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talktoolooseOh god, oh god; that was almost really bad.
We’re taking the pup for a last walk before bed. Everything’s lovely; it’s a beautiful, calm winter’s night and we’re walking through the quiet laneways that run between the streets of our neighbourhood, lined with the garages at the backs of the gardens.
We see the rotweiller halfway down the laneway, but he is leashed and with three men so we decide we’re going to walk that way anyway. This rotweiller used to be trouble. The master has no idea what training means except that he had probably encouraged the dog’s aggressive side early in its life, probably to compensate for whatever he felt was lacking in his own manhood. The beast used to accompany him unleashed everywhere and it would more and more aggressively nip at the heels of people on the street and, as once happened to Snake, in the laundromat.
He must have had some run-in with authority, because he no longer takes it out by day and never without a leash. So we felt relatively safe walking past. But as we approached, it started barking and snarling and pulling towards us with murderous intent in its eyes. But the owner held tight so we walked by without reacting, trying to stay cool. But then the owner’s friends were yelling at our backs, “watch out, watch out!” so I turn to see the owner on the ground, holding the leash with two hands, being dragged through the snow towards us by the 110 pound brute, its teeth-bared.
The leash held and we scuttled away, but we had to walk for about 20 more minutes just to shake off the fear and to exorcise the mental image of that dog’s teeth on Gougou’s beautiful white-furred throat. I hate that kind of anger filling my soul –- an anger that makes me imagine beating that rotweiller to death with my crowbar. I hate owning that anger and I resent someone raising a dog with no idea what that entails; with no idea that a dog must be socialized if it is to live in society.
He doesn’t speak to his dog. He never said, “Bella! Sit! Down!” He just held tight to the raging nature he had let loose untamed in our city.
Power is in the uncomprehending hands of fools.
We’re taking the pup for a last walk before bed. Everything’s lovely; it’s a beautiful, calm winter’s night and we’re walking through the quiet laneways that run between the streets of our neighbourhood, lined with the garages at the backs of the gardens.
We see the rotweiller halfway down the laneway, but he is leashed and with three men so we decide we’re going to walk that way anyway. This rotweiller used to be trouble. The master has no idea what training means except that he had probably encouraged the dog’s aggressive side early in its life, probably to compensate for whatever he felt was lacking in his own manhood. The beast used to accompany him unleashed everywhere and it would more and more aggressively nip at the heels of people on the street and, as once happened to Snake, in the laundromat.
He must have had some run-in with authority, because he no longer takes it out by day and never without a leash. So we felt relatively safe walking past. But as we approached, it started barking and snarling and pulling towards us with murderous intent in its eyes. But the owner held tight so we walked by without reacting, trying to stay cool. But then the owner’s friends were yelling at our backs, “watch out, watch out!” so I turn to see the owner on the ground, holding the leash with two hands, being dragged through the snow towards us by the 110 pound brute, its teeth-bared.
The leash held and we scuttled away, but we had to walk for about 20 more minutes just to shake off the fear and to exorcise the mental image of that dog’s teeth on Gougou’s beautiful white-furred throat. I hate that kind of anger filling my soul –- an anger that makes me imagine beating that rotweiller to death with my crowbar. I hate owning that anger and I resent someone raising a dog with no idea what that entails; with no idea that a dog must be socialized if it is to live in society.
He doesn’t speak to his dog. He never said, “Bella! Sit! Down!” He just held tight to the raging nature he had let loose untamed in our city.
Power is in the uncomprehending hands of fools.
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no subject
Date: 2005-01-08 05:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-11 04:36 am (UTC)I'm thankful that Gougou and you all are safe.
I've been there. I learned when I was nine that when two dogs fought and the other dog was wihtout a leash, to drop my dog's leash so he could defend himself. I watched my own dog (30 lbs maybe?) attacked by another 'pet'. My pup's name was Bandit and he was 10 years old when it happened (three times) and I remembered being told by the children of the other dog's owner that it was my fault for walking on their property. It wasn't their property. It was a public easement that the back of their house faced and it was at least 200 yards from their backdoor. They lived two doors down from us, and my sister and I hated them with a passion. The dog that attacked Bandit? A collie. Sometimes, it's not just the breed. It's the asshole who owns it.
