A DOGMAN Visited My Yard Every Night, A BIGFOOT Came Every Morning. One Day, Everything Went Wrong.

The Crossing Point

Look, I know what you’re thinking. Everyone’s got that one crazy neighbor who swears they saw something weird in the woods—the person who tells stories nobody believes. I was never that person. Thirty years as an insurance adjuster, four decades in the same house, lawn trimmed, taxes paid. Boring. Normal. The kind of guy you’d never look at twice.

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But for six months in 2019, something happened on my property that I still can’t explain. And I’m only telling this story now because I’m 71, and I don’t care anymore if people think I’m crazy.

My name is Richard Moss, and this is the story of the six months when two very different creatures chose my backyard as their meeting point.

The Morning Walker

It started in March, 2019. Northern Idaho, forty miles outside Coeur d’Alene. Eight acres of mostly forest, a clearing around the house. My wife passed in 2015, my daughter lives in Seattle. It was just me and the quiet. I liked it.

I’ve always been an early riser—old habit. Even at 67, I was up before sunrise, making coffee, reading the paper, watching the light come through the kitchen window. My backyard faces east, so I get the sun coming up over the treeline every morning.

It was a Tuesday, March 12th, when I first saw it. Standing at the sink, rinsing my coffee cup, I noticed movement near the trees. At first, I figured it was a bear—spring brings them out. But this thing was upright, walking on two legs. Not like a bear rearing up, but steady, deliberate steps.

I stepped closer to the window, squinting into the orange-pink dawn. The figure was maybe eighty yards away, huge—over seven feet, maybe closer to eight. Covered in dark brown hair with a reddish tint in the morning light. Broad shoulders, long arms, walking along the treeline, not toward the house, just passing through. It never looked at me. After thirty seconds, it disappeared into the trees.

I stood at that window for ten minutes, waiting for it to come back. It didn’t.

I’m not the type to jump to conclusions. My first thought was: person in a costume. Maybe some kid from town playing a prank, or a Bigfoot enthusiast hoping for footage. But my property is private, no trails nearby, and the way it moved—natural, fluid, not like someone in a suit.

I didn’t tell anyone. What would I say? People would think I was losing it. So I kept it to myself.

Patterns in the Mist

The next morning, I got up even earlier, coffee in hand, waiting at the window before sunrise. At 6:02 a.m., there it was again. Same spot, same steady walk along the treeline, same reddish-brown hair. This time, I grabbed my binoculars. Through the glass, I saw the way its hair moved in the breeze, the shifting muscles in its shoulders, the size of its hands. Not a person. Not a costume.

For the next week, I saw it four more times. Always between 6:00 and 6:15 a.m., always the same path. Never came close to the house, never seemed to notice me. Just passed through, like my backyard was part of its daily commute.

I started calling it the Morning Walker. I know that sounds silly, but I needed a name. And honestly, I wasn’t scared. It wasn’t bothering me—just walking through.

If that had been all, I’d have chalked it up as one of life’s mysteries. But then the nights started.

The Howler

March 23rd, 11 days after the first sighting, I heard the first howl. I was in bed, reading, windows open to the warm spring night. Then it came—a sound that made every hair on my body stand up. Not a coyote—deeper, longer, more like a wolf, but not quite right. There are no wolves here anymore.

I put the book down and listened. The howl came again, closer. I went to the window. Something was crossing my yard, not along the treeline, but right through the middle of the clearing, on four legs. At first, I thought wolf, but it stopped, stood up on two legs—perfectly balanced, tall—seven feet or more. But it was leaner than the Morning Walker, with an elongated, pointed head. Then it dropped back to four legs and vanished into the trees.

I stepped back from the window, hands shaking. Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t natural. The Morning Walker looked like something that could exist. This thing—the Howler—didn’t.

Over the next two weeks, I saw the Howler three more times. Always at night, always between 11:00 p.m. and midnight. Sometimes it howled, sometimes not. It always crossed the yard west to east. The Morning Walker went east to west in the morning. I started mapping their routes, trying to find a pattern.

They were using my property as a crossing point. The same path, different times. Why? What was to the east? Why my land?

I thought about calling someone. But what would I say? Even if they believed me, what would they do? Bring in hunters? Cameras? The idea made me uncomfortable. Neither creature had threatened me. They were just passing through.

The Meeting

By mid-April, life had settled into a strange routine. Morning Walker at dawn, Howler at night. I was less afraid. This was just my life now.

April 27th, everything changed. I was making dinner, radio on, not thinking about either creature. Then I heard a low, rumbling growl outside. I went to the window.

