🎬 Good Boy Review: The Dog POV Horror Movie You Didn’t Know You Needed 🐾

 🎬 Good Boy Review: The Dog POV Horror Movie You Didn’t Know You Needed 🐾 What if the scariest part of a horror movie wasn’t the monster in the shadows, but your constant worry about whether the dog survives? That was me and my blockmates last night at the cinema watching Good Boy - a supernatural thriller told entirely through the eyes of a loyal pup named Indy. And yes, I’ll calm your heart right away: Indy is safe, no harm, no sad endings, so you can actually enjoy the ride without sobbing into your popcorn. This film doesn’t just break the rules of typical dog movies, it flips the table on everything you thought you knew about animal-led storytelling.

There’s a reason why Good Boy, directed by Ben Leonberg, feels unlike anything else playing in theaters right now. On the surface, it’s about a loyal dog protecting his human companion Todd from creepy supernatural forces that have latched onto their rural family home. But underneath, it’s an experiment in filmmaking, dedication, and empathy. For the first time in forever, the main character of a horror story isn’t human, it’s a dog, with his POV becoming the narrative lens. And let me tell you, as a cinema student and lifelong animal rescuer, that artistic choice floored me.

The Fresh POV: Cinema Through a Dog’s Eyes

Let’s start with the basics: dogs have been in movies since forever. From Hachiko to Marley & Me, the formula is almost always the same. Cute dog, emotional bond, tragedy or tear-jerker ending. We cry, we post on BookTok about how unfair life is, and we promise never to watch another dog movie again until the cycle repeats. But Good Boy smashes that expectation wide open. Instead of forcing the audience into another “watch your furry friend suffer” sob-fest, it does something bolder. It asks, “What if we lived the fear, the confusion, and the loyalty through the dog’s eyes?” That framing alone sets this apart from 99 percent of pet-centered movies out there.

Now, don’t expect literal grayscale dog vision or reduced color spectrums, although I joked with my blockmates that it would’ve been wild to see the whole movie filtered through blue and yellow hues. Instead, the director made a deliberate choice: keep the color grading human-friendly, but let the camera movement, blocking, and framing mimic Indy’s world. The result is immersive. When Indy turns his head to follow Todd, the audience follows too. When he freezes at something unseen in the shadows, we freeze too. And when he faces the unknown, we’re right there at paw level, experiencing both the loyalty and the vulnerability of a creature who doesn’t fully understand the supernatural but knows enough to protect.

A Production Fueled by Dedication

What really makes this film feel authentic is the insane level of patience in production. Good Boy wasn’t filmed in one summer, or even one year. It took three years. Why? Because Indy, the canine star, was never forced, rushed, or exploited. There are strict rules on how long dogs can work on set, and Ben Leonberg honored that completely. Every single scene feels like a collaboration between director and dog, not a manipulation. Indy is, after all, the director’s own pet so the trust and relationship we see on screen is real. You can’t fake that. And as someone who knows how often the film industry cuts corners, I can’t stress enough how refreshing it is to see art prioritized over deadlines.

Indy Deserves an Award

Let’s talk about Indy himself. This dog doesn’t just act; he embodies the role. Watching his micro-expressions, the way his ears twitch, or the way he cocks his head - it’s pure cinema gold. Forget Oscars for a second; Indy deserves his own category. There’s something magnetic about watching a real animal carry an entire horror narrative without dialogue, without CGI manipulation, and without being reduced to a background mascot. He’s not “the dog that dies to make the audience cry.” He’s the hero, the warrior, the good boy. And yes, every time the film whispered suspense, I was holding my breath not because of ghosts, but because I was silently rooting for Indy. That’s powerful storytelling.

Balancing Horror and Heart

Another win for Good Boy is how it blends horror without resorting to the usual tropes of gore or shock. It’s suspenseful, yes. It’s eerie, definitely. But it never becomes so dark that you can’t breathe. Instead, the fear is layered with empathy. We don’t just want the family to survive; we want Indy’s loyalty to be rewarded. Every bump in the night, every shadow in the corner, every whisper of paranormal activity becomes filtered through one thought: “How will Indy handle this?” It’s horror redefined as care-driven tension instead of nightmare fuel.

