Watch Dogs

[Content Warning: Strong Language]

To most of society—and those who inhabit it—there are certain standards and rules that many are trained and expected to follow.

Love thy neighbor. Do no harm. Do unto others what you wish would be done to you. Leave a good tip for your waiter.

These values and traditions have come to establish a somewhat stable (yet radically bipolar) foundation for the concept we call "society."

I know what you're thinking: "These are simple rules! How could anyone have trouble following them?"

Life isn't all sunshine and hookers, friends.

These little codes of conduct are the linchpins of polite civilization—or so we're told. But if you've ever stood at the edge of that fragile order—if you've ever watched it fracture and fall apart like cheap plaster—then you know just how thin the paint really is. Civilization is a coat of gloss. Underneath, it’s all wood rot and termites.

You might say I sound bitter. I do. But I’ve earned that bitterness. It wasn’t handed to me. It was forged—inch by inch, scar by scar.

I didn’t grow up playing by society’s rules. I wasn’t the sort they wrote bedtime stories about. I didn’t just bend the rules—I shattered them when necessary. Not out of spite, but because survival doesn’t come with a moral code.

I wasn’t the nicest of men. Not by a long shot. I was the type of guy who made you start getting the cold sweats if I followed you down a dark alley. The kind your mother warned you not to date. The guy who looked like he belonged in a cage.

A dog, as many came to call me.

All the violence and chaos—it eventually catches up to you. You spend your entire life running, and your legs are bound to break. When you hit the ground, everyone who’s been chasing you will take that chance to dogpile you.

Before I knew it, I had the leash on me. Fingerprints. DNA taken. Documented down to every detail—right down to the color of my pubic hair.

I no longer had a name. Instead, I was simply known as “Inmate 245-D.”

You tend to lose a sense of time when all you have in your possession is a cramped concrete cell with a bunk bed, a toilet that doubles as a sink, and a bunkmate who may have a taste for human flesh.

In those types of environments, people might lean into their more animalistic nature.

Many seem to forget that humans—much like all things with an ounce of sentience—are animals. Humans, by definition, are mammals. We are bipedal and hairless, and females produce milk.

Mammals.

Mammals with iPhones and credit scores. Many of us tend to forget that even though we pride ourselves as apex predators or superior beings, at our core, we are nothing but animals.

Selfish, greedy, violent, brutal animals. I've seen it for myself.

For ten years of my life, I was treated as an animal. It’s hard to forget what you’ve seen when all you have time to do is watch and think. You begin to see the world for what it really is.

One giant fucking jungle.

When my inevitable release day came, I didn’t have that cliché moment of freedom—falling to my knees, praising God, kissing the pavement. I knew I was still on a tight leash. Straighten up and fly right, or it’s back in the cage.

Life doesn’t stop when you do. As I wandered the streets back to my old neighborhood, those I had known for many years looked at me like I was a total stranger.

Friends, family, loved ones? Yeah, right. They did what everyone else does with life.

They moved on.

I know I might be boring you with my sob story, but stay with me. It has a purpose. People don’t seem to understand the workings of our pretty little society. Despite the hopefuls who want you to believe there’s a sliver of light in this decaying cesspool (and I commend them for that belief), society is brutal and unforgiving.

One mistake, and you’re culled from the metaphorical herd. Forever a vagabond, doomed to wander with no sense of belonging.

Don’t get it twisted though—there are plenty who prefer the lone wolf lifestyle. But humans are social creatures. We need people. Even if people see some of us as “dogs.”

Here’s a little history tidbit for you. Did you know that “dog” is one of the oldest and harshest insults for a man? Dates all the way back to biblical times. And no—it’s not calling you one of those golden retrievers in a suburban household. Those mutts live like royalty. No, “dog” as an insult means flea-ridden. Dirty. Mangy. A stray. A beggar. A scavenger. “Dog” strips a person of basic human character. Reduces them down to what we all are at our core.

Animals.

I’m the kind of person who questions the meaning of things. Why is that an insult? Comparing a person to an animal shouldn’t be a social death sentence. For some, sure—it’s a mental breakdown waiting to happen. But for a guy like me? It’s a term of empowerment.

As I said, I’m not the most “morally correct” type of person. I don’t think many people are anymore. No shame in admitting it. Hell, Catholics make you sit in a box with a stranger and confess your darkest deeds. Say three Hail Marys, take your vitamins, and fuck off. Simple as simple does.

But why is it people still shame you, even after you’ve tried to change?

Why not own your sins? Wear them with pride?

Why not own the title of dog?

Why not?

I remember the day I knew what I had to do to fix this socio-economic problem—for myself, anyway.

I was at the park, eating a sandwich—pastrami on rye, extra mustard, from Ray's Roast Beef (the one on 3rd and Central, not the one downtown—that place is a damn warzone). I saw two strays going absolutely feral over what looked like a half-eaten chicken burrito already claimed by flies and maggots. I thought to myself, “Christ! Who the hell fights their own species over something so pointless?”

I’d ask myself that same question just a few hours later, when I found myself inside a bank, face pressed against the cold marble floor, watching two jittery amateurs try to pull off an armed robbery like it was a dress rehearsal for a high school play. Two pups trying to do what big dogs do.

Dogs fighting for scraps that weren’t worth it.

I was almost embarrassed for them. One kid had zero trigger discipline and stood at the teller window like he was ordering from Burger King—stuttering, fumbling his words like he was confessing to the prom queen. Sweat poured through his Temu-branded airsoft mask. His buddy wasn’t much better—pacing back and forth, practically pissing himself with anxiety.

I saw a bit of myself in those two. That desperation. That pure survival instinct. And for some reason, it made my blood boil.