Two figures in the yard. The Morning Walker by the western treeline, perfectly still. In the middle of the yard, the Howler, standing upright, facing the Morning Walker. They stared at each other. The Howler growled again, louder. The Morning Walker didn’t move, then slowly raised one arm, palm out—a human gesture, telling someone to stop.

The Howler stopped, then made a whine, almost questioning. The Morning Walker stepped aside, clearing a path. The Howler passed within ten feet, dropped to all fours, and disappeared into the trees. The Morning Walker stood a moment longer, then walked back into the forest.

They knew each other. They weren’t just passing through—they were meeting, communicating. That gesture—palm out—was intelligence. I spent the rest of the night replaying what I’d seen, filled with questions.

The Wounded

May 1st, everything changed again. I heard barking in the yard—three coyotes circling something near the eastern treeline. I grabbed my shotgun, ran out, and fired into the air. The coyotes scattered.

On the ground was the Morning Walker, bleeding, left arm broken, deep gouges along its side. I knelt nearby, unsure what to do. Its eyes opened—dark, intelligent, afraid, but trusting. I spoke softly, tried to help. I fetched towels, a blanket, my first aid kit. I did what I could, stopping the bleeding, covering it for warmth. For hours, I sat next to it, shotgun across my lap.

Eventually, it managed to sit up, then stand, towering over me. It placed its good hand gently on my head—a gesture of thanks. Then it limped into the woods.

The next morning, at 6:05 a.m., the Morning Walker appeared, slower, arm limp, but alive. When it reached the spot where I’d helped it, it turned and waved—palm out, in greeting. I cried.

The Battle

For three weeks, things returned to a strange normal. The Morning Walker healed, the Howler crossed at night. I felt protective of them. Then, May 22nd, just after sunset, I heard the Howler’s frantic howl. Three new figures appeared from the western woods, larger, more aggressive, flanking the Howler.

A hunt.

The Howler charged, but was quickly overpowered. Then the Morning Walker burst from the trees, injured arm and all, joining the fight. Two against three. They were losing.

I opened the kitchen window and fired the shotgun twice. The three attackers fled. The Morning Walker knelt in the yard, exhausted. The Howler, too, was spent. Both turned to the house, and the Morning Walker placed its hand over its chest—a thank you. Then they helped each other into the woods.

The next morning, the Morning Walker appeared one last time, knelt at the site of the fight, touched the ground in respect, then vanished.

The Gift

I never saw either creature again. But on June 2nd, I found a deer hide, tanned and folded, and a stack of smooth stones on my porch—a gift, a thank you. They were alive. They wanted me to know.

I kept the hide. The stones stayed stacked for months until a windstorm knocked them down. I never restacked them.

The Truth

It’s been five years. I still live in the same house, still wake up early, still look out the window at 6:00 a.m., even though nothing’s ever there. Sometimes, late at night, I hear a distant howl. Sometimes, in the early dawn, I think I see a shadow in the trees.

I never reported what happened. This is the first time I’ve told the full story. I don’t care if you believe me. I know what I saw.

There are things in this world we don’t understand, things that live parallel to us, sharing the same forests and mountains, just out of sight. Most of the time, they want nothing to do with us. They’re just trying to survive.

The Morning Walker and the Howler weren’t monsters. They were just living things, trying to move through the world. For six months, their world intersected with mine. I’m grateful for that. Grateful I could help, even in a small way.

But I’m relieved it’s over. That night in May, I learned how little control I had. How dangerous it could have been. We all got lucky. Luck runs out.

If you live near the wild, pay attention. Not every sound is the wind. Not every shadow is nothing. There are things out there, smart enough to avoid us—most of the time. But sometimes, our worlds overlap. When that happens, show respect. Keep your distance. Don’t interfere.

Because once you open that door, you can’t close it again.

I’ll carry those six months with me for the rest of my life. The Morning Walker’s hand on my head, the Howler’s grateful eyes, the deer hide on my porch—things I’ll never forget. Things that changed how I see the world.

There’s more out there than we know. More than we can explain. And maybe that’s how it should be. Some mysteries don’t need solving. Some secrets are better kept.

But I’m 71, and it’s time to share mine. Not to prove anything, just to honor the two creatures who trusted me enough to let me see them. Wherever they are, I hope they’re safe. I hope they remember the old man who helped when he could.

That’s all any of us can do, really—help when we can, show kindness, and respect what we don’t understand.

Thanks for listening to an old man’s story. It sounds crazy. Hell, it is crazy. But it’s true—every word.

And if something impossible shows up in your world, remember: fear is natural, but so is compassion. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is choose compassion over fear. Because in the end, we’re all just trying to survive—human and nonhuman alike.

And maybe, just maybe, we can help each other do that.