A Dog Lover’s Dream Movie

As a dog lover and rescuer, my biggest concern with animal films is always: were the animals treated right? And in this case, the answer is a loud, proud yes. No tricks, no cruelty, no forced emotions. Just patience, care, and respect. The film even includes flashes of Indy’s puppyhood, reminding us that this wasn’t just casting, it was a lifelong relationship between filmmaker and pet. That authenticity hits different. It makes the story not just a film, but almost a love letter to the bond between human and animal.

The Student’s Take

Now, putting on my cinema student hat, Good Boy is fascinating to study. It’s proof that you don’t need a Hollywood budget or a CGI spectacle to innovate. Sometimes, the boldest experiment is choosing an unconventional POV and sticking to it with sincerity. The editing, pacing, and framing all reflect that commitment. It feels like a thesis project turned masterpiece. A director who clearly loved his subject matter enough to wait years to bring it to life. That kind of passion is rare in an industry obsessed with box office returns.

Final Verdict

So how scared was I, really? Honestly, not terrified by the paranormal itself but deeply invested in Indy’s welfare. And maybe that’s the genius of Good Boy. It reprograms your sense of fear. Instead of dreading what’s in the shadows, you dread the possibility of losing the loyalty and love staring back at you from the screen. That’s not just horror, that’s emotional storytelling at its best. And when the credits rolled, all I could think was: Indy is, indeed, a very good boy. All dogs are. But this one is cinema history.

If you’ve ever wanted a horror movie that makes you root for survival without tearing your heart apart, Good Boy is it. Watch it, cheer for Indy, and remember: sometimes the bravest hero on screen walks on four legs, not two. And yes, he’s still wagging his tail when the lights come back on.

🚨 Online Predators Exposed: How I Survived & Fought Back 💻

🚨 Online Predators Exposed: How I Survived & Fought Back 💻 What happens when your polite “hi” online turns into a nightmare of unwanted messages, fake profiles, and dangerous strangers? I’ve lived it. I’m Arabella Sveinsdottir, and today I’m pulling back the curtain on how predators target minors in digital spaces, how I fought back, and how you can protect yourself or your kids from the same traps.

The internet promised connection. It promised community. But for many of us who grew up online, that promise came with a dark twist: strangers who turn kindness into permission, who twist boundaries, and who use social media and gaming platforms to prey on minors. As someone who navigated these waters as an autistic teen trying to fit in, I’ve seen firsthand how innocent interactions can be misread by people with bad intentions.

When you’re young and online, you’re told to be polite. You’re told to greet people, answer messages, and build networks. But predators thrive on this politeness. They’re not all lurking in the shadows with obvious warning signs; many present themselves as “friends” or “mentors” at first. They exploit courtesy as a green light. That’s what happened to me. A simple hello would sometimes trigger a flood of assumptions, from “You’re my girlfriend now” to demands for personal details. It’s surreal, bizarre, and terrifying when it happens to you.

Let’s be real: minors cannot give consent. There is no gray area here. When an adult tries to escalate a conversation with someone under 18, they’re in the wrong. Always. And yet, so many young people are made to feel guilty, blamed, or gaslit for “inviting” attention they never asked for. This narrative is dangerous. It protects abusers and leaves victims confused and ashamed. That’s why I speak out. That’s why my books, scripts, and papers take on this topic. Because silence protects no one except the people doing harm.

One of the biggest myths about online predators is that they’re all on one platform. Roblox gets headlines, Discord gets warnings, Instagram has its cautionary tales. But the truth is, any place where messages can be sent—games, apps, forums, even creative communities—can be exploited. It’s not about one company; it’s about behavior. As soon as there’s a messaging feature, there’s risk.

I also learned about impersonation and identity theft the hard way. Fake profiles of me appeared on apps and chat groups I never joined. People would message my manager claiming “I” said or did something I hadn’t. It was a wake-up call. Online safety isn’t just about who you talk to; it’s about how your image is used without consent. That’s why I’ve publicly stated: if you see my name or face outside of my official channels, it’s not me. Report it. Protect yourself from catfishers who use other people’s identities as bait.

