An anniversary of sorrow

No matter how many cases like this that we learn about, we are always shocked and saddened anew. It's never easy to write about these tragic deaths, but we are duty bound to raise awareness of the ongoing slaughter of the innocents. 

November 12th is forever tainted for Jaime, whose beloved Boxer girl, Quinn, was savagely mauled to death in front of her on that very date, four years ago. This is her story:

At approximately 7:43, my brother called. I talked to him for 12 minutes while in the garage and came back upstairs to my room. Three minutes later, I called 911.

Many of us celebrate the births of our loved ones as well as mourn the loss of our loved ones. Quinn was six, she was a boxer, she was 'just a dog', expected to live another 4-6 years.  That night, my life changed forever.  More than I could ever put into words.  I think of the little things I did wrong, the graphic details, the sounds, the sights, the smells, etc almost every night I lay my head down. Tonight is the anniversary of the attack, when the pit bulls turned on me & Quinn. 

It all happened so very fast but yet seemed to take forever.  I am not here to condemn pit bulls, I'm just here to share the life of Quinn and make others listen to the way she died.  She was so very pretty, a flashy fawn that was given to me by my pops as a Christmas present, he brought her home in a stocking.  I named her Joey for a few days and then Quinn came to be the final choice.  She went through a lot with me, during a very tough time of my life.  We moved into this new house a year before her death. 

She finally had the doggie door, free reign of the house and was finally the 'only dog'.  She always had a racquetball in her mouth, her tiny nub of a tail was always shaking, especially when she brought the turtle in from outside and thought he was a toy to push around the hardwood floors.  

The pit bulls moved in after knowing her for four years.  All she wanted, was to be a part of their bond.  She would run and play and lick their faces, thinking she was becoming a part of their pack.  I made a few mistakes, I should have listened to my gut, I should have made them go...this was her house and he promised he would never let her get hurt.  I trusted in that.  I've forgiven myself, I've accepted the way she died but I may never forgive him.  She was my girl, and I watched her fight for her life, trying to surrender to her torturers.  She screamed like a child, the blood was everywhere. I had to walk away from her, I couldn't save her.  I knew, while laying in the bathroom trying to wrap my arms around her and pick her up out of their grip, I knew that I was putting my own life in danger and could not let my family lose me in that way. Yes, my finger was crushed, my scars will always be there. But no living soul should ever have to experience what she suffered in her final moments on this earth.

I will forever share her story on this day, it's the least I can do. I have loved pit bulls in the past, and there are still a couple I love to this day - but please, please know that if ever they snap, it may be too late.  Three years and one day ago, I too was saying that it was the owner, not the dog - but I learned the lesson the hard way. The pit bulls died a very peaceful death, with me at their side, not like my girl Quinn, who was ripped apart like a wishbone in front of my face. There is no worse feeling than that helplessness, being unable to save the one who looked to you for security.

Yes, I know Quinn was just a dog, as far as the statistics go, but I often let my mind wander to what if it would have been a child or even me. I promise you, it is not worth the chance.  Keep your families safe, and this includes that little four legged dog that trusts in you as his or her only friend.  More importantly, listen to your gut. 

For more info go to dogsbite.org

Boom, the gentle pit bull

One thing we've been noticing here is that as the number and severity of pit bull maulings rises, the propaganda campaign from the pit activists ramps up in an attempt to divert attention from the violence. We've all seen the media hyped stories of pit bull "heroes" - perhaps a pit bull barks when a fire starts in the trailer - something any dog would do, but when a pit bull does it, it's heralded as a legendary exploit. Single-source, unverified stories of pit bulls performing heroic tasks are quite common, and tend to spread quickly, despite the absence of proof.

There is a popular meme among pit activists which takes the form of an image of a pit bull (not torturing a victim, but rather posed in some harmless looking way, using some cute looking props) featuring a caption that ridicules the idea that a pit bull could possibly be dangerous. The image below features "Boom" the pit bull:

The idea behind these memes seems to be "Hey, if we can show this picture of a pit bull not killing a miniature poodle, that proves that pit bulls don't kill miniature poodles, right?"

As it turns out, "Boom" does indeed appear to be "your typical violent and aggressive pit bull", which is to say that it is perfectly capable of posing for an innocent looking picture one day, and the next day mauling the blind, elderly miniature poodle belonging to the widow next door. 

