What's in a Dog?

"What kind of dog is that?" was a constant question wherever I took Bryndy, which was pretty much everywhere except work and the dance floor on Friday nights.  I never knew quite what to say so always fell back on shrugging helplessly and saying "I don't know.  They tell me she has pointer and pit bull in her, but she's probably got 1000 other kinds of breeds in there, too."  When I asked the vet at her first visit she shrugged and said, "Heinz 57 mutt."  In other words, she is a classic shelter dog - the result of probably generations of multiple-breed mixed offspring.

But, as soon as the words "pit bull" floated out of my mouth I would get either one of two reactions:  A look of surprised confusion, perhaps an exclamation of disbelief; or I would see a look of suspicious wariness, and a physical backing away.  And of course, my reaction to these reactions varied as well.  The surprised person was usually surprised because Bryndy lacks most of the physical characteristics associated with "pit bulls."  She is long rather than squat, both in her body and in her legs.  She has a longer, narrower muzzle rather than a shorter, closer one.  Her adult weight is between 40 and 45 pounds, and her tail, when wagging, has a distinctive curl that hovers over her back like a little question mark.  What "pit bull" has that?  The conversations with the surprised/disbelieving were usually mutually friendly.

The suspicious and wary person was usually wary because of the words "pit bull" rather than any behaviors or reactions Bryndy displayed.  And always, always, their first question was, "Does she bite?"  And it made not one bit of difference if they had just pet her and received kisses, or just watched her as she lay on the grass.  After a month my standard reply became, "Why would she?"  This would cause the person to actually think while I pointed out her non-threatening postures and behaviors.  But it wasn't (still isn't) as easy as that all the time.

A few months into "pit bull" ownership, some relatives came to spend the day with us.  They brought their Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with them and fawned over Bryndy's antics while we chatted.  The inevitable question of what kind of dog she is came up and I listed the possibilities and added that "pit bull" had been thrown out there as one of the breeds they assumed she carried in her genes.  They didn't really have a reaction to this news.

My mother, on the other hand, who had been heading to the sink with the dishes, turned to me horrified and said, slowly and angrily, "She's a pit bull?!"

Now, my mother wasn't the type of person to get unduly angry at anyone or anything.  I mean, she had her opinions on what constituted correct behavior in a very "treat others as you would be treated" kind of way.  She was very fair and very smart.  But she had fear for the safety of her grandchildren, which I understood, and it combined with the fact that she had no knowledge of or experience with dogs.  Added to this was the fact that national news had been reporting developments in the Diane Whipple fatal mauling over the previous year.  The breed of dogs most commonly (and incorrectly) reported as being the culprits were "pit bulls," (the attacking dogs were actually a breed called Presa Canario), and public opinion of "pit bull" dogs was very low.

But my mother hadn't utilized the information available on the internet the way that I did.  She also did not attend obedience classes with me and Bryndy.  But she did know that she could reap the benefits of all the training I was doing, because by this time she was able to: put Bryndy in her kennel when someone came over, eat dinner in peace at the table without the bother of having a begging dog at her feet (Bryndy was taught to lay on her bed in the corner while we ate), and let her out into the backyard so she didn't have to worry about cleaning up accidents.  She was also impressed that I had taught Bryndy to wait for a release to go to her food bowl.  So what she knew through experience was that she had a dog in the house that listened.  What she feared in her heart was that she had a dog in the house that might "snap" at any given time and kill her precious grandchild.  But she also trusted that I knew what I was doing, would never put my nieces (and, eventually, nephew) at risk, and that I would take the dog to get euthanized myself if she ever did anything to hurt any of the children.  She also had faith in my ability to be a reasonable, intelligent, thoughtful, and responsible dog owner

I looked at my mom and held up my thumb and forefinger as close together as possible without touching and said, "She has this much pit bull in her."

"You told me she was a terrier mix."

"Pit bulls are terriers."

