C is for Confrontation

Today I took Rescue for a walk in the savannah.  This might appear to be a simple sentence, but it is loaded with nuance. I have never walked Rescue anywhere that somebody has not told me to (a) “hole dat dog hole dat dog”; (b) “he shud haf on a muzzle”; (c) “woman, you kyar hole dat dog, nuh”; or (d) “steups”.  Walking a pit bull in Trinidad is highly recommended as a sovereign remedy for low blood pressure.  I can only hope that Rescue has no idea the amount of negativity that is directed his way, because if looks could kill he would be lying senseless at my feet before we rounded the first bend by Queen's Royal College.

Today we actually managed to get as far as opposite to where Casuals Club used to be without attracting more than a few dozen glares.  Now, it must be clearly understood that we do not walk on the paved perimeter of the savannah.  I gave that up after the first two or three afternoons when I came to the conclusion that seeing almost everybody walking towards me scatter, scream, gasp and cuss was just not worth the while of using the concrete as an emory board for Rescue’s toe nails.  So we walk inside the savannah – far inside the savannah.  This means that if rain had fallen that day (as it did today), both Rescue and I return to the car with mud up to our ankles.  If anyone should ever have to know where every depression, hole, drain or marshy area in the savannah is to be found, then I am the person to ask.  I am also on intimate terms with the various packs of feral dogs who live in the savannah, and having to watch their misery also does nothing to lower my blood pressure or raise my depression.  But, as I said, we had reached the second stretch in our walk when our paths were crossed by two men, one considerably older than the other, who were toting a goal post.  We slowed down politely to let them pass, and the older one looked at Rescue, looked at me, and then said the inevitable “that dog should have on a muzzle.”

 
I did what I always do.  I ignored the fool and walked on.  But then something clicked in my brain and I thought, no.  No.  I am not going to take it this afternoon.  I am going to defend my dog.  So I made an abrupt turn around and with Rescue seemingly just as happy about the directional change of plan, started to walk rapidly after the two men.  I am not the type of person to gracefully walk rapidly, especially not over soggy, muddy ground.  Nevertheless, I slowly closed the distance between us and caught up to them.  If I am to be totally honest I suppose I have to admit that it also helped that they stopped, having reached their destination.  I have no idea why they could not play football nearer to the edge of the savannah, but at the time I felt it was all part and parcel of their inexplicable determination to irritate me.

“Excuse me, sir” (I am nothing if not polite) I called out to the elder gentleman who looked around enquiringly at me.

“Hi – I was wondering – when you passed me just now you said something about my dog needing a muzzle?  I was wondering, what made you say that?”

The man looked a little taken aback. “Well, he is a pit bull…..”

“Yes?” I said in what I hoped to be a neutrally encouraging voice that conveyed kindness but common sense, maturity but not abrasiveness, friendliness and stunning intelligence, all at the same time.  The poor man just looked harassed.

“Well, they have a reputation you know.  They have attacked people….  So I was just suggesting….”

“Sir, I think you would agree that in the United States of America there are many more dogs and people than in Trinidad, right?”  He nodded agreement.  “But in the United States of American more children are killed by their own parents than by all the breeds of dogs combined.  And I have never heard anybody suggest that parents should be muzzled!”

“That’s true, that’s true.  But you have to be careful..”

“Tell me something” I asked.  “Have you ever seen or heard about a dog attacking someone while on a leash?”  You could actually see the computer in his brain checking all of his back files.  After a little while he admitted that he had never heard of a bite, but he had seen dogs on leashes attacking people.

 "Attacking?” I asked disbelievingly.  “While on a leash that was held by its owner?”

 “Yes, I am telling you!  Lunging at people!  And the owners, like they want the dog to do it!  They find it’s a joke.” Oh Lord.  The infamous bad owners strike again.

“Lunging can mean anything.  Lunging is not attacking.  But what made you think I was an owner like that?  I really want to know because you are not the first person to tell me about muzzling my dog, and I want to know what it is about him or about me that makes people feel threatened.”

“No, no – I was really only joking, you know.  Ask this young man here – when we passed you I told him that the dog looked like he was well trained and if he wasn’t so well trained you could never hold him back if he decided to attack somebody.  He’s a real nice dog.  A real big dog – especially the head and mouth.  Real solid body. Plenty teeth, boy.” (Rescue had chosen just that moment to indicate his boredom with sitting in one place by yawning widely.)

Well.  Who could stay vexed at somebody who was clearly a discerning connoisseur of canine excellence?  After that the conversation quickly progressed to a catalogue of Rescue’s finer points,  the conditions under which I came to be owned by him, the near saint-like attributes of pit bulls in general, and all the difficulties we both have to overcome just to live a half-normal life.  At the end of it all we parted the best of good friends, with Rescue grinning companionably at both of them before trotting off with what he thought was a wave of his tail-stub, but was actually only a twitch.