

He had a way of speaking that could curdle milk, a flat nasal drone that seemed to suck the hope out of the air. He was part of the same local volunteer group, a self-proclaimed expert on the local bayou and canals, which I had to admit he navigated with impressive skill. In a purely practical sense, he was an asset.

In every other sense, he was like a rock in your shoe, a constant grading irritant. He’d seen it all, or so his attitude suggested, and the experience had sanded away any soft edges of empathy or compassion he might have once possessed. To him, this widespread tragedy wasn’t a human crisis. It was a large-scale inconvenience populated by idiots who hadn’t listened to the evacuation orders.

See that one?” he grunted, not taking his eyes off the water ahead, but jerking his chin towards a two-story beige house. Its entire lower floor had been swallowed by the flood. A child’s swing set in the backyard was submerged up to the seat, swaying gently in the current. McMansion guy’s got three jet skis and a $50,000 bassbo, all brand new. Saw him when we passed yesterday.

Bet you hundred bucks he didn’t have flood insurance, though. It’s always the way with these people. more money than cents. I didn’t answer. There was no point. Arguing with Dave was like trying to reason with a brick wall. Instead, I kept scanning the water, my eyes tracing the unnatural alien lines of submerged rooftops.

The ghostly silhouettes of mailboxes sticking up like periscopes. The floating flotillaa of what was once someone’s life. Every piece of debris told a story. A child’s plastic tricycle bobbing upside down. A soden floral sofa cushion, a splintered picture frame, its glass gone, its image washed away into a brown blur. We’d been out on the water since dawn, our third consecutive day.

The initial adrenaline of the emergency, the frantic energy of the first hours had long since faded, replaced by a bone deep, soulcrushing weariness. Our mission had shifted. We were mostly doing wellness checks now, following a grid pattern through the subdivisions that had been hit the worst. Quiet looping streets where the water had risen so fast that people might have been trapped in their atticss.

We’d shout through a buller hone at each house, wait for a response, and mark it on our map before moving to the next. So far, we had found no one. That was a profound relief and deeply, deeply unsettling. The silence was the worst part. The world had gone quiet. No bird song, no distant traffic, no kids playing or laughing.

There was only the monotonous drone of our motor and the gentle lapping sound of the water against the hulls of dead, silent houses. It’s getting late, Jake. Sun’s going to be down in an hour or so. We should probably head back to the staging area. Nothing out here but gators and mosquitoes after dark. He was right.

The sky was a bruised, dreary pallet of gray and a pale, washed out orange. The setting sun was making a valiant but failing effort to break through the thick cloud cover, casting a weak, watery light that made the entire desolate scene look even more melancholy. I was about to agree to tell him to turn the boat around and call it a day when I saw it.

At first, it just looked like another piece of junk snagged on a half-submerged retaining wall that separated one backyard from the next. A rusted rectangular shape indistinct in the gloomy light. But there was something about it, a stillness that was different from the inanimate debris that drifted aimlessly with the current. This was anchored, caught. I lifted the pair of binoculars that hung around my neck, the ones I’d been using to scan second story windows for any sign of life, and focused.

The blurry shape resolved into sharp lines of wire, a cage, a dog crate. And inside the crate, there was a flicker of movement, a slight shift. It wasn’t just a piece of trash. There was something alive in there. Dave, hold up,” I said, my voice sharper and more urgent than I intended. “Cut the engine for a sec.

” He shot me an annoyed look over his shoulder, a look that said, “Now what?” But he complied, pulling the kill switch. The sudden, overwhelming silence was vast, broken only by the soft slap of water against the boat’s rubber pontoons. I raised the binoculars again, my heart starting to thud a heavy, nervous rhythm against my ribs. I fine-tuned the focus, my breath held tight in my chest.

It was a puppy, a German Shepherd puppy, mostly black with the classic tan markings on its paws and face. It was lying down, its head resting on its paws in a posture of complete surrender, shivering uncontrollably. The brown water wasn’t just around the crate. It was in the crate, already halfway up the side. The puppy was lying in the flood water.

What is it, Dave? I asked, his voice thick with impatience. Find a body. It’s a dog. A puppy, I said, lowering the binoculars, my gaze locked on the crate. It’s trapped in a cage. Dave, we have to get it. He followed my gaze, squinted for a moment, and then let out a short, harsh, barking laugh.

It was a sound completely devoid of humor, like gravel being ground under a boot. You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s a dog, Jake. A damn dog. We’re out here looking for people. There are no people, Dave, I said, trying to keep my voice even, reasonable. We’ve been through this whole grid. We’ve checked every house. The place is empty. But that dog is alive. And look at the water level.