Boom is owned by Carla Ann Thomas, who has multiple animal cruelty convictions. Boom was witnessed by at least a dozen people committing a completely unprovoked attack on a little dog at a canine fly ball competition. For more info on the real Boom, kindly refer to the article Profile of a responsible pit bull owner at  Craven Desires

When you see cute pictures like the one above, remember that they are carefully staged to produce warm fuzzy feelings, and remember the daily reality of pit bull attacks on innocent animals. The survivors can be seen in pictures like this:

Why not trust a pit bull?

This is an account from about 20 years ago. At the time, the pit bull problem was not as serious as it is now, but the problem's trajectory, so to speak, was visible to those who were paying attention even then. Developments of recent years have underscored the problem, but as this account shows, the nature of the pit bull, formed over hundreds of years of deliberate breeding for merciless violence, was exactly the same then as it is now.

A dog, a pit bull terrier, allegedly killed his female master on September 3, 1992, in Cleveland. There were 180 bite marks on the dead woman's body, according to the Cuyahoga County coroner. I read that news story and revisited the horror my family experienced on Christmas Eve, 1989.

We had a pit bull. He was all white. I named him Chester, after Chester Avenue in Cleveland, where I found him in the middle of the busy street, trapped amid traffic. I could not just drive by. I stopped to shoo him off the roadway. Instead of running off, he got to the tree lawn and rolled over by a belly-rub. He had me by the heartstrings. I took him to a veterinarian for a checkup and neutering that very day.

Chester was not yet one year old, but he was big and well-muscled. He was friendly even with strangers. He spent most of his time in a fenced area with another dog I had taken in, and things went smoothly throughout that fall. When the temperatures turned cold, I brought the two dogs into the heated, finished basement of our country home.

On many occasions I let Chester sleep with my youngest daughter. (She was only three.) Chester was also allowed to mingle with my assorted formerly stray cats, and a rabbit who ran loose in the house. He never paid any attention to the other animals, but he loved the attention he got from my three daughters.

My husband always had reservations about Chester because of his breed. I, on the other hand, got used to the idea of having a pit bull, and I trusted that nothing bad would happen. After all, we were not encouraging aggressiveness. We never roughhoused with Chester. We didn't want a guard dog, and we kept a close eye on him when he was with the children.

I, an animal health technician, former zookeeper, and animal activist, believed that Chester would not be one of those vicious dogs you read about in newspaper headlines. I was wrong.

On Christmas Eve, after a family gift-opening get-together, we returned to our home. My husband was the first to enter the house. I was sleeping in the car when he shook me into reality. "Donna," he said, "it's awful. I wish I could hide this from you. I can't. Come in."

What awaited me in the house was a scene from a horror movie. Chester, greeting me in the kitchen, had long red scratches all over his face. There were streaks of blood here and there on the carpeting throughout the house. The French doors between the basement steps and the living room had been forced open. and there were dead bodies everywhere.

My rabbit was dead on my bed. One cat lay dead in the basement, another under my dresser. Two cats, locked safely in a bedroom, were unscathed. One cat survived atop the refrigerator, but a claw had been ripped from his paw. The fourth survivor was huddled on the top bunk in my daughter's bedroom, wild-eyed and quivering. It took him weeks to return to normal behavior.

My husband reluctantly shot Chester. We then went about placing presents under the tree and stuffing stockings. It was a grim Christmas morning as I watched the sun rise through tears, and I hugged my daughters a little harder that day.

Donna Robb

From ANIMAL PEOPLE, January/February 1993

[Donna Robb, now a reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, is a vet tech who was formerly an elephant keeper at the Cleveland MetroPark Zoo.]

A sad place for a pit bull

The Animal People organization have been working for animal rights for decades, and have been documenting their efforts along the way, and as a result, their archives are filled with relevant data. We recently came across some accounts published in the Animal People News nearly 20 years ago that we find quite relevant today. Here is one of those accounts

We had Nikki euthanized this morning. She was a purebred pit bull terrier, rescued from an animal collector here in southwest Michigan. When we responded to the call from Children's Protective Services, who had gone to the home for other reasons, we found Nikki chained to a doghouse. The chain was bolted to her collar. It was the dead of August, and Nikki had been without food or water for who knows how long. She lay in the dirt, barely moving. We were able to convince the collector that her dog was days away from death, and she finally consented to let us take her.

At our veterinarian's clinic we took photographs, in case we were able to pursue cruelty charges against the collector. Nikki was grossly underweight at 25 pounds, and was full of worms, fleas, and mange. Her age was estimated as two years. When her heartworm test came back negative, we determined that she was salvageable. I took her on as a foster project, and watched this pitiful wreck of a creature bloom into a healthy, handsome dog. It took weeks. We kept her indoors, though she was smelly and crusty from the manage. She learned about living in a home, and reveled in the constant affection she got from my husband, myself, and our two boys. Though Jon and I had been battling in court about the five dogs we already had, two more than the city limit, we grew attached to Nikki. That she was a pit bull made finding her a proper home more difficult. Most people who would adopt such a dog had no business having one at all. We intensified our search for a place in the country.

