Dead Dog Walking

OK, time to interrupt this meander down memory lane for a confession.  I love people.  I love the smell of them, the taste of the warm salt on their skin, the warmth of their bodies near to mine, their touch on my fur.  I am a people dog.  People, people, people. Just love the people.  So this whole shelter thing turned out to be way better than first impressions. Because boy, were there a lot of people now.  People examining me, people feeding me, people cleaning my kennel, people taking me for little walks, and strangely, people shuffling by and staring at me through the bars. What was up with that?  The first day I gave so many kisses my tongue got chapped.  After awhile, I am thinking to myself this isn't so bad after all.  Although I could have used a blanket or two to keep out the Autumn chill.  Remember that, you people who have extra blankets.  Your shelter needs them!  Now back to me, a few days after arriving, I was abruptly taken out of my kennel and marched down the row of caged dogs, each with his own observation.  Too bad you're not a cute chihuahua like me! one snickered as if he knew something I didn't.  You should have been born a yellow lab, a yellow lab sighed.  Don't worry, they say it doesn't hurt, comforted a stocky pit bull with sad brown eyes. It'll be my turn soon, he added.  Turn for what? I wondered.  

Kisses for the world

You must be on the edge of your seat. What happened next, Clare – you’re asking. Did anyone stop to comfort you? Did they offer you a bowl of water or a puppy biscuit? A reassuring pat on the head or kind words? The only thing that came my way that day was a catch pole which tightened around my neck as I was dragged kicking and clawing into a small barred cage in the back of a truck. The cage smelled of hundreds of scared and sick dogs. It was dark and cold and slimy. We barely drove a mile when I saw the sky again as I was pulled out of the truck and plopped on the ground in front of a low-roofed building. I shook from fear. Dozens of dogs were barking, the sound ricocheting from the plastered walls into the row of cars parked in front and back again to the dogs. As they led me past the row of caged dogs, their frantic barks all tapped out the same greeting – you’ve come to the end of the road, pit bull. Kiss the world good-bye.

I started the stupid blog, Mom. Can I have my piggy ear now?

I am a dog. I live in Santa Ynez, California. Where the temperature is 111 degrees in the shade and it's so dry that my fur, the length of a Marine haircut, stands on end like 2-day stubble. You probably think my life is one of leisure and tummy rubs, filled with long naps on the sofa with an occasional break for a meal. A dog's life. Right? Not exactly. Because I am a PIT BULL! Ooooohh. Scary pit bull. And this is my story.