What’s the solution? First, boundaries. You don’t owe anyone your real name, address, or private details. Not online. Not ever. Until you’re an adult doing business or building a verified network, privacy is self-defense. Second, blocking and reporting. You’re not rude for hitting block. You’re protecting yourself. Third, tell someone. A teacher, counselor, or trusted adult can be a lifeline. If something feels off, don’t keep it to yourself. The law is on your side. Online exploitation is a crime, and authorities take it seriously.

My journey taught me another form of empowerment: self-defense. Growing up as a public figure meant stalkers didn’t just stay online. Some tried to show up in real life. That’s when I decided to train. Martial arts gave me confidence, awareness, and a sense of agency. Self-defense isn’t about violence. It’s about boundaries made physical. It’s about knowing you have a right to protect yourself. And if you’re a parent, teaching your kids awareness—not paranoia, but awareness—is one of the greatest gifts you can give.

I want to emphasize something here: this isn’t about hating men, older people, or entire groups. It’s about accountability. It’s about protecting kids and respecting boundaries. Everyone deserves safety. Everyone deserves to grow up without being targeted. And everyone deserves to know that saying no online or offline is not just allowed, but a right.

There’s also a digital literacy component. Young people need to know that a profile picture doesn’t equal a real person. That kindness doesn’t require oversharing. That privacy settings matter. And that when someone pressures you, mocks your boundaries, or tries to fast-track intimacy, it’s a red flag and it is not your fault.

The Netflix film Adolescence captures some of these themes beautifully. It’s not just a movie; it’s a mirror. It shows how easy it is for manipulation to happen in digital spaces and how important it is to stay alert. I recommend it for parents and teens alike, not as a scare tactic but as a conversation starter. The cinematography and execution make the topic digestible while still impactful.

Today, I live with stronger boundaries. I have official channels only. I maintain privacy not because I’m unfriendly but because I’ve learned what’s at stake. I also advocate for teaching self-defense—not just the physical kind but the digital kind. Knowing your rights, understanding platform tools, and being willing to block or report is digital self-defense.

For anyone out there who feels alone or targeted: you’re not. What happened to you isn’t your fault. There are people who care, who will believe you, and who will help. Protecting yourself online is not paranoia; it’s wisdom. And raising your voice about your experience, when you’re ready, can help others see the warning signs before it’s too late.

This is bigger than me, bigger than any one story. It’s about creating a culture where kids and teens know they’re allowed to protect themselves, where adults take complaints seriously, and where predators can’t hide behind the anonymity of the internet. It’s about making the internet what it was supposed to be: a space for connection, not exploitation.

If one honest story can make a teen rethink oversharing or make a parent start a conversation tonight, then everything I’ve been through has a purpose. The question is: how many more people will speak up before we finally build the internet kids deserve?

🍂 Autumn Glow, Safe Love & The Muse That Changed My Life ✨

 🍂 Autumn Glow, Safe Love & The Muse That Changed My Life ✨ Isn’t it wild how autumn feels like both a funeral and a rebirth? One minute the leaves are dying in orange fire, and the next, you’re walking under them like the world just handed you a blank page and dared you to write your own ending. That’s exactly how this season hit me, and it’s why I’m sitting here talking about fall, nostalgia, and the one person who cracked open my entire world: Nia.

Autumn has always been a loaded word for me. For some, it’s pumpkin spice, sweaters, and moody playlists, but for me, it’s the sharp ache of nostalgia mixed with the stubborn spark of survival. The season paints the trees in blazing orange and crimson, but behind that beauty is something brutal. Leaves fall because they’re dying. Branches bare themselves because they’re shedding. And yet, instead of mourning, I find comfort in this cycle. Fall whispers, “let go.” It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t plead. It just shows you that killing the old makes space for the new.

I learned this most clearly during my long solo walks. I’m an art and film student, so my brain doesn’t exactly have an off switch. Walking around campus or even grabbing groceries from the corner store becomes an accidental meditation. My head fills with scenes for films I’ll probably never shoot, poems that demand to be scribbled on receipts, and dialogue that spills into my notebooks like someone else is dictating it. That’s what autumn does to me. The crisp air bites, the trees glow, and suddenly, every memory feels like a movie reel that refuses to stop playing.

