My best friend was born to kill. It was not her choice, and perhaps not her fault. But she has a history of violence that would make a serial killer squirm.

There was the time she ripped open someone’s head and left their ear hanging from a string of skin. Or the time that she grabbed her victim’s throat so tightly that the screams went silent. It was like someone hit the mute button on a horror movie.

But perhaps the worst incident occurred in my own home. I came back to my apartment one day to blood on the kitchen floor. I heard whimpering from the bedroom.

“What hell is going on!”

I rushed in and saw my best friend’s sister on the ground, with her face sliced half open. I rushed her to the hospital where her cheek was surgically rebuilt. The perpetrator showed no remorse for the attack.

You might be wondering why I am friends with someone like this. The easiest answer is that my best friend is a dog — to be precise, an American Staffordshire Terrier rescued from a dog fighting circle — and so are her victims.

But the easiest answer is often not the best one. And here is the right answer: Lisa is my best friend because she taught me what it means to love.

Read Wayne’s other writings here (Substack)

Music by Moby: Everything That Rises