There's a little movie that plays 'round and 'round,
Replays every scream, each and every sound,Not always in order: surreal, Kafkaesque,The three weeks I spent waiting for death.
Spanning two Mondays, and then several months more,Waiting for justice, and peace to restore.It's a story of the cruelty of hope,And if justice and sanity reigns...nope.
The stain that was left on the wall,The place where he finally died in the hall,And the last bit of warmth shared to me,Was a stream of pee,On my kackis knee,And I didn't care,My dog's eyes locked in a stare.
And how I rocked holding him, and cried:Why Why WHY?And I caressed those velvet ears once more,And wept until sore,Before I went next doorto implore"Would you be a willing pallbearer?"And I took some scissors, and cut a bit of hair.And I put it away in a filigree box,A piece of my friend, his coppery locks.
I remember the drive with his body in the back of my car,To the place where we had our last au revoir.There's the blanket, his shroud, to remember him by, And a kind man met me at the gate, and gave me a few more minutes for a final goodbye.
Then passed a few weeks,
and I got the call to pick him up....
all of him
in a little wooden box.
My once private refuge, my sacred garden,
Is now unhallowed ground, my heart can't seem to pardon, So there's the slow death of flowers that bloomed,Instead of life..... something else loomed,
There's still a stain on the floor,There's a hole ripped in the door,My other dog did that, while I locked her away,It was she who alerted me to the fray,The one who was silent, and thrown on his backBy a granite- like beast steadfast in attack,The rest of the pack bayed, but did not join in,The owner who said nothing, but wore a proud shifty grin,And neighbors with shovels, golf clubs, and hoes,So it plays out of order, and that's how it goes.
Sometimes, the movie just starts on its own,I can be miles and miles away from my home,Something triggers the rolling of picture frames,A sound, a recounting, something looks just the same.The resulting ostinato, like the needle caught in a record's groove,My heart is racing, I can't breathe, I can't move.
I return to that time and place, with the notion,Paralyzed by the images spinning in motion.
The movie that is easily triggered to play.Inscribed in my memory, Memorial day.Plays again, each time I see that ugly head,I pass by its home, and I have to dread,If it will be him, through the screened door, I spyIf for some reason, I have to pass by,And it roars a primeval and terrible sound,And again, that damn movie, goes 'round and 'round.
This is dedicated to anyone who was privy to watching a pit bull attack, perhaps you have been told "Just Get Over It". There's an ever expanding community of us who understand.
We are passing along this reader-contributed poem for your edification:
Patrone was a dog, and a very fine boy
Of muscles and satiny coat, a real joy
to his doting fur-mommies he was just like a child
But Pat was a dog and they thought he was mild...
Those Mommies they pouted, they preened and they posed
Whilst the Bull doggy heart of poor Pat was confused.
They wanted a lap-dog, a lover, a mouse
So they loved on this Mastiff as one would a spouse
Pat slept in their beds as a good lover should but
Sometimes he bit them and tasted their blood.
Now blood to a Bull dog is honey and wine
To the palate of man when he sits down to dine
Patrone got a regular taste for the stuff
To the point where it seemed he could not get enough,
And he sent his fur-mommy to work cut and bruised
She said he had bit her, but then got confused
and said she was savaged by canine unknown
So Patrone the Pit Mastiff stayed cosy at home...
We cannot blame Pat in the heart of this story
Although his finale was bloody and gory
His fur-mommies loved him, their precious best boy
Of muscles and satiny coat, a real joy.
The people nearby locked their doors and their gates
The fur-mommies said they were just full of hate
For their Pat was a sweetheart who'd lick them to death
And not some foul beast who would steal their last breath...
This story must end as most fairytales do
When princesses frown and their crowns go askew
Reality beckoned one day for Patrone
When his resident Mommy did something so wrong
And opened the door for the Mastiff to roam
Not safe in a yard or watched from their home
Big Pat took a tour of the streets in deep joy
The pride of his fur-mommies and their bestest boy
Their licky-lick lover and gentle sweetheart
Took a shine to a stranger and tore her apart.
