I thought I was doing him a favor when I took him in.

He was soaked to the bone the night I found him, shivering under a bench at the park while the storm rolled in hard.

No collar, no microchip. Sad eyes and muddy fur. I brought him home, cleaned him, and gave him the name Copper.

Copper stayed by my side while I warmed him with a towel. Gentle. Grateful. The kind of dog that fostered belief in second chances.

So when he disappeared a few hours later during the thunderstorm, I panicked.

I found him scratching at the front door an hour later, drenched and wild-eyed. Not scared—urgent. He barked,

spun, and ran off the porch. Then stopped. Looked back at me, signaling: Come on.

I did not hesitate. I grabbed a flashlight, slipped on my boots, and followed him.

He led me down the street, through flooded gutters, past a toppled fence, into a patch of woods

I’d never had a reason to walk through before. His paws were caked in mud, leaving frantic prints behind. The rain had not let up.

Then he stopped near an old drainpipe half-covered in brush.

That was when I heard it—whimpering.

I knelt down, aimed the flashlight, and saw them.

Three tiny puppies. Barely old enough to stand. Huddled against each other, ribs poking through wet fur, eyes too tired to cry anymore.

Copper pushed past me and crawled in, licking their faces, tail low and wagging. That was when it resonated with me.

They were not random pups.

They were his.

As I reached in to grab the first one, I saw something tucked behind them in the shadows—something that did not belong—

It was a backpack. Old, waterlogged, and half-buried under leaves and debris. I tugged it free and set it down in the beam of the flashlight.

It did not appear to have been there long.

I grabbed the puppies gently, wrapping them in my raincoat. Copper stayed close, nudging them as if to convey:

jYou’re okay now. We hurried home through the storm, and I did not look in the backpack until everyone was safe and warm in the laundry room.

Once I had the puppies wrapped in towels and a space heater humming beside them, I opened the backpack on the kitchen floor.

Inside was a journal. A few faded Polaroids. An envelope of cash—approximately two hundred dollars.

A folded letter with one word written on the front in shaky handwriting: Help.

I read the letter twice. It was written by someone named April. She did not state her last name,

only that she’d been living rough after escaping a difficult situation.

The letter described her inability to keep her puppies fed, and her decision to hide them in the drainpipe while she sought food in town.

The final part chilled me: “If anyone finds this, please do not judge me. I wish for them to live.”

I did not sleep that night. I continuously checked on the pups, ensuring their continued breathing.

They were quiet, so frail. Copper curled around them as if he knew exactly what they required.