Most of the day Brutus is confined to the kitchen. He’s a 90 pound doberman that my parents rescued from the pound. He doesn’t look like a scary one with cropped ears. His ears are floppy and it makes him look a little less intimidating. Make no mistake, he’s a killer and is not to be fucked with. He likes to lay in his cage and suck on a blanket, but it’s all a big front.
When Brutus is allowed out of the kitchen he must be watched closely. As you nod off on the sofa he’ll sneak away to the basement. Brutus likes to eat cat shit right out of the litter box. He knows what he is doing isn’t right, but it’s like crack and he can’t resist.
When Brutus does something he’s not supposed to do, he gets very anxious. So anxious in fact, that he drops a load on the spot, which is found minutes after someone catches him sneaking back up the basement stairs.
Anxiety runs in the family and they say that dogs take on their owner’s personalities. I guess that would explain my father shitting his pants when my mother catches him eating junk food in the middle of the night.
