pit bull – aliciajoseph

Phil, My Baby

Despite my constant intention to be more consistent with this blog, (do people even read blogs anymore?) the months soared with not a word written. As the year comes to a wrap, I have neglected not just my blog writing but also my author writing.

Life got chaotic. A sick dog. An unexpected stay by a family member and her dog. Two dogs-one old and sick. The other-healthy but anxious. A young, fearful, and unpredictable dog can be as stressful as a dog who barks in the night to be cared for.

Phil’s illness started in March. Coughing and wheezing through the night, with a very congested nose. A vet appointment resulted in an upper respiratory infection. Antibiotics cured the infection but not the overly snotty (sorry, will be writing about snots a lot) nose. That got worse.

More medication with an antihistamine. Wait for two to three weeks. Nothing. Then stronger meds. Wait more weeks. Still, nothing. My poor baby could barely breathe. Through the night he’d struggle to hock the phlegm free from his nose. I’d be there with tissue to pull the yellow mucous from his nose, stringy and thick like a pulled mozzarella stick (gross but true) from his nostrils.

This went on for months. I kept tissues all over the house to be ready for the boogers. There were plenty.

After another vet appointment, we tried steroids. With a concoction of prednisone, an antibiotic, and five Benadryl tablets a day, Phil could finally breathe easy. After about three months of sleepless nights, Phil and I were finally able to get some sleep.

As is often the case with prednisone, (I know from experience) the drug may ease the intended health issue, but it also causes harsh symptoms of its own. Phil’s back legs grew weaker. Being fifteen, they weren’t strong to begin with. He could no longer climb stairs and needed help getting up. Even with no-slip booties, he has difficulty walking.

The steroids gave him an insatiable thirst and appetite. He was unable to be calm, constantly panting and pacing. I no longer recognized my dog. While the old Phil would lick me all over the face, the sick Phil turned his head from me. I understood the changes he was going through, (I had the same side effects) but he didn’t.

A month later, I called the vet and told him we needed to wean Phil off those crazy pills. His legs slowly got stronger. He still can’t do stairs and a couple of times when the gate wasn’t up, he tried to go downstairs and fell the entire way down. I hurried to him (cursing myself for forgetting to put the gate back up) and plucked him back to his feet. The old dog shook himself off and slowly walked around the entire basement, taking in what used to be his territory.

Since he was already down there, I lifted him onto the couch. We cuddled together like we used to all of those years–14 years (he was two when I adopted him). He misses his basement. That is where we spent the most time together. It’s where we slept and spent lazy days/nights on the couch. It’s where he stood/ lay next to me on the floor while I did yoga–giving me kisses at every opportunity. Sometimes, he’d lie so close to me that his seventy-pound body pressed against mine and I couldn’t move to do yoga or any exercise.

But that’s where he always wanted to be–next to me.

There’s so much I already miss about him. He was a lazy, calm, loving dog that I used to have to wake up at ten because he’d sleep till noon if I’d let him.

Now he wakes up at six with a bark. If he needs me at night, he barks. Sometimes he barks throughout the day just as he lying on his blanket, not seeming to need anything. Except, for a little attention.

It’s a strange feeling, missing your dog while he’s still alive.

I’m missing the way he used to be. The way we used to be together. I didn’t think time would ever change our relationship. But the dynamics of a relationship never lasts for anyone/thing. Not for siblings. Not for parents. Not for friends. Not for lovers. Not even for dogs and their owners.

Everything changes.

I know I just spent my last Thanksgiving with him, and this Christmas will also be Phil’s last. I adopted Phil from Animal Care and Control on December 26,2010. He is a Pitbull mix. Not the type of dog that usually makes its way out of Animal Control with a beating heart.

Five months ago, I didn’t think he’d be alive come Labor Day. Now I have hope he will be with me to celebrate his 14th Gotcha Day with me. Last year, we had a huge birthday party for him. I turned a post-Christmas party with my siblings, nieces, and nephews into a huge birthday celebration.

We had birthday decorations, birthday hats, a birthday cake, and, of course, a birthday song. I’m glad I did that last year. I don’t think my sixteen-year-old doggie will be up for all that commotion this time around the sun. Though, I don’t think he’d mind a birthday cake.

