My aunt and uncle owned a wiener dog back in the 90s named “Turbo”.

Being big antique collectors, they were always bringing new shit home all the time and throwing things out they’d grown tired of. Their houses was full of rustic farm tools and strange old posters advertising mid-west farm staples and products long since discontinued.

Poor Turbo, though, scared easily, and one day his collar managed to snag the side of a wicker basket full of odds and ends.

In that moment, it must have seemed that some beige nightmare had him in it’s grip, and the ruckus of all those falling objects bouncing in every direction would have only made it worse. Things like cowbells, baseballs, tongs, magazines and a number of other disparate objects.

He was terrified, and his terror leant his squat body a speed otherwise unimaginable.

It took nearly twenty minutes to subdue him, and in that time he behaved almost exactly like one of those erratic loot goblins in Diablo 3.

His moments had no rhyme or reason, and he simply ran in any direction he could, as fast as possible, as crap flew out of the basket at each frenzied turn he made.

I’m sure his little heart was on the verge of bursting, and when it was all over, he slept for hours to re-coup from the experience.