That answer earned me "the look." You know, the one that said we'd be finishing that conversation after our relatives left.

I can't remember any more specifics about this particular conversation, but I know I spent the next couple of weeks reassuring her that Bryndy was safe when supervised with the children (one aged 9 and one aged 12 months).  But then, Bryndy did something that erased all fears and concerns from my mother's head and heart and the only time afterward that I ever heard my mother say the words "pit bull" it was in defense of, or pride for, her granddog.

Bryndy wasn't too thrilled with wheels when she was a youngster.  She didn't like bikes, shopping carts, wheelchairs, roller blades, or skateboards.  She barked and lunged when they went whizzing by and I was a little clueless and financially unable to delve into it with specialized training.  It was just one of those things that you have to deal with when you have a dog, I thought.  But it was one of the things that stopped me from taking her into therapy work.  So when my 9 year old niece came into the house on roller blades, it captured Bryndy's attention.  She didn't bark, just watched as my niece collapsed on the recliner with her legs sticking out and the wheels on her feet still rolling.  We all watched her watch them.  Then my niece sent them spinning around again with her hand.  Bryndy was watchful of them, but did not react.  Then, my other niece - the toddler - started to walk towards the spinning wheels with her hand outstretched.  Bryndy literally threw herself, facing the wheels on the roller blades, between my toddling niece and the threat she perceived from the wheels.  She did not bark or growl, she just flung herself between the two.  And to us, with only an average understanding of dog behaviors, there was no mistaking her intention when she checked behind her to see that my niece had stopped her forward movement.

I think we were all impressed because we all seemed to interpret what she did the same way.  We all spoke at once, my mother and I marveling that a young dog, with "pit bull" in her, would display what we interpreted as a protective gesture to the family's human baby, and my niece who thought it was so cute that Bryndy wanted to keep her baby sister safe.

So the issue of what breeds were (are) in Bryndy ceased to be a potentially negative discussion in the family.  Bryndy was Bryndy.  Sweet, friendly, intelligent, obedient, playful without being frenzied (thank goodness for doggie play dates for puppies!), and mostly quiet.  A good dog.

However, there were still certain aspects that made me a tad bit leery of the "pit bull" part of Bryndy.  Was I afraid of my dog?  No.  Was I aware of what she was potentially capable of?  Yes.  Did this make me worry?  Perhaps a little bit.  But I was more worried that I was incapable of reading her body language and behaviors effectively – that I would put her in a position where she felt she needed to rely on instinct rather than learned behaviors.  And I was so attached to her at this point that just the thought of her dying, as a result of instinctual actions or at the hands of someone who just wanted to harm her - would cause me to sob.
 
So I had to quiet the turmoil in my mind - the small part of me that was influenced and frightened by what I heard and saw on the news.  And the only way to quiet the small fear that Bryndy would suddenly snap due to the percentage of "pit bull" in her was to educate myself about the genetic heritage of "pit bulls," and the idea of the “snap.”

At this point in time on the internet, my main source for information came from the fairly new organization called Bay Area Dog owners Responsible About Pit bulls (BAD RAP).  They had begun their programs in 1999, so by 2002-2003 they had a nice resource library of information that I started utilizing.  But even so, I was smart enough to realize that relying solely on the information provided by an organization that supported pit bulls would be foolhardy on my part.  If I was going to learn, I was going to make sure due diligence was paid for that educated.

I searched through the American Veterinary Medical Association (AVMA) for information about dog bites and attacks, to see if I could get a handle on the how and why of their occurrence, and came across their publication, “A Community Approach to Dog Bite Prevention,” that had been published in 2001.  This led me to the twenty-year study done by the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), the results of which concluded; “Collection of data on the entire dog population (eg, age, breed, sex) may help resolve comparative risk issues and may be accomplished by combining paperwork on mandatory rabies immunizations with registrations of breed and sex.  Only with numerator and denominator data with formal evaluations of the impacts if strategies tried by various communities will we be able to make science-based recommendations for decreasing the number of dog bites.  In the interim, adequate funding for animal control agencies, enforcement of existing animal control laws, and educational and policy strategies to reduce inappropriate dog and owner behaviors will likely result in benefits to communities and may well decrease the number of dog bites that occur.”