So, Phil is not the same. He barks a lot. He wakes me up at all times of the night/morning. I am sometimes impatient though I try not to be. One day I will miss that bark. I will hear his bark only in my dreams and will wake up hoping it is real, expecting to see him. Then reality will set in. My dog is no longer here. How will I take that?

I don’t yet know. My dog is still here. Upstairs. Sleeping quietly, for now. I will go to him and kiss the top of his nose. Smell is fur. Hold him in my arms. Tonight, I will hear his bark. And no matter how tired I am, I won’t get frustrated, because I’ll remember a time will come when the bark I hear will no longer be real.

Phil Goes to the Park

Phil is a pitbull/lab mix. He’s 14 years old. Will turn 15 in December. I didn’t expect to have him this long. For him to still be with me is a gift, I’m not certain I deserve but will absolutely take.

Three years ago, almost to the date, Phil had liver failure. Early on, the vet told me she didn’t expect him to make it through the weekend. Days spent in tears; nights spent taking him outside every thirty minutes because of the IV fluids he’d been given. I begged. Pleaded for the universe to give me one more year with him, never thinking I’d get three, and still going.

A week before Phil’s health took a dive, we’d spent the day at his favorite park, with a large pond where children fish and plenty of green grass for picnicking. I’d brought a blanket. Read a book while Phil smelled the bushes and, eventually, rolled in the grass. We walked the path that circled the pond, a sign listed the trail at .45 miles.

Even at 11 years old, Phil had tackled that trail twice. A week later, he was dying. It took a couple of months for him to fully recover. By the time he was ready, I, unfortunately, was not. My own health had taken a hit and knocked me down for a couple of years. I missed doing many things– family functions, ball games, concerts, socializing with friends– but especially, taking Phil to the park.

After three years, Phil finally got to go to his favorite park. I had always brought water for him in a blue thermos. I never had to say a word. The moment he’d see me holding the thermos, he knew he was going to the park.

Three years later, Phil hadn’t forgotten that blue thermos. My 14-year-old dog turned into a tail-wagging, energetic puppy when he saw me filling that thermos with water. He knew. If his old legs would have allowed him, he’d have jumped all over me for taking so long to get him into the car.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. Sunny, with a cool breeze. While I was sick, I’d thought about those casual days at the park, sitting on a blanket in the grass, surrounded by water, thick green bushes, and flowers in full bloom, with the sun tingling my skin, and Phil’s doggie kisses wetting my face. I’d missed those days so much.

After three years, we made back to the park together. Though Phil’s legs no longer allow him to walk that trail, not even once, not even halfway, he enjoyed the park just the same. His nose still works, and boy, was he enjoying the scents. His tail never stopped wagging as he sniffed the grass, the bushes, and the trees. We stayed in one general area, as opposed to walking the entire park, but that didn’t bother him.

Dogs aren’t like people. They don’t lament about what they can no longer do but indulge in what they still can. Phil can still walk, albeit slower and not as far. But he took in the sun, the scents, the people…. the moment.

Humans can learn so much from animals.

The car ride there saw a dog perked up in the backseat, face looking out the rolled-down window, mouth open and tongue hanging out with pants of excitement.

The car ride home saw an old dog sprawled out in the backseat–exhausted and sleepy. I wish I had before/after pictures. But I don’t. However, I have other pictures that show Phil enjoyed his day at the park.

No one knows how many days at the park we have left. We should spend them the way dogs do.

PETA Sucks

I hate PETA. I haven’t been shy about sharing my feelings about the group that claims to be fighting for the ethical treatment of animals. I base my judgement on a piece written by the president of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, Ingrid Newkirk, as well as an incident that occurred between PETA and a chihuahua named Maya.

In the article, (the link is posted at the bottom of post) Newkirk writes about her support for policies in some shelters across the country to kill “pit bull” type of dogs the moment they walk through the door. There is no getting to know the dog. No temperament testing. Nothing. I don’t believe PETA will even scan for a microchip to find an owner, who may be frantically looking for their lost baby, because PETA doesn’t believe this breed should be pets. They only believe this breed should be dead.

This action doesn’t seem very ethical to me. Newkirk argues that she is doing the dogs a favor by killing them because pit bulls are the most abused breed. She may be right about that. Pit bulls have been, and still are, used in dog fighting. But because pit bulls have been so abused should make people want to take them in and show them love for what could be the first time in their doggie life.

