He’s 130 pounds of pure muscle, and the best damn Bullmastiff this noble kennel club has ever seen. His posture emanates authority, and his gait’s full of charred black cherry grace. He’s got shoulders dense as dark chocolate bowling balls, and a thousand-yard stare that says “bring the star anise and rosemary ribeye, side of honey-dipped railroad spikes, pronto.” They say his growl once made a Pomeranian faint. They say he once saved six children from a vanilla custard avalanche. And when that chipmunk scurries up the judge’s leg, his handler doesn’t have a chance.
