Look, I’m not the kind of man you’d call a soft touch—never have been—but when it comes to animals, I draw a line in blood. They’re not trophies or throw-aways. They feel fear, joy, loyalty. Winston was my last tie to Maria, and anybody who thinks they can treat a living being like trash… well, I have some opinions about that.

I carry a Colt 1911 Government Model in .45 ACP—230-grain FMJ rounds—because when you pull that trigger, there’s no question whether it ends a life. I have an H&K MP5-SD with a dedicated K-barrel suppressor and 9 mm hollow-point rounds; it whispers death through the corridors so quietly you don’t hear the crack until it’s too late.

There’s an Armalite AR-10 in the corner, loaded with 7.62×51 NATO full-metal jackets for when I need to reach out and touch someone from five hundred meters away. And tucked beneath the bench is a Desert Eagle Mark XIX in .50 AE—three-hundred-grain solids that crush bone like chalk.

So let me make this clear: you mistreat an animal under my watch, you put yourself in my crosshairs. You want to test that resolve? Go ahead. I’ll shadow you through the night, dial in my Remington 700 Police Tac in .308 Winchester with match-grade ammunition, and when you slip up, you’ll meet the cold click of that bolt. If you think you can outrun a hail of 6,000 rounds per minute from the M134 Minigun I keep in my trunk, you’re welcome to try—but your last sight will be a blur of steel barrels and the taste of freedom slipping away.

Because here’s the bottom line: they were living things—every heartbeat mattered. And I promised Maria I’d protect that life, whatever the cost. So go ahead, call me ruthless. I’ll answer every charge with another bullet, every complaint with another magazine. You hurt an animal under my roof, you leave me no choice.

And if you think you can get away with it, well…