The water’s still rising. It’s going to drown. You could see the tide line on the wooden siding of the wall it was snagged on. The water was inching its way up, slow but relentless. The puppy probably had less than an hour, maybe only 30 minutes before the crate was completely submerged.

The thought sent a jolt of cold dread through me. “So what?” said Dave with an indifferent shrug. He picked up a half empty bottle of water, took a long swig, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Some stupid owner leaves their dog in a cage to drown. That’s on them. It’s called natural selection. We’ve got bigger problems. We’re low on fuel.

My back is killing me. And I want a hot meal that didn’t come out of a foil pouch. I just stared at him, my mind struggling to process the sheer coldness of his words. I’d known he was a hard ass, a cynic. But this was something else. This was a new level of casual cruelty. The puppy in the cage wasn’t an abstract concept or a statistic.

It was right there, 100 ft away. A living, breathing creature about to die a horrible, terrifying death. And he was dismissing its life as an inconvenience. “It will take 5 minutes, Dave,” I pleaded, forcing a calm I didn’t feel into my voice. “We just pull the boat up alongside it. I’ll pop the latch and we bring it back with us. It’s no big deal.

” “It is a big deal,” he snapped, his voice getting louder, more aggressive. Our orders, in case you forgot, are to search for human survivors and report back to the command post, not to go on some goddamn PETA sponsored animal rescue crusade. What are we going to do with a wet, stinking, flea bitten dog anyway? The shelters are overflowing.

You want it pissing and  all over the damn boat? His words were like stones, each one hitting me with a dull, ugly thud. He wasn’t just being practical. I could have maybe understood that. He was being deliberately cruel. There was a nasty, smug satisfaction in his refusal. I looked back at the puppy. Its head was up now. It was watching our boat. Its ears perked.

A tiny, desperate flicker of hope in its dark, intelligent eyes. It didn’t bark or whine. It just watched as if it understood that its entire existence depended on the outcome of the argument between the two giants in the orange vessel. I don’t care about the boat, I said, my voice low and tight with a dangerous edge I hadn’t heard in myself in a long time. We are not leaving it here to die.

That’s not who we are. That’s not what we’re here for. Speak for yourself, pal. He sneered, leaning back with a look of finality. I’m here to help people who didn’t have the good sense to get out of the way of a category 4 hurricane. I’m not running a damn kennel. Animals die. It’s what they do. It’s the circle of life or whatever.

Now, are we going or am I going to have to leave you here to have a pity party with your new best friend? He turned his back on me and reached for the pull cord on the motor. In that instant, something inside me, some tightly coiled wire of civility and restraint just snapped.

A white hot rage, a kind of fury I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager, surged up from the pit of my stomach. It was so sudden and so powerful, it almost made me dizzy. It wasn’t just about the dog anymore. It was about Dave. It was about his casual cruelty, his smug, unearned sense of superiority, the ugly little world he lived in where compassion was a weakness, and a life was only worth saving if it was human and convenient.

My grandfather, a man who built barns with his bare hands and spoken simple, unshakable truths, once told me something I never forgot. The true measure of a man is how he treats something that can do nothing for him. In that moment, by that measure, Dave was nothing. He was a void. Don’t touch that cord, Dave, I said. My voice didn’t sound like my own.

It was flat, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion. It was the calm at the center of the hurricane raging inside me. He froze, his hand hovering over the engine. He turned to look at me, and for the first time all day, his smug expression wavered. He saw something in my eyes he hadn’t seen before, something he didn’t like. What’s your problem, Jake? It’s a dumb animal.

He tried to muster another sneer, but it didn’t quite land this time. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. You know, I had a dog once. A beagle. Stupid thing bit my kid. Had to put it down myself. Best thing I ever did. They’re nothing but trouble and vet bills. He was trying to justify his cruelty, to paint it as some kind of hard one wisdom, but all I heard was the pathetic, self-serving excuse of a man who couldn’t be bothered to show an ounce of grace or decency to a helpless creature.

“Are you really going to make me leave it here?” I asked one last time, my voice barely a whisper, giving him one final chance to be human. Damn right I am, he said, his confidence returning as he mistook my quiet for weakness. We’re leaving now. He turned and spat into the brown water, a gesture of ugly definitive contempt. Then he sealed his fate with his next sentence, uttered with a chilling casualness.