So it became clear to me that if I were going to be a responsible owner, with a community-friendly dog, I should continue down the path I'd started on.  I knew that time and experience would help my confidence and I decided to relax about the “pit bull” in my beloved Bryndy.  And we lived that way happily, and safely, for a few years.  Bryndy liked other dogs, loved other people, and was a trustworthy companion that filled a part of me I hadn't realized was empty.

Then something happened that shook me to my foundation.  Something happened that made me realize I could no longer relax.  Something happened that made me understand that I could no longer be satisfied that my dog, my sweet-natured companion, was an acceptable community member based on her behavior alone. Something happened in Denver, Colorado...

The Name Game

I offered my new puppy breakfast one little handful at a time.  I did this because the woman from the shelter recommended that I do so, to give the puppy the understanding that I was in control of the food.  I had watched at the store while this woman gave the puppy a bowl of wet food and then stuck her hand in the bowl.  I’d seen similar tests performed during assessments on some of the shows they aired on Animal Planet, and had read arguments for and against such testing on the internet, so I understood what she was trying to determine.  However, I was skeptical of the practicality of this test, particularly because the woman was using her actual hand, the food was wet, the puppy was hungry (after all, she’d been running around playing for hours), and the store was noisy and stress-inducing for everyone.  The puppy hadn’t really reacted until that hand started getting in the way of her eating (going under her muzzle), and even then she’d only given a low growl and continued to eat.

A growly puppy, however, was not something I wanted around my nieces (particularly since I hadn’t been all that forthcoming about her breed mix to my mom) so I decided that I might as well teach her from the start that she didn’t have to covet food.

She seemed unconcerned about this unorthodox method of eating and sat on the floor at my feet, waiting patiently for each handful (and taking them gently) until there was none left.

It was a gorgeous late-summer Sunday, and I remember thinking that I only had this one day to really start bonding with the puppy before morning came and introduced her to the fact that she would spend most of her days in the laundry room behind a baby gate, at least until she was more reliably house-trained.  And it isn’t as bad as it sounds because my mom worked from home, and she said she would let the puppy out to play every once in a while until I got home from my own job.  I wasn’t looking forward to leaving her.  I didn’t want her to feel abandoned again.

I was testing out the name “Brandy,” and it was – ok.  I wasn’t completely sold on it and neither was the puppy.  I’d brought out a bunch of toys and she didn’t seem to know what to do with any of them, except for the rope.  She loved to play tug, I discovered.  She was afraid of the Frisbee (she kind of ducked and looked at me with a “why you throwing stuff at me?!” face) but she seemed to enjoy running around the yard with the squeaky stuffed animals in her mouth.

Our next-door neighbor had an adult chocolate lab female named Lacey.  Lacey weighed probably 120 pounds and was fiercely protective of her yard.  Of course, I’d been living in the house and gardening out in the back yard for a couple of years by now, and she was used to me, I guess.  By the time I was ready for a puppy, Lacey was bringing me tennis balls to the edge of the fence that separated us so I would play fetch with her.

Lacey came charging up to the fence that first day, barking her head off at the little interloper on the other side and stood there menacingly.  My puppy was overjoyed to see another dog and went charging to her side of the fence to meet Lacey.  I was a little afraid for the puppy, considering Lacey outweighed her by 100 pounds.  However, Lacey gave my waggly-tailed puppy a few sniffs, a few growls, and few “I’m the adult” snaps, and after a little while they started playing with each other through the fence.  They’d run up and down the shared fence line and then meet in the back corner when the other neighbor’s golden retriever came out - and I found out that her name was Brandy.

