AN
APOLOGY TO BREED BAN ENTHUSIASTS
I'm sorry
you are frightened of my dogs and are trying to have them killed because
they are pitbulls.
I'm sorry
you lack the understanding of this breed's true history,
gentleness with people, wonderful temperament, intelligence and
behavioral conformation. I'm sorry you won't read the ATTS stats
regarding our breed's true temperament, putting it in the top four
for temperament, scoring better than breeds like Golden Retrievers
and Cocker Spaniels.
I'm sorry
that you side with and protect animal abusers by marking
the breed of dog and not the irresponsibility of the owner. I'm
sorry that by your logic I could steal a car, run some people over
with it, and then you can blame the make of car for the accident as I
walk free.
I'm sorry
you generalize one breed of dog with one group of people.
I'm sorry you can't see the love and determination that many often
highly educated, non-criminal, and "normal" types of people
show
towards this breed and the great personal sacrifices that they make
to take care of their dog responsibly.
I'm sorry
you cannot go into the shelters and see the hundreds of
abandoned and abused pitbulls, dying only for the inane "crime"
of
being born the breed they are. I'm sorry you cannot see the look of
disappointment in their eyes as someone walks by their kennel, and
refuses to consider adopting them based on an ill-educated fear
mongering reporter. I'm sorry that you cannot be there when the
animal looks at a human for the last time, and in spite of being betrayed
by all humans they have met, their tail still wags as someone
approaches with the syringe of Euthinol.
I'm sorry
you cannot be there when law enforcement shoots one of your
dogs dead inside its own home in front of the children it mutually
loves for simply getting off the dog bed and walking over to say
hello with its tail wagging. I'm sorry you cannot be there to rescue
pitbull puppies from a plastic bag in a dumpster, dumped there by
someone switching their illegal and inhumane activities to another,
more lucrative breed.
I'm sorry
you cannot understand the difference between canine and
human aggression in the way that this breed can. Yes, I'm saying my
pitbull is smarter than you.
I'm sorry
that the medieval witchhunting genetics of intolerance,
generalization, and racism make you feel the need to vilify a breed
of dog. I'm sorry that justice, equality, tolerance, common sense are
all things you hold dear as a fellow Canadian and expect from
others, but do not yourself offer toward a pitbull or its
caregiver. I'm sorry that you don't take the constructive time to
petition changes in the Canadian animal cruelty act and in the
criminal code that would deal out serious punishment to the real
animal abusers.
I'm sorry
you cannot see the disappointed look on a puppy's face when
the people petting it quickly frown and walk away when you tell them
it is a pitbull. I'm sorry you feel the need to terrorize my family
and my dogs for crimes we never have and never will commit. I'm sorry
you don't have to live in fear of your dog's safety from hysterical
and mentally unstable people trying to inflict all manner of evil
upon your dogs.
I'm sorry
that you cannot see my breed working in some of the best
Search and Rescue groups in the world, saving countless lives each
year. I'm sorry our media censors and refuses to print the breed
name "pitbull' when in connection with a positive act such as saving
a person or child from a burning house, drowning, wild attacking
animals, etc. I'm sorry you cannot see the many pitbulls registered
as therapy dogs and bringing so much joy to another misunderstood,
neglected demographic in our society, the senior citizen.
I am sorry
you can't see a pitbull kiss a child, step carefully over
a kitten, or play in a sunbeam. I'm sorry you cannot wake in the
morning to feel a warm pitbull cuddled next to you in bed, and know
that you are their total world, and even if the house caught fire and
trapped you, they would stay with you to the end.
But, now that I really think about it, I'm not at all sorry you don't
own a pitbull--you do not deserve one.
Rob
MacBean
The Mongrel Hordes
Lake Cowichan BC
(Permission granted by me the author to crosspost as long as it stays
intact, and with my name on it.)
The
Family Dog
The
family dog was bought to guard
chained to a post in a chilly backyard;
Housed
in a shed that was airless and dark,
and every few weeks had a run in the park.
When
boredom set in with no fun and no work,
one day it broke loose and then went berserk,
Pa couldn't fathom just why it went wild,
as it flattened his wife and then bit his child.
The police were called in to sort out the mess,
and the whole sorry tale was revealed in the press.
The Rescue Society was really annoyed,
so the dog was re-homed and the owners destroyed.
(Author
Unknown)
Interview
at the Dog Pound
As a journalist, I decided to go to the dog pound and interview
some
of the "inmates". I wanted to know what it was like in
there from
their perspective. What follows is not for the faint of heart.
I entered the building, and one
of the workers accompanied me to the
holding area. This is where dogs are kept before they are allowed
up
for adoption … IF they are allowed up for adoption. If the
dogs are
found to be aggressive in any way, euthanasia is employed.
