I've just had my pitbull puppy moment of the week.
Toby is eleven weeks old, spotted generously with brown, a wriggly undocked tail, floppy silky unaltered ears and big silly happy doggy face. That sucrose sweet smell of puppy drew the cashiers at Trader Joe's to lean in and rub their unshaven chins over his wide forehead and coo at him.
Toby is entirely unaware of the lousy rap that evil people have thrust upon his breed's predescessors.
Toby's Girl is elm tree tall and, to my eyes, unspoilt. They make quite the couple.