Pitbull
There was something about the way he walked. I could tell he was a stray. Sometimes you can just tell.
I squatted and called him. “Here boy.” Then I clicked my tongue like Roy Rogers calling Trigger. “C’mon boy.”
He had pitbull in him. That was evident. I could tell by the broad face and the knife-like eyes.
Most U.S. strays are pitbulls. My friend, John, works at animal shelters. He said people buy pitbulls thinking they’ll be cool dogs to have. But they aren’t prepared for stubbornness and tenacity. A pitbull makes a mule look reasonable.
So the dog usually gets canned. Some take the dog to animal shelters. Many don’t. Many exemplary citizens just drop their dogs off on busy highways. To some people, dogs aren’t God’s creatures. To some people, dogs are just lifeless pieces of walking, defecating meat.
I have a pitbull-mix named Otis. He was found walking the streets of Defuniak Springs, Florida. He hadn’t eaten in days.
“Come here, boy.”
The old boy came trotting toward me. He was beautiful. Muscular torso. Amber eyes. His coat was smoky gray. He was sweeter than a Chilton County peach.
There was blood all over him. Someone had tried to crop his ears, but had butchered him. It looked like they’d cut him with box cutters. His ears were almost completely removed, open wounds, his ear holes were exposed. Blood was caked on his face. He was frightened.
It took a whole hour to gain his trust. When I was sure he trusted me—really trusted me—I lifted him into my truck.
He rode in my passenger seat the whole way to the shelter. I lifted him out of my truck because he was limping badly. Plus, I didn’t want him to run.
I removed my own belt, and used it as a leash. I walked into the animal shelter holding my pants up with half of my backside showing.
The ladies behind the counter gave me a funny look.
“Help this little guy,” I said.
The women behind the counter swooped onto the dog. They cooed over the animal. This, I believe, is the first requirement for working in an animal shelter. You must know how to coo over a dog.
The pitbull was in heaven. He’d never had two females gush over him at once. Come to think of it, neither have I.
The girls cleaned his wounds. They bathed him. His coat went from smoke-gray to off-white.
He was suddenly giddy with new zest. There is a certain energy to pits that I can’t describe. They have a vitality you don’t find in other dogs.
One young woman declared, “I’m going to take him home and foster him. My boyfriend is going to freak out, we already have nine dogs, but I need this dog in my life.”
She kissed the pitbull on the mouth. Then she asked if I knew his name.
“He looks like a Barney to me,” I said.
She smiled. “Barney. I like that.”
Even Barney seemed to dig the name.
Barney settled into Laura’s house nicely. He had a few disagreements with other animals, but only on Day One. After that, he was fine.
Dogs are all about pecking order. They are obsessed with rank. A dog must know where he stands, right off the bat, or his world is off balance. You have to be a dog person to understand this.
From time to time, Laura would text me pictures of Barney. And he looked so happy. His misshapen ears broke my heart. But his open-mouth smile brought warmth to my chest.
Then I got the call that Barney had heart worms. It was bad. I met Laura at her house and hung out with Barney one last time. He was cheerful. He was oblivious to the fact that he was dying. Oblivious to the fact that we humans had wounded him, then failed him.
When he saw me, he beat his tail on the floor. He licked my face. I don’t know if he remembered me or not, but I pretended that he did.
It all ended yesterday, at 9:12 a.m., Barney went to a place where I believe all dogs go. He went peacefully.
I’m not sure why I’m telling you about this animal, except that I believe every soul in this world deserves to be remembered. All creatures. Great and small.