We moved to our 9-acre farm early in the fall. By now Nikki was a spayed, healthy, 60-pound success story. She and the other dogs spent leisurely afternoons with the family, walking the pastures and woods on our farm. Nikki loved to dig after the pasture critters, though she never caught any. She'd come up for air after five solid minutes of burrowing, her white face and head caked with earth, tongue lolling out, smiling a joyous, dirt-filled smile. Our other dogs, a Dane, a greyhound, and three mixed breeds, would race through the pastures, chasing and teasing. Nikki, with her great bulk, could not join them. She'd get up to a slight run, then somersault over her own feet. So she mostly tagged along with Jon and I, dashing away from us now and again to dig another hole.

In the house she was a dream dog. Perfectly housebroken, perfectly crate-trained, clean, submissive, and gentle, Nikki dispelled our image of the raging, murderous pit bill. All those pit bulls who turned on their families, well, those people must have done something to make it happen. Our Nikki was just a lover and a cuddler. Other than normal playing and sleeping with the dogs, Nikki seemed indifferent to our other animals. Then, late in the fall, a potbellied pig came to us for foster care. After the initial pig-dog introductions, we saw that there was a potential problem between Nikki and Petunia. Nikki was over-excited by the pig, chasing and biting at her in a way that was not just playful. Petunia brought out a side of Nikki that we had not seen before, and we were concerned. We decided that the two animals would never be exposed to one another.

This worked for about a month. Then, late for work one evening, I rushed out without telling Jon that Petunia was unpenned. He called me at work an hour later to tell me that he let Nikki out and she attacked Petunia, mauling her face and head. I came home at midnight to find Petunia still bleeding and frightened. Traumatized and plagued with guilt, we immediately found Petunia another home.

That dog should be destroyed, our vet said. On the most reasonable level, we knew he was probably right. But we we weren't operating from that level. Jon and I rationalized the incident. Nikki lived next to a pig farm when she was with the collector. On the day of her rescue we witnessed several other dogs fighting over the remains of a pig who had been slaughtered that morning.

They probably had to kill pigs to survive, we protested. We kept Nikki, vowing to watch her every move.

Mac

In December a pit bull mix named Mac came for foster care. Because he was heartworm-positive and a pit bull, we knew he would be a longterm project. We started his heartworm treatment and integrated him into the family. Things were uneventful for the first month. He fit into the routine easily, getting along with everyone but the cats and one unneutered male dog who stopped at our home on his way to another foster home. Otherwise Mac did not worry us. Then one evening Mac and Nikki were playing in their typical vigorous fashion, and suddenly both turned on Enzo, our Labrador mix, who was sitting nearby. Within seconds Mac s jaws were clamped on Enzo s hind leg while Nikki s were locked at his throat. The sounds of the fight were terrifying, and as Jon and I rushed to separate the dogs, I lost my footing and fell. Mac bit hard on my ankle and I screamed until Jon was able to shake him off. Jon had Mac by the collar; I grabbed Nikki s collar. We had to twist and yank with all our strength to get the pit bulls of Enzo. When we did, Enzo crawled into the corner, injured and whimpering and terrified. His leg was hurt and there were deep puncture wounds to his throat, but there was nothing that required stitches. My leg throbbed from Mac s bite, but that bite too consisted of deep puncture wounds that could not be stitched. Mac was put outside and Nikki went to her crate. Because Mac bit me, he was unadoptable by Rescue standards, and he was euthanized the next morning.

Jon and I were forced to re-evaluate our beloved Nikki. We had to face that she was a pit bull, and had the potential to act every bit like those we d read about in the papers. I spent the next day on the telephone, seeking the advice of professional dog trainers and animal behaviorists. In essence, I was told that with pit bulls and other dogs bred for aggressiveness, one blood bite would usually precipitate others. Indeed, Nikki was temporarily preoccupied with Enzo, sniffing the door to the porch where he stayed and attempting to attack him again when we went to reacquaint them several days later. We had a trainer come to our home to evaluate Nikki and her capacity for further aggression. He suggested obedience training and trying to desensitize Nikki by having her see Enzo from a distance, then gradually bring the two dogs closer together. He explained that even with training, there would be no guarantees, and he reiterated his point that dogs who have bitten are likely to bite again. My husband and I, clinging to the slight possibility that this was an isolated incident, vowed to keep Enzo and Nikki totally separate. Nikki would become a full time house dog.

