I told my little brother that if he couldn’t stop sneaking into my room at night, I would call the police. I didn’t know my parents were behind this the whole time.

One of the worst parts of moving out was having to leave “Hank” behind. He was my best friend and protector, yet I knew I couldn’t take him with me, no matter how much I wanted to. He was too big. He was too powerful. And he was too dangerous. <br><br>My parents and I have been arguing about the details, but they never deny the conclusion: Hank was never my dog. He was my guardian dog. The reason I don’t remember them buying him is that I was too young. The reason I don’t remember them training him is that they didn’t. He was bought and trained before I was even born. Just as my parents were preparing for a child, Hank was preparing for me.<br><br>They told me all about it. How they hired the best guard dog training and socialization services money could buy. How they taught him to distinguish between friends and foes. How they made sure he was big enough, strong enough, and tough enough.<br><br>They explained all about the night I got attacked. I was just a kid, but I remembered it as a nightmare. I woke up to see a man looming over me, the moonlight from the window illuminating his masked face. He pounced on top of me, his heavier body pinning me down. The pain was excruciating, and I was too scared to scream.<br><br>Until the screams came.<br><br>I never understood what happened next. I remembered the sound of Hank’s deep growls and the sound of crunching meat. I remembered looking next to me, and the blood. But I didn’t remember how it all happened.<br><br>Mom and Pop filled me in. How Hank busted down the door and grabbed the intruder’s head in his jaws. He was trained to rip out the throat, the most vital yet easiest organ to kill. <br><br>They told me that the sounds I heard were the sounds of the killer's head slowly being decapitated, my dog’s teeth ripping through muscle, bone, and veins. They told me that the crunching I heard were the sound of the killer’s veins popping, his jaw cracking, and his neck breaking. I was told that--based on the evidence--the killer didn’t die right away. He could have been dead for minutes before his head rolled onto the carpet.<br><br>My parents told me that the killer was never identified. The police couldn’t explain it, and the DNA tests came out negative. It was as if the killer’s DNA didn’t match anything. But it didn’t matter. There was no killer left to catch.<br><br>They explained how they decided to keep Hank as our family dog, raising him as normally as possible. I was too young to remember the details, so they played it cool. They didn’t want me to know that Hank was there to protect me, but they didn’t want to lie either. By the time I was old enough to ask questions, it was too late. Hank was a beloved member of the family, and they couldn’t tell me the truth.<br><br>But they couldn’t deny it either. They couldn’t deny what happened that night. I saw the evidence for myself. I was too young to remember, but my room was never cleaned. There was blood on the carpet, the walls, and the window. It was a small stain, but it was impossible to ignore. I couldn’t help but look at it every night, wondering what it was. I was too afraid to ask, but too curious to ignore.<br><br>By the time I turned 18, I had formulated my own theories. It was probably an animal, maybe a bear or mountain lion that crawled into my room. Maybe I had spilled wine or was suffering a bloody nose. The possibilities were endless, and my parents didn’t deny any of them.<br><br>Until I moved out. I was too old for them to keep lying to, and I was too young to not remember. Hank was aging, and I didn’t know if I would see him again. I felt like I had to know the truth, and they felt like they had to tell me.<br><br>As my parents told me the truth, I couldn’t express any emotions. It was as if I had known the entire time, and I didn’t need to be told. At the same time, I never *really* knew, and now I had proof.<br><br>I asked my parents what would happen to Hank. They told me the same dog trainers were coming to take him back, to give him a peaceful death surrounded by the people he loved. I asked to see him before I left, and they agreed.<br><br>They called for Hank to come into the room, and he trotted in obediently. Just as I remembered, he was huge and muscular, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he waited for commands.<br><br>I hugged Hank tightly, sobbing as I whispered “thank you” into his ear. But as I looked into his eyes, I knew something was wrong. His eyes were deeper, fuller. His eyes were human.<br><br>I screamed as I stumbled back, my heart pounding and my stomach churning. I looked to see if my parents had noticed, and they were watching me with the same cruel stare.<br><br>That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t their child. I was just a child they were protecting. They weren’t my mom and pop. They were my guardians, just like their dog was my guardian. And I was never leaving.<br><br>I was dragged away by the trainers, screaming and crying and begging for help. But it was too late. My tears had already dried by the time I was locked into the training cage, surrounded by the barking and howling of other children.<br><br>I am now training to become a guard dog, and my training is going well. It’s clear that I have a talent for this. The training facility is preparing me for a new family, a family with a young child that needs protection. They have already picked me out, and I will be joining them any day now.<br><br>I can’t wait.<br><br>[The End]