Newkirk goes on to tell stories of people who have been hurt by pit bulls. I believe people have because I know someone who has been hurt by a pit bull. I also know someone who has been hurt by a St. Bernard, another person by a Rottweiler, someone else by a Boxer, and another by a Labrador.

No one will say to ban the entire breed because of those attacks, but if the incident involves a pit, then the entire breed gets blamed. Discriminate much?

I have a pit mix so stories like these are personal to me. No one can tell me pit bulls can’t make great dogs. I live with one, and the shelter I volunteer at makes sure to take in a set amount of bully breeds, as well as special needs dogs. There are currently five pit bull mixes in my shelter that houses twenty dogs.

Those pits will get all the time they need to get adopted. One pit has been thee for six months and the other, eight months. They are terrific dogs that love people, but the stigma that is attached to this breed seems to keep people away. Luckily, my shelter is no–kill so those dogs don’t have to worry about time.

But that isn’t the case in most shelters. These dogs have a time-clock on them and people like Newkirk aren’t helping their case at all. There is nothing ethical about an animal rights group supporting the killing of an animal just because of the way it looks.

No surprise that PETA also supports Breed Specific Legislation, which can ban certain breeds from cities and apartments and homeowner’s associations. PETA is working for legislation that will ban pit bulls everywhere. They truly want this breed dead.

I hope people will stop donating to this awful group so that one day PETA will be dead. No more. Gone. We don’t need them.

If you want to help animals, donate to your local shelter. They need the money more and are most likely saving more animals than PETA. It seems PETA kills more than just pit bulls. According to The Center for Consumer Freedom, PETA killed 72% of dogs and cats that came through to their shelter in Virginia. Per this article, that is 16.3 times higher than other shelters in the state.

Reputable animal groups usually do their best to keep their kill rate as low as it can be. Not PETA. The group recently paid a family $49,000 for killing its Chihuahua, Maya. You can watch the video on YouTube of PETA workers luring the tiny dog into its van and records show that PETA killed the dog five hours later. PETA was so excited and anxious to kill that dog, they didn’t even wait the mandatory five day stray hold.

It is sick that a supposed animal rights group loves to kill animals so much, but they do. I was horrified when I saw PETA’s white vans enter Texas for the hurricane. Those dogs had a better chance against Harvey than they did against PETA. Rest in Peace, sweet babies.

Let’s work to put an end to this sick group.

My Phil, enjoying cuddle time. He deserves to live. All those dogs that PETA kills do.

Just a few pit bulls that were lucky to have come through my shelter, and not PETA, who have been adopted. Beautiful babies.

http://www.sfgate.com/opinion/openforum/article/Controlling-an-animal-as-deadly-as-a-weapon-2629558.php

Adopt a Shelter Pet Day

I can always tell when I’ve dove head first into writing a current book — I forget all about my blog. Even though one of my New Year’s resolutions was to write two blogs a week. Not an unreachable goal. When I set that target, I wasn’t trying to set myself up for failure. It was meant to be easily attainable, yet, here I am. Three weeks since my last blog. I’d ask for a raise of hands from all those who have missed me, but one should never set themselves up for disappointment. Haha.

The writing schedule I have set for myself for the year, is moving along nicely. I have finished the first book of a series I was working on at the start of the year. A novella about friendship and betrayal.

I’ve switched to a story I started writing in college. It was a short story set in the 1950’s about a girl who lives with her aunt and her abusive uncle. I’ve revised the book, Annabel, from a short story into a now 62,000 word novel. Lots of revision is needed, but I’m excited about writing this piece. It’s a break from the lesbian-themed stories I’ve been writing, as this story has no gay characters.

At least, not yet. A writer sometimes doesn’t know where her story will take her. I love that about writing.

I’ve tossed in the writing towel for tonight. My pit bull snores softly beside me on the bed. He’s always right beside me. My loyal sidekick.

