One cold night when I was 7 years old, I had awoken to the sound of someone clandestinely leaving the room I was sleeping in. That night, my cousin was spending the night and was sleeping in the top bunk, so I had figured that he needed to use the restroom. An hour had passed when I realised he had yet to return to his bed. My curiosity got the best of me, so I quietly rose out of bed to look for my cousin. I surreptitiously crept around the house, searching every room, but he was nowhere to be found.
Upon my return to the bed, I noticed a figure in the backyard at the corner of my eye. I peaked outside and saw a ghastly sight that could not be unseen. He was silhouetted by the moonlight, but it was definitely him, looming over the dog with his undies down. I could hear his panting through the windows as he made an endeavour to engage in coitus with the family dog.
Once he was finished with what I later discovered to be his nightly ritual, he returned to his top bunk with the strong stench of mutt and shame enveloping his body.
My Cousin The Cynophile, The End.