Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 56 — page 108: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BRUTUS [ve told you about Clarkson. I didn’t like him, and as far as I knew, he didn’t like me. He had a dog, a huge Great Dane, and if there’s anything in the theory that an animal takes on the characteristics of its master, then Clarkson must have been a _ swine. Brutus—that’s what he called the beast—seemed to know that his master was the boss and took a perverse delight in throwing his weight around. He was intelligent, too, in- telligent enough to know when I'd just cleaned the floors so that he could track his big muddy feet all over them. One time we really fell out. Brutus had christened the jamb of the furnace room door, the way dogs will do, you know, and I almost stove his ribs in with the head of my broom in order to teach him not to do it again. Brutus didn’t like that. He was a big dog as I’ve told you, and he went for me. I managed to let out a shriek as I went down, and I had the sense to shove my 107 left arm into his mouth. He tore the sleeve pretty badly before Clarkson came and ordered him off, but he’d been crafty enough not to break the skin. Clarkson wanted to fire me for, as he called it, antagonising the animal, but after [’'d shown him the trade-mark and pointed out that I wasn’t employed as a kennel maid, he calmed down. I managed to get my own back on the dog a time or two, but I was never really happy when the brute was around. He had a way of looking at me and showing his teeth, and twice I had a ripped trouser seat, once after giving him some meat loaded with cascara, and again after spiking his drinking water with alum. That dog was intelligent. I didn’t like Brutus. Even though I didn’t like him, yet I felt sorry for him when, one evening, he crawled into the Institute more dead than alive. He’d been in an accident, probably tried to comicloooks.com