Today was Adopt a Shelter Pet Day. I rescued Phil from animal control, a kill shelter. He’s an amazingly sweet dog who definitely deserved to live, like so many dogs, especially pit bulls, who have been killed because homes weren’t found in time. I have become an annoying preacher to my friends against buying dogs from breeders and pet stores, as thousands of loving animals die every day in shelters. I don’t care. I’ll deal with their rolling eyes, and if I’m unfollowed on Facebook because of posts also preaching about adopting over shopping, I’ll survive just fine.

The statistic is that only 1 of every 600 pit bulls will make it out of a shelter alive. Over a million will be euthanized by the end of this year. Pit bulls are the most bred breed of dog. They are also the highest to be euthanized. If you breed a pit bull, you are nothing but an asshole. Period.

My plea to anyone who will listen is to not only adopt their next pet, but adopt a pittie. Pit bulls are great dogs. They don’t deserve to die in crowded shelters.

Don’t Bully My Breed

I got into an argument today with a stranger on Twitter about BSL – Breed Specific Legislation. BSL is legislation cities can pass directly targeting a specific breed of dog. Some ordinances completely ban a breed from an entire city (Denver and Miami has done this).

The person I was exchanging words with was in support of banning pit bulls (which technically isn’t a breed). “Pit Bull” is commonly used as an umbrella term for dogs with boxy-shaped heads, are stocky, appear strong in stature, and, of course, look “mean.” The term “pit bull” generally covers a few types of breeds: American Pit Bull Terrier, American Staffordshire, Staffordshire Bull Terrier, American Bulldog, and Bull Terrier.

If found as strays, or rescued from abusive and neglectful situations, these dogs will be categorized as “pit bulls” and with it, in some situations, a death sentence will be imposed upon them because not many people, it seems, are willing to bring home a dog labelled “pit bull.” Most of these dogs will never leave the shelter they are dropped off at alive.

BSL is another obstacle these already abused and misunderstood dogs have to endure when trying to find a home. At the local shelter I volunteer at there was a pit/lab mix named Sable. She was a loving dog who wanted nothing more than to have her belly rubbed and to play with a hose. A family wanted to take her home, but found out their home association didn’t allow pit bulls. Sable would have to wait nine more months before she would finally leave the shelter.

But while she was there, I’d hear other volunteers ask, as they’d pet Sable through the cage with her body pressed against the bars, savoring the attention, “Why are you still here? You’re so adorable. Why are you still here?”

I remember wanting to yell, “Because she’s a fucking pit bull! And people are afraid of pit bulls no matter how sweet they are!”

Of course, I didn’t yell that. I didn’t say anything. I walked away, pissed that there is yet one more obstacle these poor dogs have to fight to find a home. Sable was forced to spend her days in a kennel instead of a home because of BSL. And that isn’t fair or right.

I was arguing with this person on Twitter that BSL kills pit bulls because it makes it harder for them to find homes. When pit bulls don’t find homes, they die. My shelter is a no kill-shelter, but if it wasn’t, Sable would have been put-down. Killed. And she deserved to live. They all do. Thankfully, Sable did find a home, but most are not so lucky.

To me, BSL is straight-up discrimination. We are blaming not just one breed of dog for the aggressive actions of a few dogs, who were made to be mean, but five breeds. How can that be right? I’m always leery of media reports of pit bull attacks because how do they know for sure it was a pit bull? Since “pit bull” is already categorized to include five breeds, throw in mixes, and it’s nearly impossible to know for sure the exact breed of dog.

The probability is that the media doesn’t know for sure the dog is a pit bull. But that doesn’t stop the headlines that target pit bulls, because those headlines sell newspapers. Those headlines get people’s attention more than “Some Type of Mix Dog Attacks Man on Train!”

I think pet owners should be held accountable for what their animals do. A dog doesn’t just maul a person out of the blue. There are signs of aggression before that happens, and I’d bet everything I have that it was the owners who made those dogs that way.

I adopted a pit bull mix. I didn’t have to train him to be the sweetheart that he is. He came to me that way. Dogs labelled “pit bulls” are not born mean. They are loving dogs who deserve to live. They deserve homes.

If the town you live in is considering BSL or currently has BSL, please do all you can to stop or end it. It is wrong. And it kills. These dogs need more people to advocate for them. They don’t need any more adversaries. They already have enough of those. If you can, adopt a pit. Give a “pit bull” a chance. I can say from experience that you won’t be sorry.