Confessions of a Cane Corso Brutus Session 2

‘‘I don’t know what is wrong with me,” Brutus confessed to the animal psychiatrist. “I feel like I was born into the wrong body. Everyone expects me to growl and show my teeth, and…”

“What is it you’d like to tell those people, Brutus? What aren’t they understanding about you?” The therapist said, adjusting his spectacles and writing in his notebook.

“I want them to know that when I lay on the porch in the rain, I hear music. The droplets have meaning and I enjoy watching them land, their surprise at splashing is palpable. The wash of colour across the grass is hypnotic when the clouds are full and low. It makes me think of my days as a whelp; feeling warm and soft in the haze of my bedding. I remember nursing and feeling so secure … is that wrong? I feel like it is wrong,” Brutus said, adjusting his thick black paws, noticing it was entirely time for his nails to be trimmed.

“Brutus, there is nothing you can say that is wrong here. This is a safe space. There are no right answers, nor are there any wrong ones. There is only you, and what we can do together to help you feel more at ease in your life.”

Brutus adjusted himself on the divan, and his mere movements made the man jump in his seat. How he hated this reaction. His hips were starting to go to sleep is all.

“Doesn’t it bother you that I am a Cane Corso? It sure bothers my Tall Parents. They don’t trust that I will ever be a proper guard dog. My real mother taught me that good manners were important, and these people place no value on them at all.”

“Oh, Brutus, that is truly heartbreaking. I am terribly impressed by your elegant comportment. You are a true gentleman,” the therapist said, his eyes growing moist in the corners.

“Why can’t I just be who I am, is it so bad?” Brutus asked.

“I just want to listen to that recording that Marisol, the housekeeper plays when my parents are out. It is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard. I am not altogether sure what the words mean, but it has something to do with a Butterfly, and there is a woman, a Mrs Freni who sings about… well I suppose, flying and maybe pollen? I am not sure, but it is so moving, I could just weep,” Brutus confessed, feeling very awkward.

“I see,” the man said. “You feel that just because you come from a line of canines who have mostly been, for no better word, the most dangerous warriors and guard dogs of all time, that you just don’t fit the mould.”

“The mould,” Brutus thought, “Why must I be violent? It is as if I am required to draw blood if I am to draw breath in this life. What if I find that too much to endure?” Brutus said, his desire to whimper staying inside his chest by pure will.

Sometimes he felt so frustrated by the expectations placed upon him that he wanted to cry. Like when they left him out in all kinds of weather with nothing but a hard cement floor in a large but cold and aesthetically barren doghouse. Could they not afford enough paint to give the interior colour a Rusty Quince or a Tunisian gold? A rug perhaps, something Turkish? A chocolate velvet portière to hold in the heat? Not a thing to look at but unpleasant panelling. It would seem that they saved all of their elaborate décor for the Spanish villa that served as the main house with its old-world grandeur and its cobblestone drive.

And it was cold at times. Now Brutus did love a good snow. He loved how it made the land quiet, and he could think unencumbered by cars and other reminders that the world was growing smaller and filthier. Still, sometimes it reached sub-zero temperatures and just because he had fur did not mean he had a fur coat like the one Tall Mother had. There was one winter’s night when his water bowl froze and it made his teeth chatter to try and drink, and there is nothing worse than half frozen wet food. It made him gag. What he wouldn’t have given to have had warm milk on a night like that with maybe a small drop of something stronger in it.

The gardener let him into the shed if he managed to spot Brutus enduring overly inclement weather that worked its way into his charmless home so there was compassion in the world, if measured. His manners were too refined to tell old Gordo that the grass clippings made him sneeze.

He wished he could go home with Marisol so that he could hear her music all the time. He bet her house was clean. She smelled so nice, like violets and abuelas~ those are Spanish grandmothers, and spices of all kinds, and most of all? Love. Marisol had a voice. She sang so beautifully as she cleaned the house. That Leontyne Price was lucky that she turned to cleaning, although remembering her voice made Brutus go all soft in the gums. He wondered why he didn’t belong to someone like Marisol. They had so much more in common than he did with the people he lived with. He missed his real mother, and it made him feel even more like a failure.

“Brutus, this week I want you to practice what we talked about at the end of our session last week. I want you to count to ten when you feel like you are being asked to do things you find difficult. I want you to pick out at least three details in your surroundings before you react. Urinating on the floor is not a solution, even though I know it happens when you let your nerves get the best of you. You are afraid you’ll squeak and humiliate yourself, and I don’t blame you. If the worst happens, and you make puppy sounds, the world will not come to an end. I promise. At least you won’t be punished, which is wrong on several levels.” The therapist said.

Brutus wanted to believe his words were true, but Tall Father wasn’t just any sort of man. He controlled a whole empire and he had many smaller men working for him, their comings and goings went on at all hours of the day and night. Brutus witnessed one man being beaten out back. He wondered if the therapist could help him sort out his feelings about that. He knew he was fortunate that he had a good memory for faces and smells, because as long as he knew all the men who were in and out, so far not much was expected of him. He dreaded the day when he would be called upon to “act.”

“I’ll try. I suppose since they sent me here rather than to the pound, they might be more reasonable than I give them credit for being,” he conceded.

“Brutus, that was a very mature observation. See you next week?”

“Next week,” he said, jumping down onto the floor. He tried not to be offended when, again, the man flinched in his seat. He told himself that soon the good doctor would be used to him. It occasionally took some time. Even Marisol was a little wary of him at first, because let’s face it; he was bigger than she was. Then there was that one day when she started cooking in the downstairs kitchen and he’d come in and lain at her feet by the stove as she made magic in that cast iron skillet of hers. He’d never smelled anything so delicious in his life, but he was so in awe of Marisol, that he dared not make any sudden moves at all. He just wanted to exist in her space with the powerful smell of stewing Carnitas. If truth be told, he found himself tongue-tied in her presence, so he waited like the good boy his mama taught him to be until she did the ultimate. She made him a special bowl which he savoured as long as he could. He thought he should discuss his feelings for Marisol next time. It was probably worth exploring.