The reality is that I have been held captive. Captive by this:
"Once (that they know of), I tried to eat my own poop!"
"My name is Brodie. But usually they just call me the BrodieMonster. I have no idea why. Oooh, is that a pair of Mommy's panties I see?"
Oh, how cute, you think. Go ahead, fawn all over him. Those giant ears! That scruffy beard! He will suck you in with that questioning head cock, that wag that shakes his whole butt, those bounding hops he takes through tall grass. But you will get past all that when it slowly begins to dawn on you that in reality, you are living with equivalent of a senile, incontinent old man. E.g.s: Your heart will cease beating the first time you see him tottering perilously next to the garden wall (his hips!). You will want to bang your head against the breakfast bar when he starts whimpering (again) and looks up all wide-eyed and confused at you like you know what the hell is upsetting him and how to fix it. No, this is not 1964 and no, you don't work at the plant anymore. I don't know what happened to Elsie. PLEASE STOP CRYING. And then he will poop. And pee. All over your pretty hardwood floors. He will march off into another room and then you will walk in there later and upon seeing a giant, often slimy, turd, you will feel like he just crapped all over all the hard work you've put in to try to get him to be a functional member of society. And by then, you can't even scold him because he will be off in another room, hungrily chewing on your panties or perhaps the molding at the base of your wall because apparently, he is that gd insane.
Sometimes you think that if he doesn't shape up, you will have to send him to "the home." But then you pull up the driveway in the evening and he spots you as you enter the house -- those giant ears plastered down on his head, excitement making all 11 lbs of him shake like a polaroid picture.. even the submissive piddling across your pretty hardwood floors (again) seems forgiveable. And you realize that even though you are living with a debatably fuzzier version of Walter Mathau, you wouldn't have it any other way.
Except maybe less poop. Do you hear me, Walter? We poop OUTSIDE, not inside.