Another strike against the name I wasn’t sold on.  I decided it was best to keep thinking on it and see if she “grew into” anything.

As the days passed, I could see that she was kind of a prissy little thing.  She never seemed interested in digging while I gardened (didn’t realize how big a deal this was until three years later – but stick with me and I’ll get there) and stopped short at the door when it was raining.  She loved to go on walks with me through the neighborhood, seemed to enjoy her obedience classes, and we spent practically every Saturday and sometimes Sunday mornings at Ceil’s house training and playing with Amber.

Everything we learned together that first year is melted together into a series of memories.  And I cherish every single one of them.  They are foundation stones.  It is what made my research turn into knowledge, because I learned from her.  And she learned from me.

I was at Ceil's house about a week after the adoption and we were throwing names back and forth.  I liked the structure of the name Brandy, but since it wasn't quite a fit (and since the Golden neighbor had that name), I laughed and said, "Bryndy."  And that was that - she had a name.  It fit her nicely, it was close enough to Brandy that the change didn't confuse her, and while my nieces continued to call her Brandy for a few weeks, Bryndy and I became an inseparable team.

The summer flew by and when cold weather settled in, we went out to the back yard one morning and I watched as she alerted on an unfamiliar object in the yard.  She went from surveying the grounds to becoming immediately stiff, and the ridge of hair on her neck and shoulders, and in a line down to her back end stood up in a flash.  I looked to see what the problem was, and noticed a white plastic shopping bag had drifted into the yard and was stuck up against the fence.  She started barking at it - and I could tell that in the barking itself there was a note of anxiety - because this was not the same bark she gave out when playing with Amber or me, or even Lacie at the fence.  I encouraged her to go see what it was and she declined going first, with a look that said, "NO WAY!  I told you it was there - now it's YOUR problem!"  So she followed me cautiously and after sniffing the plastic bag, she promptly forgot it was there.

She was not happy about her first snowfall (told you she's a priss), and she was further displeased when we had a significant storm in February of that year.  But I took her mind off of it by doing "trick training" with her.  There was a show running on Animal Planet on weekend mornings, and I forget the name of it but it was something like Dog U or Puppy University or something.  Anyway, there was a segment about how to train your dog to do certain tricks.

I spent the whole winter learning tricks and how to teach them, and Bryndy eventually mastered something like 30+ tricks.  It was THE BEST way to bond with my dog, since the obedience stuff was already learned and practiced on a consistent basis.

When spring came with pet fairs, Bryndy took prizes for "Say your prayers," (I kneel in front of her while she sits, she puts her front paws on my leg, tucks her head in until I say "A-men," and then gets into her bed, curls into a ball, and goes to sleep) and various other things that were less complicated.  I was proud that I had such a smart, adorable, and obedient puppy.  It hardly ever crossed my mind that she is a pit mix.  She has a long body, gangly legs, a narrow muzzle (all things inconsistent with pit bull body typing) but she also has a deep chest, and a brindle coat (things consistent with pit bull body typing).  On those two physical aspects alone, she is classified as having pit in her mix.

And I was about to have to own up to it...

It was a couple of weeks since the adoption, and Bryndy and I were out in the backyard getting ready to garden (me) and frolic (both of us, really).  I had mentioned our neighbors with the chocolate Lab, Lacey.  On this day, they were out in the yard with her and came over to see my puppy at the fence (which was see-through; 2 horizontal posts with that green chicken-wire stuff over it).  The mom (in her 40's at the time) immediately asked me if she was a pit bull.  After I confirmed this, I watched and listened in amazement as she started telling me all sorts of things about pit bulls being bad dogs and her absolute knowledge came from the fact that one of her parents was a vet.  (I never understood this argument.  You are basing your knowledge of a subject on the career experience of someone else. I didn't realize that life experience could be gained or learned through osmosis...but I digress.)