And then, out of nowhere, the past collides with the present. Because it’s not just about me wandering through a cinematic autumn landscape. It’s about who walks beside me now. Her name is Nia. And honestly, she turned fall into something I no longer face alone.

Here’s the truth: I used to be blind. Blind to who actually cared and who just wanted to lurk in the shadows of my failures. Blind to how much I was worth outside of what I could produce, prove, or perform. My life before her was crowded with the wrong people. People who only popped up to gossip, to monitor if I had fallen, to poke at the softest wounds with malicious curiosity. I let myself chase those connections, thinking maybe if I just held on harder, someone would finally hold back. But autumn taught me something: some trees have to shed their entire canopy before they can bloom again.

Nia is the opposite of that toxic crowd. She doesn’t question why I identify as asexual. She doesn’t keep a scoreboard of my achievements. She doesn’t hover with secret animosity. She just loves, and she makes it look effortless. You know that one person who feels like home? That’s her. Since the day she stepped into my life, inspiration has turned into a flood. My film scripts? Fueled by her. My poems, my prose, my late-night book drafts? All traced back to her energy. Nia is my muse, and I don’t say that lightly.

What blows my mind is how private we keep things. That wasn’t a stylistic choice but a survival instinct. I’ve dealt with stalking and harassment before, so privacy isn’t about being coy, it’s about being safe. But within that privacy, happiness blooms. We’re together on campus every day. We explore small corners of the city, sip coffee at places no one Instagrams, and remind each other what “living” actually means. Healing doesn’t happen in isolation; sometimes, it takes one person showing up consistently to make you realize you’re not as helpless as you feared.

And she proved that in the darkest chapter of my life. I went through major surgery for respiratory problems, and there’s a special kind of loneliness that comes with waking up in a hospital bed wondering if anyone will call. Nia called. That simple act lit up a part of me I thought had gone dark forever. She reminded me that I wasn’t as invisible as I convinced myself to be. While I wasted years chasing people who couldn’t care less, the one person who genuinely wanted me to heal was already in my orbit.

It’s funny how love redefines safety. For the longest time, I thought safety meant locking the door, checking the windows, keeping my gun nearby just in case. But safety has another shape: it’s the knowledge that if someone knocks on the door, I’m not alone. There’s someone who looks out for me, who makes the world less sharp-edged and more survivable. Autumn reflects that back at me. The season strips everything down, shows you what’s real, and then quietly promises: growth is coming.

But let’s not romanticize it too much. Autumn is messy. Leaves rot, winds bite, the days shorten, and the cold creeps in like an unwelcome guest. Yet within that decay is transformation. I like to think I mirror that. The old furniture of my life, the dirty remnants of past connections, I’ve started to dispatch them. Not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. There’s something satisfying about cleaning space for what actually matters. It’s not sad; it’s survival. And if fall has taught me anything, it’s that survival is the first step to joy.

Everywhere I turn this season, I see metaphors. The orange glow of the trees reminds me that endings can be gorgeous. The crisp silence of campus walks reminds me that solitude isn’t emptiness, it’s a breeding ground for imagination. And the steady presence of Nia reminds me that love doesn’t have to be dramatic or demanding; sometimes it’s just safe, steady, and shockingly simple.

That’s the thing about autumn. It lingers. It makes you reflect, but it also demands that you move forward. It doesn’t care if you’re ready. It tells you, bluntly: let go. I used to think letting go meant losing. Now I understand it means making room. And in that room, I’ve found scripts, poems, laughter, recovery, and most importantly, a love that doesn’t ask me to be anyone but myself.

So when I walk alone this season, ideas rushing and memories colliding, I don’t feel like I’m chasing ghosts anymore. I feel like I’m walking toward something. Something orange-glow, something safe, something endlessly inspiring. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what autumn really is: not the death of what was, but the rehearsal for what’s next.

So yeah, maybe autumn is about letting go, but for me, it’s also about looking forward with eagle vision. The leaves fall, the cold sets in, but somewhere in that silence, a new script is waiting, a new poem is forming, and a whole new world is about to begin. The only question left is: are you ready to shed, too?