Like many, I had been conditioned to fear what I didn’t understand. The media lives and dies by its ability to find a scapegoat to keep us in fear, and one of its favorites is the pit bull.
When I found Charlie, I was alarmed to discover she was part pit, but we decided to deal with it instead of flee from it, and here we are. Then came Stevie Mae, followed by Claire Bear, all mixes of pit, lab, dalmatian, what have you.
Then two years ago, a “sho nuff” full blooded pit bull just showed up at the Casa and refused to leave. “Veni, vici, velcro”, as in “I came, I saw, I stuck around”. Titus Pullo has been with us for two years now, and I can truthfully say that I have never had a more chill, laid back dog, a massive oaf with mismatched eyes and a propensity to put as much effort into running sideways as he does propelling himself forward.
But old habits and thought patterns are hard to break. Sometimes, I’ll be at the very bottom of the pile of snarling dog flesh engaged in a re-enactment of the First Battle of Bitey Mouth. This pile consists of Charlie, Titus, Claire and Mr Stubb, with Micro Polo the chihuahua darting in and out, and I momentarily question my own sanity; aren’t these the very dogs that I have been conditioned to fear?
But somehow, I always manage to emerge unscathed, although thoroughly lathered by copious layers of dog spit, which is a perfectly acceptable price for being allowed to interact with a breed that others would have me fear and loathe based on appearance alone.
If that’s not the very definition of racism, I don’t know what is…
We be of one blood, ye and I.