I don't remember my response, if I had anything more than, "Mmmmmm."  But I know I made a face and walked away from them and into my yard.

A couple of weekends later I saw the college-aged daughter of this neighbor at a local State Park.  We got to talking and she said, "You know, my mom is really afraid of your dog."

"Really?  Why?"

"I don't know.  She's afraid your dog will eat Lacey."

I looked at the dog at the end of my leash and had to take a moment to process the thought that someone could be seriously fearful of the idea that my 27 pound puppy would EAT a 120 pound chocolate lab.

In the end, I laughed, of course.  I told her I thought that was ridiculous and continued my walk.

But that was my first encounter with what is now widely known as "breedism."

My next encounter would hit even closer to home...

A Star Begins to Shine...

On the drive home, I kept looking down at Star’s body, curled up and comfortable on the new bed on the car seat, and I changed my mind about her coat.  I liked that her ears and muzzle were dark and I admired the way the sun hit the brighter stripes in her coat and made them shine.  She was cute, I decided.

But the name had to change.

When I pulled into the driveway and parked the car, Star lifted her head and looked at me with sleepy eyes.  As soon as I opened the car door, she tried to climb over me to get out and so I lifted her and put her on the grass.  She immediately relieved herself and started sniffing around the yard.  I let her explore for a little while, let her pull me this way and that, giggled when she stuck her head through the garden fence slots, circled the dogwood tree, and smelled every crevice on the front porch.  Then, I took her inside.

My mother had never really been an animal person.  She didn’t dislike them, but she didn’t like handling them or taking care of them.  My father was the animal lover.  He loved dogs, especially.  Watching my father with a dog was like watching a different person.  He’d squish their faces between his palms and give them smooches, which made my mother’s face screw up in disgust as she said, “Yuck!”

It would have been nice to grow up with a dog.

Not being into animals didn’t mean my mom denied my brother and me the experience of pet ownership, however.  We got a kitten when I was 5, who lived until I was 21 (Mitten; 1974 – 1990) and I got another cat when I was 18 (Tiffany; 1987 – 1997).  In between and afterwards I had a succession of smaller animals; Brownie and Goldie the hamsters; Hercules and Mel Gerbson the gerbils, Dreyfus the budgie, and hundreds of aquarium fish.

My father and I would talk about getting a dog every once in a while, as he grew progressively more ill over the years, but we could never agree on what kind of dog to get.  He wanted a smaller dog, and I wanted a medium-sized dog.  But I’m sure he would have liked any dog I might have brought home.  He for sure would have liked my new puppy.  But my father had passed away exactly two months to the day before I went out and adopted Star.

Star was all about being a wiggly-butt and waggly-tailed girl when she met my mom.  This did not immediately win mom over.  Star looked up at my mother and put all the power she had into her behind, almost knocking herself sideways.  Mom eyeballed her and smiled.  “Cute.  What is she?”

I shrugged.  “Um, some kind of terrier mix, they said.”

“Will she get bigger?”

“They said she’d only get to be about 40 pounds.”

“Really?”  I could tell she was concerned.

“It’s not that big.  She’ll be fine.”

At that moment a herd of nine-year old girls descended upon my new puppy with squeals and giggles.  Turns out my other niece was there with a group of neighborhood friends.  Star, still on the leash, still wagging her tail and wiggling all over, was soaking up the attention.  I was happy to see she wasn’t afraid of the children.  She was friendly, but I could tell she felt a little intimidated or was maybe just completely tuckered out from her day.  I made a suggestion to the girls that we all go out to the backyard so I could walk the puppy around and let her get to know her new home.

“What’s her name?” They asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I answered.

After walking her around the yard a couple of times (I didn’t want to let her off the leash since the girls were going in and out of the gate), I called my best friend.  Two months prior, Ceil had adopted a beagle/shepherd mix from the city shelter and named her Amber.  I was so busy researching and puppy-shopping that I hadn’t even gone over to meet her yet.  We were both so excited to get the puppies together that we decided I should come over right away.

