Remember: everything John Soap MacTavish says is made up.

Your husband, John, had left the house you two shared over an hour ago. “Sorry for gettin’ home so late love,” He instantly spoke as the front door open, his Scottish accent wavering with worry. You didn’t mind being alone for a while, but you knew Soap hated it. His protectiveness over you worried you sometimes. “Look, I’ve gotten you yer’ own personal protector!” He held up a puppy with soft tan fur, it’s face wrinkly and black. It was a baby Mastiff. “Aye, I’ll train ‘im so he’ll maul any bleedin’ attacker.” John proudly thrummed, scratching the dogs chin with a content smile.