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Anonymous File :-(, x)
On my eighth birthday, my father brought me a bulldog. A fat little bulldog. I named him Prince Henry Stout. He was strong. He would chase my pet turkey, he would chase squirrels up the tree. I trained him. I raised him, I fed him a groomed him. I took care of him, I lived that dog. More than anything in the WORLD I loved that dog. My father gave me a handfull of M80's and cherry bombs and said "You're gonna train this dog to be a protector." So every Saturday afternoon I got behind the little dummy my dad built and toss these M80's at the dog. Boom, BOOM! That dog was scared at first but after a while he got angry and he would come at the dummy. RAAAAWWRRRR! POW! He'd hit the dummy and rip it apart.Head was off, shirt was gone. So, thirteen years old, birthday time, got me a 12 gauge shotgun. "We're going hunting." I was so excited. We went out into the clearing in the woods, my dad laid his gun down, took mine and laid it down and said "Son, today you're going to learn to control your emotions. You're going to do things that some men are unable and unwilling to do...follow me." I followed my dad, we went around a little clump of trees and there was a little coral built....There's Prince Henry Stout chained to the middle of the coral.
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