I got Star back into the car.  Again, she curled up on the bed and fell asleep.  And again, I stroked her silky ear while she slept through the entire 20 minute drive over to Ceil’s house.  Halfway there, I realized that I’d forgotten to bring the food I’d just bought for the puppy to eat.  Also, the bowl I bought for that purpose.  That was my first lesson in puppy-ownership:  Bring their stuff.  But I knew Ceil would hook us up, so I just kept driving.

I saw Ceil standing on her driveway, Amber behind the fence in the backyard behind her.  As soon as my tires hit the gravel, Amber started barking.  As soon as Amber started barking, Star popped up from her position in the bed and started barking back at her.  Ceil and I laughed as our puppies, obviously excited, fell all over themselves to say hello to all of us at once.

We brought Star into the yard and she and Amber sniffed each other, play bowed, and then took off in a game of chase.  We let them run around like maniacs for the next couple of hours, laughing frequently.  When it started getting dark we all trooped into the house and Ceil fed everyone, including the dogs.

I asked Ceil how she came up with the name Amber and she told me it was because that’s what she thought of when she looked into the dog’s eyes.  I looked down at my puppy, who had curled up on the rug with Amber.  “I was thinking about calling her Brandy,” I said.  Brandy had been the name of Ceil’s first dog, coincidentally.  She told me she liked it but wasn’t sure it was the right “fit.”  She told me to take a few days to think it over because the puppy wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

I thanked Ceil for everything, collected my sleepy puppy, and loaded her into the car for the last time that night.  She turned in circles a couple of times before settling into the bed.  And instead of putting her head down, she watched me put the keys in the ignition.  I put the car in gear and she looked into my eyes.  She winked.  I winked back.  She put her head down, closed her eyes, and slept all the way home.

Once inside and reacquainted with the space inside the house, I discovered that my new puppy followed my every step.  When I went to the bathroom, she cried at the door until I came out.  I went out the front door to go get the mail and she cried until I came back.  It was the crying that got mom’s sympathy.  I heard her telling the puppy she would be ok and that I’d be back in a minute.

Star and I spent the evening playing with her new toys and cozying up together on the couch.  I took her out back with me every once in a while and she did her business.  I was happy about that, but worried how she’d do through the night.

Eventually, I took her into my bedroom and let her explore.  Hercules the hamster captured her interest for a while, and she quietly watched him scurry around his little home.  When he went into hiding in his little dump truck-shaped house, Star finally tore herself away from his cage and jumped up on the bed.  She watched as I changed into my pajamas and when I brushed my hair, she barked at me.  I laughed.  After I put my hair into a ponytail and sat on the bed with her, she jumped up on my back and successfully pulled the scrunchie out of my hair.  I laughed again.

When she started chewing on the stolen goods, I dug into the bag of supplies I’d bought and pulled out a nylabone.  She was very interested in what I was unwrapping, and when I gave it to her she abandoned my scrunchie and settled down with the bone.

I read a book while she happily gnawed on the bone.  I tested her every once in a while by taking the nylabone from her.  She let me take it each time and waited patiently until I gave it back to her.  After a while I turned the light off and we both settled into the bed.  Worried that she wouldn’t be able to wake me if she needed to go out, I tossed and turned for a little while.  This is when I learned the second lesson of puppy-ownership:  No nylabones in bed.  Eventually, I fell asleep in the warmth of Star’s body, listening to her gentle breathing.

In the morning, before I even opened my eyes, I wondered where the puppy was.  Worried that she needed to go to the bathroom and was off making a mess somewhere, I lifted my head, frantic to know where she was.  I saw her immediately.  The window next to the bed let in the morning light and illuminated the stripes on her coat as she lay curled up on the pillow next to me.  We looked at each other.   

“Good morning,” I said.  

