Walk softly and carry a big stick and since there’s no need to rehash all the pit bull attacks over the last couple of years – they are what they are, and they’re history destined to repeat. I’m going to visit sites in the vicinity of past attacks. I don’t run like I use too, so here goes. Got a pair of boots, a big bamboo stick, a can of wasp spray . . . the good stuff that will reach out thirty feet or so stuffed in my fanny pack along with some dog biscuits and a bottle of designer water to cope with dehydration. I’m going to walk the illustrious streets in Victoria over the next couple of days in some known hot spots were dogs have attacked people in the last year. No Rick Perry and jogging with guns for me, but for you animal activists out there that if it’s me or the dog, well that’s simple, the dog’s going to get the long end of the stick best case, and if push comes to show, wasp spray will stop them short.
A friend dropped me off on Water street intersecting Liberty, it was hot, humid, and any dog tethered to a tree can’t be anything but pissed and distressed. Couple of blocks and I see a beautiful boxer running behind a fence jumping up and snapping at the sky, over and over. Have to wonder what’s in the water, no pun intended. Must be inherent to the breed, but I’ve seen Boxer’s jumping up trying to tug clouds from the skies before. A little farther along I’m in the land of aluminum foil over the windows when I spied my first pit bull behind a fence. He’s agitated and I don’t want to add gas to the fire so I stroll along, occasionally glancing over my shoulder. I see a cat on it’s claws, with hair rippling on it’s back like a porcupine in another yard. I guess he weighs about ten pounds, he’s healthy, and he’s squared off against a Chihuahua that tips the scales at about five pounds. My money’s on the cat, but good old alligator bait, an endearing term for Chihuahuas, is not backing down. Reaching into my fanny pack I grab a dog biscuit and arch it lazily till it lands between the two adversaries. The cat scrams fast, the dog thinking he just won the lottery -- licks the biscuit, then snaps his jaws around it like a rat trap snapped.
I shake another biscuit at him, he comes a running. No tag or collar, but he’s fat as a tick on a jackass, cocky as ever, and Gator Bait’s got his lips jacked up and he’s snarling at me. Fortunately for him I’m fresh out of alligator tags, maybe next season. There’s a law being broken here but really, not much a threat as much a nuisance. The dog follows me another block and we part ways after he realizes nada on the biscuits.
Couple of houses down there’s a Weiner dog that’s in love with his own bark. Like to pit him against Gator bait . . . winner take all. He’s collared with a gleaming tag hanging like a medal around his neck. He keeps barking, I keep walking. A couple of miles behind me my friend takes my call and it’s off to Queens I go, surely some action there. I remember playing basketball there and directly across the street two pit bulls sat chained to the ground. They had shade and water that day. So all went well.
A lap around the park for old time sake and wouldn’t you know, there’s Pepper. Pepper’s a victim of a pit bull attack, so he appreciates the long stick, and he’s still wary as a cornered coon when he goes a walking. And Pepper’s got more miles underfoot him than anybody in the Crossroads. A little salt on Pepper’s ass that day and that pitbull might have finished him off. He say’s he’s a changed man since then, and he says he knows where every pit bull is in Victoria. I ask him to show me a few places and he looks like he’s seen a ghost. I unzip the fanny pack and show him the industrial strength wasp spray and a smile crosses his face. Pepper’s still got a little mischief behind his eyes, so for a small price he’ll be happy to lead me around. Within the hour I’ve seen a dozen pit bulls, two are loose but occupied. No sweat – yet. I’m about to call it a day, so I bid Pepper adieu and my ride arrives. I slip him a ten, one high five later he splits with cash in a clenched hand. He’s certainly a rare individual.
A couple of days on the Streets of Victoria, and I crossed paths with many a Pit Bull, Rottweiler, Doberman, you name it; little, big, tall, or small. I saw many an instance of dogs that could be a problem. I’m for dog ordnances but not big government. Don’t want another pit bull bite story.
This ain’t Mayberry, but I have to wonder what sheriff Taylor might have done had he been saddled by a similar situation.
Barney’s not an option.
The funniest thimg I saw on my trek through the streets was an elderly lady wiping her dog's butt. I mean really . . . I think I'll go home and pat my cat.
That new ordinance with the 100,000.00 insurance policy will just be great when it comes to stitches or funerals.
Bite back with big fines.
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