Fortunately, if "fortunately" is the word to be used here
… this is a
Canadian establishment, and they use lethal injection, not a gas
chamber.
The pound worker led me past a big
steel door that says "Employees
Only". "What is in there?" I asked. From the look
he gave me, I knew
that this is where dogs go in, and never return.
We moved on to a row of kennels. The dogs were barking loudly, there
was the acrid smell of urine and feces, and a feeling of despair
seemed to permeate the room.
"Go ahead," the worker said. "They're all yours."
PETEY
I looked into the first kennel,
and saw only the back of a medium
sized dog who was curled up in the corner of his kennel, shivering.
He was mostly white, with some black spots. "Hello?" I
said. "May I
come in?" He lifted his head, as though it weighed more than
he could
bear. When he looked at me, I could see he was a Pitbull. His eyes
were gentle, but filled with grief. "Enter," was all he
said.
I stepped in, closing the gate behind me. He put his head back down,
facing away from me. I crouched down a few feet away.
"My name is Pete. Petey my Master called me," he said,
still not
looking at me.
"Why are you here Pete?" I asked.
"I am here because Master cannot afford to move to another
province.
I am here because someone with power said I am vicious, and a killer.
Someone who never met me. Master took me for a walk one day, and
some
lady started to scream when she saw me. I got frightened, and barked
at her. The dog police came, and they took me away. I have been
with
Master for 10 years. The last time I saw him, he just held me and
cried. He kept telling me he was sorry. I worry for him. Whatever
will he do without me?" Pete shivered even more. A tear slid
down my
face. I am supposed to remain objective, but this was wrong …
so wrong.
"Thank you Pete." I said. He said nothing as I got up
and left his
kennel.
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Popper
The kennel next to Pete's held a
very young looking dog. Pure Border
Collie by my guess. He stood on his hind legs, looking at me through
the gate.
"Hello. My name's Popper. He tilted his head. "Are you
here to take
me home?"
"No, I'm sorry," I replied. "But I would like to
talk with you."
"Sure. What would you like to talk about?"
"Popper, how did you come to be in this place?" I asked.
Popper dropped down from the gate, with a perplexed look on his
face.
He walked to the back of the kennel, then back to the front. I
noticed he had one blue eye, and one brown. He was quite beautiful.
His black and white coat was shiny and thick.
"I am not certain WHY I am here. I think maybe my family will
come
back for me. They bought me when I was only 6 weeks old. I remember
they said how smart Border Collies are, and how it would be so easy
to train me. They were very excited at first. The little ones played
with me all the time. But the trouble with little Masters is, they
refuse to stay in a group. I constantly had to nip their heels to
keep them together." He looked confused. "Why won't they
stay in a
group?" he sighed. "So I did what I thought I should do.
I am not
quite sure why the little ones screamed when I did my job, but they
did, and the Masters got very angry at me. They also got angry when
I
had to relieve myself, and did so in the house. I am not sure where
they expected me to go. All they said was that I was the smartest
breed in the world, and I should just KNOW better. Then they left
me
in the yard for a month or so. I got bored a lot, and I dug holes
in
the grass. The next thing I knew, the Masters brought me here."
Popper jumped back up on the gate, his white paws protruding through
the links. He looked at me with his lovely eyes, and asked "Will
you
please let them know I want to come home? Please tell them I promise
I will be good?"
"I will Popper," I said.
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Spartan
My heart was breaking. I was beginning
to regret coming here, but
their stories had to be told. I moved along. The next dog I saw
looked to be easily 100 lbs., a Rottweiler. He was handsome indeed,
except for the scars on his face and back. He tilted his head, and
looked me right in the eyes.
"Hello. Who are you?" he asked.
"I am a reporter," I replied. "May I speak with you
for a little
while?"
"Most certainly. My name is Spartan. You can come in, I won't
bite,"
he said.
"Thank you Spartan. I will."
I entered his kennel, reached out and stroked his giant head. He
made
a loud grumbling noise, and closed his eyes.
"Spartan, why are you here?"
Before he could answer my question, he was suddenly in the grip
of a
nasty coughing spasm. It sounded painful.
"Please excuse me," he said when it passed. "Kennel
cough. It seems
all of us who come in here get it.
"Why am I here? Well, about two years ago, I was born in the
backyard
of some person I can't even recall. I had 11 brothers and sisters.
I
recall a day when a big man came and gave that person some money,
and
took me away from my mother. They had to chain her up, as she was
very angry that he took me. They chained her and beat her. I came
to
know the man by the name of Jim. I overheard him telling his friends
that I would grow up to be big and mean like my mother. But as I
grew
older, all I wanted to do was play and be friends with everyone.