 She leaned forward slowly and licked the tip of my nose, just once.  My heart swelled and I patted her head.

I’d gotten my puppy.

Then we both got up to face the day and learn more about each other…

The Journey Begins...

When I decided to get a dog, I did some research.  I always knew I was going to be adopting from a shelter or rescue, so I used a few preferences for guidelines:

Female:  I still don’t understand this preference, but if I were looking for a cat I’d want a male.  *shrug*

Short Coat:  I don’t go to the salon for myself and don’t want to be bothered having to keep up with a lot of bathing and brushing hair on my dog.

Young:  I was living at my mother’s house at the time and my then-one year old niece was over every day.  We had to be sure the dog was young enough to be good with a toddler.  My mother’s only stipulation was: no pit bulls.

As I researched and visited shelters and adoption fairs, I realized that the vast majority of available dogs were of the “pit bull” variety.  And I liked the way “pit bull” dogs look.  I love a mooshy face, blocky head, and muscular line on a dog.  Boxers, Bulldogs of every variety, Boston Terriers, Pugs…all have a place in my heart.  Back then the place in my heart they had was built on liking the way they look.  Now it’s built on that and having to advocate for them because of the way they look.

More on that later.  For now, I’m still looking for the “perfect- not-a-pit-bull” puppy…

So, because I liked the way pit bulls looked, I dipped a toe in the waters of pit bull research.  Ten years ago, pit bulls were feared, banned in many places, and the media sensationalized them negatively in story after story.  That was ten years ago.  Today, pit bulls are feared, banned in many place, and the media sensationalizes them negatively in story after story.   

But believe it or not, some things have changed.  The educational outreach that began all over the internet fifteen years ago grew as the internet grew.  The sources I had bookmarked ten years ago are mostly still there, only now they have been joined by many other educational resources throughout the world.  There are more positive pit bull stories in the media (though the number of sensationalized stories seems to remain the same), the decision to outlaw dog fighting nationally, and the very public coverage of the raid on Mike Vick’s dog kennels all had a positive impact for pit bull advocates.

But if I hadn’t, ten years ago, learned that pit bulls are no different than any other dog, I would never have adopted one.

I had always been skeptical of the whole “locking jaw” myth.  A locking jaw didn’t seem to be something that would develop naturally on one breed of dog and not other breeds of dogs.  And forgive the pessimism, but I also had no faith that human beings, brilliant or not, were capable of genetically designing and perfecting such a trait on a specific breed of dog without significant and noticeable facial reconstruction.

I started with the AVMA and found enough facts there to determine that the “locking jaw” was, indeed, a myth.  What people call a “locking jaw” on a dog indicates merely that the tenacity of the dog, left to its own development, would preclude letting go of a prey item.  It’s a breed trait.  So I knew that while a puppy would instinctively do this, I also knew it was a trainable behavior.  I could teach the dog, pit bull or not, to “drop it,” and help it curb its natural instinct to “lock.”

Specific web searches for “pit bulls” brought up a ton of web sites on both sides of the debate that had been raging since the late 1980s.  I waded through persuasive educational articles from many fledgling breed advocacy groups (BAD RAP, Understandabull.com, National Canine Research Council, and others) that left me wondering why so many people were so averse to this breed of dog without seeming to have any facts in their grasps.  And then I remembered that I’m pessimistic about the human being’s ability to be reasonably intelligent.

Pessimism aside, it’s painfully obvious that when a person argues a point, it’s that person’s goal to “win” the argument by swaying the other person’s belief system.  When a person discusses a point armed with tangible facts and an opened mind, it’s that person’s goal to teach and learn.

I’m a chronic student, and spent ten years teaching.

So I laid out a few arguments for my mother in favor of pit bulls.  I was subtle; throwing out little tid-bits I’d gotten from the internet like the myth of the “locking jaw,” and the fact that Petey from “The Little Rascals” was a pit bull.  She was worried.  I was steadfast.  She was unconvinced.  I knew I would be able to conquer her worries and fears.  She knew I was thinking along those lines.