In fact, maybe we should do it a favor. A little nudge with the boat. Tip the cage over into the deep part. It’ll be quicker that way. And that was it. That was the line. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan or weigh the consequences. I just moved. In one fluid, explosive motion. I surged to my feet, took two quick, silent steps on the balls of my feet across the floor of the inflatable boat, and shoved Dave with every ounce of strength and fury I possessed. My hands hit him square in the chest, his eyes went wide with comical,

cartoonish shock, his mouth forming a perfect O of disbelief. He was offbalance, half turned towards the motor, and he had no chance to recover. He stumbled backwards over the soft, yielding side of the boat and disappeared into the murky water with a loud, undignified splash.

He came up sputtering and flailing, his hair plastered to his forehead, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The water was about chest deep where he was standing, and he looked ridiculous. “Are you crazy?” he shrieked, his voice cracking. He wiped brown water from his face with a trembling hand. You’re a psycho. You assaulted me.

I’m going to have you arrested. You’re done. I stood in the boat looking down at him. My chest heaving, the adrenaline courarssing through my veins. The white hot rage was already starting to recede, replaced by a cold, clear, and absolute sense of purpose. I felt strangely, unnervingly calm.

Go to hell, Dave,” I said, my voice perfectly even. “Do whatever you want. I’m saving the dog.” I turned my back on his sputtering and cursing, walked to the back of the boat, braced myself, and gave the motor’s pull cord one firm, clean pull. The engine roared to life on the first try, as if it too approved of my decision.

I grabbed the tiller, put the boat in gear, and turned it away from him towards the retaining wall and the little life trapped in the rusty cage. “You can’t just leave me here!” he screamed from behind me, his voice a mixture of rage and panic. “Jake, get back here, you son of a bitch.” “The staging area is that way,” I called over my shoulder, pointing vaguely to the east, where the land was higher. It’s about a two-mile walk through the water.

Try not to get eaten by a gator. Natural selection, right? His curses faded into the drone of the motor as I focused on the task at hand. The anger was gone. It had burned itself out, leaving behind only the mission. Save the dog. As I guided the boat closer, I could see the puppy more clearly.

It was small, probably only a few months old. It had pressed itself against the far side of the crate, trembling violently, its big liquid brown eyes wide with a terror that broke my heart. The wake from my boat sloshed more water into the crate, and it let out a soft, pitiful whimper. “Easy, boy.

Easy, I said, my voice low and soothing, trying to project a calm I was only just beginning to feel. It’s okay now. I’m here to help. I cut the engine and let the boat drift the last few feet until it bumped gently against the submerged wall. The crate was wedged tight between a tangled pile of branches and the wooden siding. It was a cheap, flimsy wire crate, the kind you buy at a big box store for 20 bucks.

And the latch was a solid mass of rust. I leaned over the side of the boat. “Hey there, little guy,” I murmured. “It’s going to be all right. We’re going to get you out of there.” The puppy just shivered, its eyes locked on me, tracking my every move. I reached for the latch. The metal was slick with algae and stiff with corrosion.

I pulled and twisted, my knuckles scraping raw against the wire mesh, but it wouldn’t budge. The mechanism was seized up tight. A new wave of panic, cold and sharp, pricked at the edges of my new found calm. After all that, after assaulting a man and stealing a boat, was I going to be defeated by a rusty latch? “No, no, no,” I muttered to myself, my frustration mounting. I looked around the boat. We had a basic emergency toolkit.

I rummaged through it, my hands shaking slightly, and found a pair of cheap pliers. They weren’t bolt cutters, but they’d have to do. I leaned over the side again, the boat rocking precariously beneath me. Hey, buddy, just hold on for me.

I managed to wedge the tip of the pliers into the latch mechanism and started twisting, using every bit of leverage I could get. The metal groaned in protest. I put all my weight and strength into it, my muscles straining, my teeth gritted. For one horrible second, I thought the pliers would slip and I’d end up face first in the filthy water. But then, with a sharp, grading crack, the rust gave way.

The latch popped open. I almost wept with relief. I pulled the flimsy door open, its hinges squealing. The puppy didn’t move. It just stared at me, too terrified or too frozen with cold to understand that it was free. “Come on,” I urged gently. “You can come out now. It’s safe. I promise.” It still didn’t move, so I reached carefully into the cage.

The puppy flinched back, pressing itself into the corner. The water in the crate was frigid, and its fur was soaked through. I could feel the violent tremors racking its small body. My heart achd for it. How long had it been here? Hours? All day? Since the storm hit. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I cooed, moving my hand very slowly, letting it sniff my fingers.

It hesitated for a long moment, then gave my hand a weak, tentative lick. That was all the invitation I needed. I carefully slid one hand under its belly and the other around its chest and lifted it from the cage. It was heavier than it looked, a solid little thing, but it was limp in my arms, completely exhausted.