Jim
said I needed to be taught how to be mean, so he chained me up in
the
yard. No more house for me, he said, I was too spoiled. When people
came by to visit, I was so happy to see them. I wanted them to come
and play. But that made Jim angry, so he beat me with sticks and
chains. When he came near, I would roll onto my back so he would
know
I wasn't a bad dog. That made him beat me more." Spartan's
eyes
clouded with grief. "Then he brought me here."
I reached out and stroked Spartan's massive gentle head once more.
"I
am so sorry Spartan. Some people are just plain evil." I gave
him a
kiss and left his kennel. As I walked away, Spartan called out,
"What
will happen to me, nice lady?"
I shook my head. "I can't say Spartan. Maybe someone kind will
come
and get you. We can only hope."
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Patsy
I walked a little further down.
I could see a shape moving at the
back of the next kennel. "Hello?" I called out. Suddenly
the shape
lunged at the gate in a fury, barking and gnashing its teeth. I
stumbled backwards, and crashed into an adjacent kennel. The other
dogs began barking loudly and jumping at their gates.
"Don't go near her," a small female voice came from behind
me. "She's
mad."
I gathered myself back together, and saw a little Jack Russell
Terrier behind me.
"Thanks for the warning," I was still trembling. Across
the way, the
other dog, apparently a Husky and German Shepherd cross, was glaring
at me, lips curled back revealing brown stained teeth. Her ribs
and
hips showed through her dull, matted grey coat.
The little dog invited me into her kennel, and I gladly went in.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Patsy." The little brown and white dog held
a paw up to
the gate in greeting.
"My owner surrendered me. She said she wanted a cute little
dog like
the one on the TV show, Frasier. She didn't bother to look into
the
type of dog I am." Patsy heaved a sigh.
"I suppose she expected me to just lie about and only need
a short
walk each day, just like Eddie, but my energy was so high that I
needed to run and play." She glanced at her surroundings. "Now
I am
here. I suppose it could be worse. I could be like…her."
Patsy looked
towards the still growling dog across the way.
"What happened to make her so vicious?" I asked.
"From what we could gather," she replied. "she was
found tied in a
back yard. She only had a three foot chain. Some days there was
no
water. Rarely was there any food. One day a nice neighbour came
by
and brought her some meat. By then it was too late. She was already
mad. She broke off her chain, and bit the poor man badly. We know
she
will be going behind the steel door. I am sad to say, I think it
will
be best. Perhaps then she will know some peace."
Just then, the door at the end of the building opened, and a woman
stepped inside. All the dogs began to bark wildly, then one by one,
they went quiet. I whispered to Patsy, "Who is that? Why have
all the
dogs gone quiet?"
Patsy breathed deeply through her little nose, and closed her
eyes. "SHE is a Rescuer. Can't you smell it?" she asked.
"Smell what?" I was confused.
"Compassion. Love. Sorrow. It emanates from her pores. She
is here
for one of us, but nobody knows who just yet." Patsy looked
hopeful.
The Rescuer moved from kennel to kennel, looking at each dog. I
sat
quietly watching. I could see tears in her eyes as she made eye
contact with each one. She stopped at Spartan's cage and spoke
quietly to him.
"No more beatings my man. No more. You are coming with me.
From here
on in, it's all going to get better." The Rescuer produced
a leash,
opened the kennel door, and took Spartan away. As he walked beside
her, his little stubby tail wagged with delight.
Patsy sighed again. I could see the disappointment in her eyes,
and
it grieved me. They all had the same look, as they watched The
Rescuer depart.
"I am so sorry Patsy," I said in a whisper. "But
you are a little
dog, and everyone loves little dogs. I am convinced you will be
rescued soon." Patsy's brown eyes twinkled at me, a little
bit of
hope returning.
I had heard and seen enough. I needed
to tell people how it was for
these unfortunate creatures. They were all here through no fault
of
their own. I stood to leave. I passed by many other dogs I did not
interview, looking at each one, wishing I could take them all home
with me and give them the love they deserved.
I stood by the door taking one last glance back, when it opened,
and
one of the pound workers came in. His face was drawn and sad. He
walked by without a word, and stopped at Pete's kennel. I heard
him
take a deep breath, then he paused, and opened the kennel door.
The
words were muffled, but I am sure I heard him say "I'm sorry
old boy."
He came out, with Petey in tow. The old dog's head hung down in
resignation, and they both disappeared behind the big steel door.
Copyright:
Sally Hull, July 6th, 2006
selahv@shaw.ca
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