I was afraid of my own dog. I watch television. I knew all about them. My Pit Bull pup was getting big and still dumber than a stick.
I never wanted a so-called fighting dog, but she’d been rescued; some teenagers had her; apparently they figured she’d be better suited for a life of combat without ears. They chopped her ears off right at the skull; it was a hack job. That no-eared Pit Bull was the God awful ugliest dog I’d ever seen.
What scared me about her was her monstrous strength. Though only forty pounds, she could spring at least five times her own height. That bulldog would jump and hang from my grand kids’ tire swing; she would chew as she shook it— and every muscle from the top of her head to the tip of her tail would ripple.
I knew I had to get rid of her.
One morning I saw her leap and catch a bird. I couldn’t believe it. I was furious. I got dressed and went out there. I didn’t think or I’d have taken a gun.
“Drop it!” I shouted.
She didn’t want to.
I shook her neck. “Drop it, damn you!”
Her mouth opened and the little bird’s carcass tumbled down into the grass.
“That’s it!” I told her, but just then the bird looked at me. It shook its ruffled feathers and flew away.
Dogness stayed twelve years.
A tale about a no-eared bird catching Pit Bull.