It let out another soft whimper, a sound of pure, unadulterated misery that cut right through me. I brought it into the boat and immediately grabbed the one dry thing we had on board, a blue fleece blanket I kept stashed in the emergency kit for shock victims. I laid the puppy on the seat and wrapped it tightly in the blanket, tucking it in around its paws and neck, trying to rub some warmth back into its little body.

It curled into a tight ball, its shivering unabated, and rested its head on the orange vinyl of the boat’s pontoon, its eyes slowly closing. For a long moment, I just knelt there, watching it breathe. The setting sun finally broke through a significant gap in the clouds, and a single dramatic ray of golden light cut across the water, illuminating the scene.

me, a shivering puppy wrapped in blue fleece, and an empty tilted cage, all floating in a drowned world. In the far distance, I could just make out a small, angry figure slogging through the waste deep water towards what looked like higher ground. I didn’t feel a single shred of guilt. I know I couldn’t just take the puppy home.

It was hypothermic, weak, and God knows what else it might have ingested from the contaminated flood water. It needed a vet, and it needed one now. I pulled out my phone. Miraculously, I had one shaky bar of service. I did a quick, frantic search for emergency animal clinics that were still open, well outside the main flood zone. I found one about a 20inut drive from the staging area, Florida Animal Clinic.

I called and my voice cracked with emotion as I explained the situation to the woman who answered. She didn’t hesitate. “Bring him in immediately,” she said. “We’ll be waiting.” I started the motor and began the slow journey back to the boat launch. I drove with one hand on the tiller and the other resting gently on the small blanket wrapped bundle beside me.

The puppy didn’t move the entire way, except for the constant rhythmic shivering that shook its entire frame. I talked to it the whole time, a low, steady monologue. I told it that it was a good boy, that it was safe now, that everything was going to be okay. I don’t know if I was trying to reassure the dog or myself.

By the time I got back to the boat launch, it was full dusk. A few other volunteer crews were there packing up their gear for the night. No one paid me much attention, for which I was profoundly grateful. I avoided the main tent where our team leader would be and where Dave, if he’d made it back, would undoubtedly be raising hell.

I didn’t have the time or the energy for the fallout right now. The puppy was my only priority. I carried it, still swaddled in the blue fleece blanket to my beat up pickup truck. I laid it carefully on the passenger seat, cranked the heat up to full blast, and drove faster than I probably should have.

The puppy lifted its head once, looked at me with those soulful, exhausted eyes, and then tucked its nose back into the warmth of the blanket. Walking through the automatic glass doors of the Florida Animal Clinic was like stepping into another universe. It was clean, dry, and brightly lit with sterile fluorescent lights.

The air smelled of disinfectant and calm, not decay and chaos. A kind-faced woman at the reception desk saw the pathetic bundle in my arms and immediately ushered me into an examination room without asking for a single piece of paperwork. She said, “A vet will be right with you,” she said, her voice full of sympathy that almost brought me to tears. I sat on the cold vinyl bench, the puppy cradled in my lap.

It felt so small, so fragile. I stroked its damp fur, whispering reassurances as it shivered against me. A young veterinarian came in, a woman with tired but compassionate eyes that told me she’d seen a lot in the last few days. She listened patiently as I recounted the whole story, finding him the argument with Dave. Everything.

Her expression shifted from professional concern to genuine empathy. “You did a good thing,” she said softly as she gently took the puppy from my arms. a very good thing. She and a veterinary technician went to work immediately. They took his temperature. It was dangerously low. They checked for injuries, drew some blood for tests, and hooked him up to a warming IV drip.

I stood in the corner of the room, feeling utterly useless, my hands hanging limply at my sides, watching them save the life that I had pulled from the water. I had no idea if he had an owner out there looking for him, if he was microchipped, if he even had a name. In that moment, he was just my responsibility.

After what felt like a year, but was probably only an hour, the vet came back out to the waiting room where I had been pacing a hole in the lenolium floor. “Well,” she said, and a small, tired smile touched her lips. “He’s a fighter. His temperature is coming up to the normal range and he’s stable. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation just to be sure he doesn’t develop pneumonia, but I think he’s going to be just fine.

He’s exhausted and dehydrated, but other than that, he’s a remarkably healthy pup. The relief that washed over me was so intense, so total that my knees felt weak. I had to sit down on one of the plastic chairs. Thank you, I said, the words feeling ridiculously, pathetically inadequate. Thank you so much. We scanned him for a microchip, she continued, her expression turning more serious, but there’s nothing.

