Man's Best Friend

One

June 2017

Brutus had lived with the Tellers for a little over a year now. He was clearly very happy. He listened to all of his orders, and when he did a bad thing, and Mark called him a baddog, Brutus knew precisely what that meant. Not that these things happened often; Brutus was very well behaved.

This was a day just like any other, and in the worst way.

The Tellers were horribly dysfunctional.

Joseph and Marianne were upstairs, in their bedroom, arguing. Mark paid them no mind, but this proved difficult.

Mark's sister, Jolene, sat at her desk. Her bedroom door was closed. In front of her on the desk were a hypodermic needle, a small ziploc baggie with a few grams of heroin, and bent and burnt spoon, and a lighter. She opened the baggie, and took out another pinch, placed it on the spoon, sparked the lighter, and began to cook it. Not that she needed any more; she was already high. High enough, in fact, that she was edging into the dangerous "overdose" territory. Jolene didn't care, though. Her boyfriend beat her, everyday. She loved him a lot but

(why'd you have to make me do it you stupid bitch? stupid bitch stupidstupid fuckin cunt)

she knew he wasn't good for her. But, really, she didn't care. She accepted what little love he provided because, frankly, she didn't think she could get someone better. In all truth, she had once been beautiful. Strikingly so. She had began shooting heroin at age 14, and she was now 19. The heroin took a toll on not only her mental health, but her physical health as well. At one time, she had flowing, luscious chocolate hair and eyes that would make a hopeless romantic faint. She was charming, too. But now, five years hooked, she was beginning to look sickly. At age 19, she already had wrinkles, her hair was beginning to gray, and she looked exhausted every second of the day, even when she wasn't high.

Somehow, Joseph and Marianne were so caught up in their own problems that they were incapable of seeing the one right under their noses.

Mark was far from perfect, though. He smoked marijuana- he had since age eleven- and he was no stranger to alcohol, and, on some occasions, cocaine. This didn't make him a bad person, by any means. He just didn't have the best decision making skills.

So why, then, was this dysfunctional family held together still? Well, to put it simply, Brutus was the singular piece of yarn that kept the rope from snapping. Everyone loved Brutus; likewise, Brutus rather loved everyone in the family as well. Being a dog, he saw the goings-on throughout the Tellers' daily lives. He observed them, carefully keeping a watchful eye (what if a badman were to break in? he had to be prepared) over them, taking everything in that he saw.

Later, this would prove to be quite problematic.