Within a few days we had developed a workable system to keep the dogs away from one another. We felt that it must have been Enzo s timid, ultra-submissive personality that caused Nikki and Mac to go after him the way they did. Nikki was second highest in the pack order of our household, the uncontested alpha dog being Rita, our five-year-old greyhound. Enzo had always been at the bottom of the hierarchy. We had never seen anything between Nikki and Rita that concerned us. The two dogs co-existed peacefully, and even played sometimes, with Nikki consistently adopting a submissive posture in the games.

Jon and I watched Nikki with eyes in the backs of our heads. She ate completely by herself, and went out in the fenced yard on a cable, just in case. She was kept from Enzo, and she was crated whenever there was not an adult available to supervise her. She lost her couch privileges, since we didn't want to encourage any illusions of dominance she held. If she and Rita s play got a little too rowdy, Nikki went to her crate to calm down. We bent over backward to safely accommodate our dog. Despite this, we saw her getting worse. Within one week, Nikki broke out two windows when she saw cats outside. When she was out on her cable and saw cats, she would nearly choke herself trying to get at them. We watched, tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It was a matter of weeks before it did. My mother came for a visit. Because of deep snow, I had to move my car into the driveway. I was on my way back in when she ran to the door, screaming my name. Rushing in, I could hear the dogfight. I ran to the dining room and grabbed Nikki s collar, and tried to unclench her jaws from Rita s throat. It took several seconds for me to twist and pull her away. I immediately crated Nikki, who continued to snarl and bark at Rita from the crate. Examining Rita, I was amazed and grateful to find her uninjured.

I knew then that our time with Nikki was over. What we had dreaded most was now the only option. While we had never seen Nikki act aggressively toward any person, her behavior toward other animals was likely to result in their death. Doing the rescue and sheltering work we do, there are always other animals around. We could no longer jeopardized their safety. We spent the evening grieving.

Readers of this story might ask, God! What took you so long to put that dog to sleep? It s a valid question. Within the Rescue, we've euthanized dogs who behaved less aggressively than Nikki, and I've advised many people to euthanize their unpredictable or aggressive dogs. All I can say is that we loved her deeply. The pit bull aspect of her personality, while terribly frightening, seemed minuscule compared to the dozens of endearing things about her. People who weren't dog people loved Nikki. When people came to adopt our foster dogs, they were taken aback by Nikki s friendliness and silly antics, and often asked if they could adopt her instead. Family members who had long since stopped trying to keep track of our pets asked about Nikki regularly. When we had her before and after pictures on a Rescue donation jar, she gained fans we've yet to meet. Truthfully, Nikki was adored by everyone who knew her, and even by some who didn't know her. The goofy, smiling, happy, friendly Nikki was the one we couldn't put to sleep. Watching the pit bull take her over was like watching a loved one succumb to mental illness. We denied what was happening until we just couldn't any longer.

Postscript

In the days since Nikki's death, I find myself moving between grief and anger. Grief dominates when I think I hear her barking, or when the boys, out of habit, call to her to come snuggle with them while they watch TV. My most tearful time so far was when I moved her crate out of the living room. I gathered her blankets and buried my face in them, breathing her sweet, clean smell, and my chest just ached. The anger is much easier to deal with. In sadness, I want to be left alone to cry for hours. In anger, I curse the twisted idiots who breed these lovable time bombs. I think of pit bulls who have killed people; killed children. I pity the animal lovers who, like me, feel compelled to give a pit bull the benefit of the doubt. The pain we've earned in so doing defies description. I am aware of several other instances, some within the Rescue, of other pit bulls killing or injuring animals or people. Sorrow and regret seem almost inevitable when we're talking about this breed. I myself vow never to take on a pit bull again. Should I find one crossing the highway, of course I ll stop and try to get him, or her. And if I succeed, straight to Animal Control is where I ll go. Better for me to euthanize the dog immediately and forever question myself, than to take such a dog in, grow to cherish him or her, and then face what we faced with Nikki.

I harbor no anger or blame toward Nikki. She was as much a victim as her own victims were. My regret is that I thought she was different, that she was incapable of the violence her breed is known for. Or maybe I thought we were different, that if we just gave her enough love, enough discipline, enough something, that love would override her pit bull instincts. It hurts to admit we were wrong. It hurts to think that because we took in this animal, our other animals lives were threatened. I have yet to admit to myself or to anyone else that our children could have been in danger.