And incidents can happen even in the 'safe' environment of the vet's office. I had Kira (our black lab/shepard mix) in for her shots. She's about 50 lbs. and aggressive/submissive (barks at first then runs away or pees on the carpet). Some idiot brought in his Rottweiler sans leash. The Rottweiler then lunged towards us and the only thing that kept that animal from attacking both Kira and myself (we were cornered) was the vet's assistant. There were no exam rooms open so Kira and I spent quality time with the vet assistant in her gated desk area.
Power is in the uncomprehending hands of fools.
And you have a marvelous gift for words.
no subject
Date: 2005-01-11 07:33 pm (UTC)And I shouldn't be such a city bleeding-heart here. There are reasons to train dogs to be nasty guard dogs. When Snake was growing up in Hungary, a lot of people had their money and valuables at home and not in a bank. A dog patrolled their gated yards. However, a responsible owner can call a tough dog off at any time; that is crucial. They are under control.
Are dog breeds always capitalized, my dear beta?
And who's that in your vertically-panning icon?
no subject
Date: 2005-01-12 03:53 am (UTC)Precisely. And knowing the dogs is crucial as well. My dalmatian was not used to children AT ALL and reacted badly to them. If people with kiddies visited, the dog would be put in the bedroom with an extra special treat so (hopefully) she wouldn't see it as punishment. The two I have now are okay with kids who are used to being around big dogs.
Are dog breeds always capitalized, my dear beta?
Er. Dunno. I think so. Not sure. Hmmm...
And who's that in your vertically-panning icon?
The X-2 version of Jubilee. It's one of the deleted scenes from the museum and it's where I get my 'sparking' descriptions from. I just DLed it the other day. I'm torn on which Jubilee I like better because two different actresses played her (the same thing with Kitty Pryde). I think of X1's Kitty Pryde when I write but can't decide on which Jubilee. Usually X1's because she's actually *wearing* a yellow jacket and (I believe) sunglasses. I'm such a geek.
cheers!
Braced my self
Date: 2005-01-13 07:51 am (UTC)I heard a rusting noise from the grassy area beside the hosue and around the corner came tearing a pitbull at full tilt toward me. His charge was very silent except for the jungling of his dog tags and a low rumbling growl. His mouth was half open and saliva was flying from the corner of it. Basically a compact muscular machine running toward me with a determination that was unmistakeable. I was meat. There was no time or nowhere to run.
I had been feeling pretty sick and weak that summer and this day was no exception but I remembered my training as a formal postal worker in Toronto (you may remmeber the few months I tried that one when I lived with that lesbian roomie in the Beaches). I was taught that in that situation, without pepper spray, there is only one thing to do. Decide that you are going to beat the shit out of that animal no matter what - and show only that determination and no fear. And expect to be ripped apart and feel a lot of pain but make that expectation piss you off ratehr than scare you. And yes, I was pissed off as much as I was scared.
Just as I was clenching my fists and setting into a martial arts stance -thinking "Oh shit here we go!" Ready to yell my head off on the deserted sleepy street and make headlines; I saw a long line spring taut behind the dog's neck. Then the dogs entire forebody was lifted right off of the ground as he was snapped back by the leash - which I hadn't seen until now.
After a few seconds to make sure the leash hadn't snapped I started laughing with nevrvous fear.
"Serves you right you little pyscho son of a bitch". I thought about storming the house and pounding on the door to complain but thought there could be another dog or worse a Hell's ANgel with a shotgun. It looked like a home that could hosue such a person.
Unlike you ttl, I have no remorse for the hate I had for that dog. Had it come for me I would have fought it to the death and died proud; though what a stupid way to go.
I feel the same way about these kind of animals as I do gay bashers; they are only good when they are dead. Sorry for the anger and rage that you are not comfy with but; bash back if you or yours are bashed is my attitude. If you fall, you fall fighting and righteously wronged.
I do feel angry at the degenerate human trash that would have an animal breeded and raised to be this way; but once it exists in such a state; put it down. There's not enough space in the world for svage degenerate mutants and the things they breed. (And I am not sure I am distinguishing between human and canine here).
A few months later this delapidated house is now flattened and escavated. I wonder what psycho drug dealers had been living int he place.
Cody