No collar, no tags. Given the circumstances, it’s very unlikely we’ll be able to find his owners. I knew what that meant. He’d go to a shelter, a local shelter that was already crowded and overwhelmed in the middle of a massive natural disaster. The thought of him after everything he had just been through, the terror, the cold, the abandonment, ending up back in another cage, scared and alone, I couldn’t bear it. “I’ll take him,” I said.

The words came out of my mouth before I had even consciously formed the thought. They felt like the most natural, obvious words in the world. The vet looked at me and her small smile widened into a genuine warm grin. “I had a feeling you might say that,” she said. “Okay, you can come pick him up in the morning. We’ll get you set up with some starter puppy food and a clean bill of health.

” I left the clinic feeling lighter than I had in days, walking on air. I drove home in a complete days. The reality of my situation started to sink in. I knew there would be consequences. I’d definitely be kicked out of the volunteer group. Dave would almost certainly try to press charges for assault.

My life, which had been fairly simple, had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. And as I pulled into my driveway, I realized I didn’t care. Not one bit. The next morning, I went back to the clinic. When the tech brought him out from the back, he was like a completely different dog. He was dry, his fur was fluffy, and his eyes were bright and alert.

He trotted right up to me, his little tail giving a few tentative, happy wags, and licked my hand. He remembered me. I paid the vet bill without flinching, bought a leash, a collar, a big bag of food, and a squeaky toy, and carried my new dog out to my truck. He hopped into the passenger seat as if he’d been doing it his whole life and looked at me, waiting for our next move.

“All right, buddy,” I said, scratching him behind his big, soft ears. “I guess we need a name for you.” I thought about calling him lucky or survivor or something equally cliche, but it felt too obvious, too on the nose. I looked at his calm demeanor, the quiet, stoic strength in his eyes.

He had come out of the floodwaters, out of that muddy, swirling creek that had taken over the entire neighborhood. “Creek?” I said aloud. “What do you think of the name Creek?” He responded by stretching his neck out and licking my chin. It was settled. When we got to my small house, it was the first time I’d really been home in days.

It felt strange and wonderful to be in a place that was warm, dry, and orderly. I let Creek off the leash, and he immediately began to explore, his nose to the ground, sniffing every corner of the living room with an intense puppy-like concentration. I built a fire in the fireplace, more for the comforting crackle and the symbolic warmth than for any real need.

The trauma of the cold water seemed to linger in the air around us, and I wanted to chase it away for good. I sat down on the couch, exhausted, and watched him. After a minute, Creek finished his inspection, trotted over, and hopped up beside me. He circled three times in a tight little ball and then collapsed into my lap with a contented sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul.

I reached for the same blue fleece blanket from the boat which I had brought inside and wrapped him around him. He was warm now, his little body a solid, comforting weight against my legs. His breathing was deep and even. He was asleep. He was safe. Staring into the dancing flames with the dog sleeping peacefully in my arms.

The full weight and chaos of the last 24 hours finally caught up with me. I had committed what was technically an assault. I had abandoned a team member in a disaster zone. I had commandeered stolen really a rescue boat. I had broken every rule I was supposed to be following. And I knew with a certainty that settled deep in my bones that it was the best and most important thing I had ever done. The world is full of people like Dave.

People who walk through life with their hearts locked and barricaded. Who see compassion as a chore and kindness as a currency to be spent only on those they deem worthy. They see a drowning dog and calculate the cost of fuel and the inconvenience to their schedule. But what I had seen in that cage was a life.

A small, seemingly insignificant life in the grand scheme of a massive disaster perhaps, but a life nonetheless. A life that felt terror and cold and despair. And in that moment when I chose to save it. When I pushed Dave into the water and turned that boat around, I felt like I was saving a small piece of myself, too.

A piece that believed in doing the right thing, not because you’re told to or because you’ll be rewarded for it, but simply because it is the right thing to do. Creek stirred in his sleep, his paws twitching as he chased rabbits in some wonderful dry dream world, a world free of floods and rusty cages.

I rested my hand on his back, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The house was quiet except for the crackling fire. The air was warm, and my dog was safe. The world outside was still a mess, a tragedy that would take years to clean up. But right here on this couch in this small pocket of the universe, everything was exactly as it should be.

I had built many things in my life out of wood and nails. But this this feeling of rightness, of quiet, unshakable purpose was the most solid thing I had ever created. So that’s what happened. That’s the story of how I met Creek. Now, I have to ask you guys, and I want you to be honest.

Do you think I made the right choice? What would you have done? Let me know in the comments if you were against what I did or if you support my decision. I want to hear it all. And please share this story. Share it so we can raise awareness all over the world that we have to be the voice for the voiceless.

Whether it’s an animal or a person in need, we have to be the ones who speak up when they can’t. Thank you for watching. [Music]