By the time the police arrived, one of those punks was unconscious, teeth and mask in need of serious repair, laid out like a drunk frat bro at a keg party. The other was crying, sitting in a puddle of piss, a discharged bullet from his dad’s stolen .38 snub-nose revolver still hot in the air.

Not saying I looked any better. My knuckles were bloodied. I was drenched in sweat, heart pounding, eyes bloodshot from a popped vessel. I looked like I’d just done speed and tried to rob the place myself.

I didn’t do it for applause. Didn’t do it for them. I just did it. And for the first time in a long time, I felt clarity.

That night, alone on my apartment floor, wrist wrapped in ice, thoughts rattling around my skull, I stared at the ceiling and thought:

“What if there were more people like me out there?”

There was always one place in the neighborhood that called to me—an old church near the edge of the residential zone. Not much to look at. It smelled like old people and forgotten prayers. The kind of place kids dared each other to enter, or horny teens snuck into for a quick shag.

I walked in alone. Dust danced in the shafts of moonlight. I sat on a broken pew, silence pressing in like a judge’s gavel, and wondered:

Could redemption live in ruins?

I bowed my head. And did something I never thought I would.

I prayed. Just me and God.

A presence joined me. A hand on my shoulder. A priest—not in a collar, but in a threadbare coat. Weathered face. Stormy eyes. Looked like a man who used to believe in something—maybe still did.

I honestly don’t think he was a priest. Probably just some vagrant whose house I broke into. I half-expected to get shanked.

“Didn’t think anyone came here anymore,” he said, voice low and calm.

“I could say the same to you,” I replied.

He chuckled. Used to it, I guess. Maybe he was a priest after all. Who knows?

“I come by now and then. Habit, I guess. Thought maybe someone would find use for it again. Most don’t.”

I shrugged. “Just felt drawn to it. Like a connection.”

“God’s house is open to all who accept Him. All His creations are welcome.”

I didn’t know what to say to that next. So I told him the truth. Told him what I was thinking. Not some manifesto—just the bones of an idea. A place for people like me. People who’ve done bad things, but still want to do something right. Unsure if they can fix the damage—but willing to try.

He listened. No judgment. Just listened.

“You’ve got the eyes of someone running,” he said.

“Maybe. But one thing's for sure. I'm tired.”

He nodded. Reached into his coat. Pulled out a rusted set of keys.

“You look like someone who wants a chance to change things. Sadly, the world doesn’t have much use for men like you anymore.”

He stood. Fished deeper in his coat.

“These belong to you now, my son.”

I hesitated. My arm felt like it was fighting me. But I took the keys. They were rough and jagged—familiar textures to me.

Before I could thank him, he left without asking my name. All I had was silence.

Finally, this dog had a home to call his own.

As I looked around that broken church, the question returned:

“What if there were more people like me?”

Not saints. Not heroes. Just people who’ve done the worst… and lived long enough to regret it.

I started small. Reached out to old names. Not glory-hounds or psychos—survivors. Ex-cops. Ex-cons. Ex-military. The ones with a sliver of decency buried under the rubble.

We sat in a circle of folding chairs, eyeing each other. The bond wasn’t there yet. Tension was natural.

I didn’t sell them a dream. I asked one question: “We’re all tired, right?”

Not physically. Existentially. Tired of running. Tired of hurting. Tired of being strays. We wanted to be seen for what we truly were. Loyal, protective dogs.

And so, The Watch Dogs were born.

We didn’t pick the name to sound cool. We picked it because it was honest.

Dogs watch. Dogs guard. Dogs protect. They’re loyal—even when ugly. Even when broken. Even when kicked more than fed.

No ranks. No big titles. But we had rules:

Protect those who can’t protect themselves. Never strike first—but always strike back harder. Take nothing from those you help. No glory. No fame. Just results.

Simple rules. The kind you can live—or die—by.

We didn’t look for trouble. But trouble finds people like us. And people knew when we had done work.

That stalker? Tied to a lamppost, restraining order stapled to his face.

That drug dealer? Duct-taped to a cop car, stash exposed.

That greedy landlord? In a dumpster with a list of “requests” from his tenants.

Unorthodox? Sure. Legal? Debatable. Effective? Absolutely.

We didn’t wear masks. We were regular people. Redemption in street clothes. Some nights we patrolled. Some nights we waited. Some nights we drank, told stories, and stared into the dark.

But when the call came in, we moved fast.

No fanfare. No spotlight. Just another request from the hotline. In, out, gone. Like strays.

We joke that we’re not heroes—we’re janitors. Cleaning up what no one else will.

Someone once called us angels. I laughed in their face. Not to be cruel—just honest.

We’re not angels. We’re what’s left after all the humanity’s been burned off and only choice remains.

Everyone gets one shot at becoming who they want to be. This? This is our second.

We’re underground, mostly. But when someone desperate enough finds the church and knocks—we listen. And if their story sounds like ours? We give them a bed. And a choice:

“Run, or fight.”

We train them—not in righteousness, but in survival. In restraint. In justice. In vanishing clean.

For some, that’s enough.

Being underestimated is our greatest weapon. No one expects ex-cons in a crumbling church to stop trafficking rings or stalkers.

We don’t stop. Because if we stop, we might remember who we used to be.

And this isn’t about forgetting. It’s about atoning.

Anyone can be a Watch Dog. Your neighbor. Your teacher. Your mailman. Your sister. Redemption doesn’t discriminate. All we got is each other in the end. A pack of dogs running together.

So no, we’re not heroes.

We’re Watch Dogs.

And remember:

We’re always watching.