I know now that pit bulls have their reputation for a reason. Fear of the breed is not unjustified. And while rescuers will be rescuers, I personally will advise my fellow animal people not to try rehabilitating pit bulls. Your chances of success are too slim, while your chances of bringing tragedy upon yourself, your children, and your other animals are too high. As unpopular as my position might be with my peers, I believe that a peaceful death is the best we can offer pit bulls.

Nikki's ashes were scattered at the Special Place, a serene wooded valley at the back of our property. It is easy to visualize her there, digging and playing and just being the goofy dog she was. Nikki loved the Special Place, and she makes the valley even more Special by being there.

Shannon Lentz
Founder and Director, Kalamazoo Animal Rescue
(Now founder/director of Grateful Acres Animal Sanctuary.

(From ANIMAL PEOPLE, May 1994.)

Pit bull advocacy and basic statistics

There have been 400 disfiguring or fatal US pit bull attacks on humans so far in 2013.

In the aftermath of each attack, news sites that report the attack are invariably besieged by an army of relentless pit bull advocates doing damage control and PR, delivering prepared and well-practiced talking points which usually boil down to one or more of the following, in some form:

• It was the attack victim's fault; It was the pit bull owner's fault
• Blame the deed, not the breed! (What does that even mean?)
• How do we know it was a pit bull? (It was a pit bull, not a unicorn!)

One of the most popular types of talking points involves a personal anecdote, usually involving one or more of the following elements:

"I've had pit bulls all my life and I've never been bitten by one, but I was viciously attacked by a <arbitrary breed name here>. My pibble is harmless. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

The pit bull lobby always tries to emphasize atypical behaviors - for instance, a seemingly mild-mannered pit bull. But when a pit bull advocate trots out an anecdotal tale of a pit bull that didn't attack, thinking it to be some sort of game changing revelation, what they're really saying is that they have no concept of statistical distribution.

While there may well be some "family pit bulls" that don't attack, there is absolutely no way to predict whether such a pit bull will attack tomorrow, since virtually all attacks by such pit bulls are completely random, sudden and unexpected. But let's say, for the sake of argument, that there are pit bulls that don't attack. This is no surprise to anyone who has been paying attention. Living creatures are not identical automatons. For every trait, there is variation along some curve. Pointers were bred to point, but you might occasionally find a pointer who fails to point. Pit bulls were bred to attack, torture and kill weaker creatures for no particular reason, but you might find the odd pit bull that doesn't appear to have that inclination. 

At any rate, the pointer that doesn't point, the lab that doesn't swim, and the pit bull that doesn't torture and kill are statistical outliers. The fact that such pit bulls might be observed is often used by pit bull advocates to insinuate that all pit bulls are harmless, but all it really does is illustrate the properties of the well known bell curve.

The bottom line is this: Any particular single observation or measurement could be nearly anywhere on the map. A single data point is always inconclusive. But once you have a large enough sample size, every distribution starts looking like a bell curve. (More info on this at Khan Academy)

So, when pit advocates trot out the apocryphal account of a meek pit bull (assuming it's true in the first place) we're talking about something not representative of the breed in general. When they trot out their tale of an attack by an aggressive large retriever (again, assuming the story has any basis in fact) it is a statistical outlier. When pondering what breed of dog you would like to adopt as a family pet, it would be extremely foolish to focus on an aggressive breed and assume you'll end up with one of the safe "duds", and it would also be a mistake to avoid a known safe breed because you heard a story about someone being bitten by one. 

As long as we're dealing in personal statements about pit bulls, consider this observation from a long time pit bull fancier and breeder: "Any pit bull that hasn't killed another dog is a pit bull that hasn't been let outside". Isn't that lovely? The pit apologists will howl in protest over that statement, but it has every bit as much validity as the hackneyed "my pit bull wouldn't hurt a fly" shtick. 

Anyone can make a statement of belief, and anyone can relate a personal anecdote, but if we want an accurate view of reality, we need to look at the big picture, not just our own personal experience. Using a search engine can be a useful first step in such a quest. Google is your friend!

Welcome new blogger

Another new blogger has arisen to address the growing epidemic of pit bull violence.

17 Barks welcomes The Canine Game Changer to the community of those who stand for the truth and speak for the victims.

Maul Talk Manual 2.0

A new version of the Maul Talk Manual is out!

All who are considering breed-specific laws should browse this helpful glossary of terms used by pit bull activists, which will provide insight into the reality distortion and psychological warfare tactics employed by pit bull owners, advocates and animal groups.

The pit bull propaganda machine

Access the new maul talk manual and learn more about it here