He can't be trusted

He can't be trusted, it's as simple as that!
Our new dog, well, he's not so new and he has got nothing to do with me beyond feeding and walking him. According to Mata Hari he is her dog unless he is in the bad books because then he is "YOUR POXY DOG!"
He is an American Akita and seems to be of the opinion that anything on four legs is there for him to attack. But to be fair, he is ecumenical about it, he will bite two legs too, especially me.
"Freddie!" says Miss Grindon 1956. "Since we lost Tara I think Khan is pining."
"What?" says I. "For the Fjords?"
Right over her head that one, never heard of the parrot sketch.
"I think we should get him a girlfriend."
"Eh?"
"Go on the internet and find one," she orders. "I don't care where. Be a nice day out for us."
We found one in Birmingham.
Phoned the people up, had a nice chat, a five year old bitch, beautiful dog and we all agreed on £250.
Took four hours to get there with him snoring most of the way.
What did he do when we finally reached his new girlfriend?
He attacked her. Two big Akitas fighting like mad, took ages to separate them.
Drove all the way back and he was suddenly my dog again, in the bad books.
"Eight hours driving!" she cries. "I could strangle your poxy dog. She was beautiful!
"Well," says I, narrowly missing a cat as we turned into our street. "What can I tell you? He can't be trusted."