In late August of 2002 I had called a local shelter on a Friday afternoon (as had become routine) to see if any puppies were up for adoption.  I was told some boxer puppies would be out the next day.  I was excited!  I love boxers!

I got up early and took the scenic, hour-long drive to the shelter.  When I got there and asked about the boxer puppies, no one knew what I was talking about.  I was devastated.  I had driven all that way and now might miss an adoption event being held at a local pet store (which, ten years ago, were not held every weekend).  Also, the staff was rude beyond belief.  I jumped in my car and hauled ass to the pet store – an hour and a half away.  I convinced myself that everyone and their mother was out looking for a puppy that day and that by the time I got there all the puppies would be gone.  It had been more than a month since I’d finished enough research to know I was up for the challenge of dog-ownership and had been looking for that one special dog for more than a month.  I wanted my puppy!

With this mindset I stalked across the parking lot and stomped into the store, ready to get my puppy and go home.  Immediately in front of me stood a young man holding the leash of a huge white dog with black spots.  He (the dog) was a young, very sweet, very calm, and very cute mastiff mix; way too big for me and my mother’s house.  “Are there any other puppies?” I asked.  He directed me to a group of cages and a table the animal shelter had set up.

While I chatted with the women at the table, I watched two puppies romping around on the floor in the middle of a circle of people.   They were the same size but one puppy was tan with a black muzzle, very thin, and a boy.  The other puppy was a brown blur of movement as she chased toys from one person in the circle to the next.  When she finally stopped, I saw she had the strangest coloring I’d ever seen on a dog.  She looked like a tiger (I learned later that the technical term for her coat is “brindle.”)  Plus, it was obvious I would never be able to keep up with such an energetic pup, stalwart non-athlete that I am.  Disappointment settled like dust in my brain as I asked “Are these the only puppies you have?”

At that point I learned that the tan puppy had already been adopted at the shelter and was waiting for his new family to come and pick him up.  This left the puppy with the tiger stripes.

She was about four months old, weighed about 20 pounds, was predicted to weigh about 40 pounds total, and had been picked up by animal control three days prior to the adoption event after someone reported her being thrown out of a car.  The shelter staff had named her Star.  She had a short coat that would not require a lot of brushing.  She was not spayed.  She was determined to be a pointer/pit bull mix.

She looked nothing like any of the pit bulls I’d come across in my research or seen in other shelters, and I knew my mother would not be able to tell, either.

I hesitated.  I really didn’t like her coat.

The woman from the shelter encouraged me to walk her around the store and spend some time with her.  Star looked worried as we went up and down the aisles, looking up at me with big, wet, brown eyes that I could tell wondered if I would hurt her.  Especially after she pooped.

With some treats in my pocket I took her to a quiet corner of the store and asked her to sit.  She looked at me.  I manipulated the treat to have her sit and praised her a few times.  We walked around some more.  I tried the sit command again and she got it immediately.  I was impressed.

I pulled out the mobile phone and made some calls, wavering between wanting her and not wanting her with everyone I knew.  My mother told me it was my decision.  That didn’t help.

I wandered around, coming back to the puppy time and time again for four hours.  I was told I had to make a final decision by 3:00.  At 10 minutes to 3 I bought a green collar with rhinestones and a matching leash.  Then I signed the paperwork, gave them my check, and watched as they packed up all their gear and left the store.

I broke out into a cold sweat and looked down at Star.

She looked up at me.

I said, “Let’s go get you some stuff.”

 
An hour later and more than $100 poorer, I walked out of the store with my new puppy.  I put the new bed I purchased on the passenger seat of my car and Star curled up on it and immediately went to sleep.  The whole drive home I stroked her silky ear as she slept.  I couldn't wait for everyone to meet her...