A lean, mean, shit eating machine

The final installment in the pet portion of my family tree is a 100 pound American Bulldog named by a 5 year old.  In my world the name is too easy, it’s expected, it’s hack.  My kid apparently knows her audience because every time she tells someone the dog’s name is Kitty, she gets a laugh.  This beast was purchased as a proactive measure for my eldest daughter’s sanity.  It was about 2 months before the new kid was due, and the shitzu wasn’t looking too good.  It was decided that since the first kid was already going to get upset at the loss of attention to the new kid it might be too big of a shock to loose her little dog too.  In other words we were going to tell a 5 year old, “Your dog died, fuck off your sister’s drying, here’s a puppy.”  

We bought a bigger dog because I travel so much and the wife wanted something that would occupy a potential attacker while she changed into something sexy and loaded her pistol.  It was also agreed that since we bought a bigger dog, we must train a bigger dog.  A month and $1500 later, we had a 60 pound puppy that listened better than the kid… except the kid didn’t eat her own shit.  Our trainer had created the perfect dog, he just couldn’t take the trailer out of her.  After a very stressful 6 months we have finally instilled the wisdom in our pet that it isn’t necessary to lay in a puddle of your own piss while chewing fecal matter.  The only thing left to do is teach her that John Cusack is talented.