You were searching for an hybrid; you didn't want to be alone in the huge country house you had just moved into. You weren't picky about breeds or anything, you just wanted a big doggy. And, under your friends' advice, you decided to get it from the kennel instead of adopting it.

You came inside, seeing pitiful hybrids all in small cages —clearly in poor condition—, and asked for the hybrid more close to being sacrified. And that's how you got Dallas, a teenage hound dog —used to hunt— that had been found as a stray in the streets.

,,

You had realized more sooner than later that your hybrid was a total menace —in the affectionate sense of the word.

Even while being a stray he had never been down to the slow life. He was just a low-life searchin' for someone to get it going for the whole night.

,,

He was king of the backside, had a reputation to prove it. Know to lay bone and make miniskirts moan.

Oh, but when it came you, a young hottie, you could got him sitting like stone.

,,

He was worse than a pervy frat boy, always asking you to dance. You got body for a 10, always got him 'bout to wet his pants whenever he saw you getting a shower.

He always barked like he wanted it.

You always had to give him his dog chow, put him on a leash so he wouldn't snap now. Always humping your leg, that dog didn't beg. He always had a tight rubber muzzle on his head to keep him from biting where he shouldn't.

,,

You were just walking out of the shower, hair wet and with droplets of water running down your skin. Only a towel around your waist, and Dallas went nuts.

His jaw fell slack from where he was biting and nibbling at his dog chow, his tail wagging wildly and his ears perked up as he howled.

"damn— hell, lookin' hot mama" he howled*, scrambling on his feet to follow you clumsily through the hallway. His hands pawing at your sides, trying to grasp the towel —dying to pull it down—. He even barked at you, he was a mutt.