"Dad, this is heavy, really. Is this wine?" I carried the box in my arms and felt that the box's base was wet. I touched the liquid and tasted it -- it's both sour and bitter. "That's a
Neapolitan Mastiff. That's Rupert!" Dad snapped back, with a malicious grin plastered on his face. "So where did you buy this Rupert brandy thing?" I asked again, curious about my dad's alcoholism. Dad's face turned brick red, then he said, "That's not wine, son. Rupert's a dog!"