He took Bull dog kisses of cervical spine, and
he opened her throat to release the rich wine
He chewed on her legs and took flesh from the bone
Quite simply forgetting his Mommies at home,
Quite simply remembering all that he was,
Patrone, my dear friends, was a Pit fighting dog,
No lover, no daddy, no lap-dog was he
No bed-sharing, joy-giving, life homily
Patrone the Pit Mastiff with blood on his teeth
And his tail wagging hard in genetic release.
The moral contained in this tale is quite clear
If you look and you learn and you hold your life dear
You stand with your canine as mistress or master
You make him your child, you court a disaster
You choose your pet wisely and always avoid
Those dogs with the teeth, and the muscles, the maws,
The deep-chested, dead-eyed, goof-grinning jaws....
You'll look, really look, and you'll know what you see
Is purpose-designed with a dark history
Ignore it, deplore it, explain it away,
And call it a sweetheart for all and a day
And bed it, and love it, and praise it as mild
And smooch it, caress it, and call it your child
But that dog is a Fighting Pit Bull Dog, and thus
It is all that it seems, and it is as it looks.
Now.....
Patrone was removed from the scene of his crime
And his fur-mommies wept at the thought of the time
That their poor boy would spend in the pound, all alone,
Pining and yearning for love, life and home,
But this does not end very well for Patrone...
The Pit Bull Dog Mastiff did not use his brain,
And could not exert normal canine restrain,
He bit his assessor, got labelled as crazy
And now, like most Pit Bulls, he's pushing up daisies.
You speak of Pit Bulls, I block and parry
And mightily chirrup my hostile parody of
Protectionism and fear, borne on a swathe of
Hordes alike, the brethren of the Bull Dog, with
Eyes made bright like reptiles, shaking our tried
and tested phrases at you and your tears, we emit
our jeers and paste our memes, our gladly mesmerised
heads excitable & sweaty with Pit Bull dreams.
He moves apart from me, and yet is the sum of me
constrained by my hope & the leather cord, he
glances at me & my lost heart loves him so,
although I know, I know and know, that constant,
the last vestiges of my former conscience murmurs
like the buzzing of a picnic bee, the wasp in the bottle
that I raise to my lips, 'you are his creature'
He could evade your hopes at any time;
Gift a deadly sting of blood and truth and terror.
Lord of the streets, people fall away in whispers
Disapproving, changing directions, crossing streets,
Glancing, avoiding; clutching their pets to their
breasts or their flanks, panicked and panicking,
He knows & I see his chest burgeon & his eyes
Lighten, I speak & his ear turns but between the
stinking rope that binds us, I feel his joy & the
Weighty sum of all his blood & all his ghosts
The furious, fast, ferocious past & his inheritance
Bound to me in my cosy home, this dog of death and bone.
Iconic outlaw; he is me and I am him, rejected
Dejected, misunderstood – my frail psyche found
Peace in his dangerous face, his smiling jaws, he plays
On me as fearless as a loveable rogue, boundless energy
And the muscles that swathe him compel me to run my
Hot hands over him in some spell-binding fascination; the
awful power of him that sleeps at my hearth; I touch
Him with a prayer – do not hurt me, do not deliver all
that you are; do not become all that you wish for.
You speak of Pit Bulls, I lie and obscure
I quote and yarn, quarrelsome & querulous, deny
Your truths, the weeping wounded & the broken bodies,
I speak of mixed breeds, curs & mongrels, chained brutes
Of no good measure & made for violence, kicked & cursed,
Ignored & used, a thousand names for the abused, any
Name that leaches into the ether & forms on my lips
I will use; and failing that I will consort with hordes
Of my own kind with their own canine Lords, and
Together we will form a wall of fury to wipe away
The blood & the questions, 'til truth be smothered
Under tons of Pit Bull dog flesh, & all their Lovers.
