REQUIEM FOR A BREED
by William Stewart
(Inspired by a story by T. Michael Riddle)
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They tell me I was the last of my kind, an American Pit Bull Terrier,
and I admit I wore the name with pride, but never arrogance. Oh, I could
fight, and fight well, if the situation called for it, but I would get
along with other animals that didn't challenge me or weren't foolish enough
to question my courage. I loved all humans, unless they gave me reason
not to by endangering my family or abusing our property. Then I would
fight to the death for my family.
My master trained me from a pup to obey him but these things I knew by
instinct. These things he said I inherited from hundreds of generations
of good dogs, some bred for the pit, some for hunting and some just for
companions for our masters-but good, brave bulldogs, one and all.
Now, as I drift here between realities waiting, I'm told, for my final
dispensation from the Creator, I wonder where we went wrong. Did we bulldogs
not try hard enough? Were we not brave enough, not loyal enough? Did we
not defend our homes, our masters and their families and possessions with
our very lives? Did we not love our human masters with every fiber of
our beings. Perhaps then, we did not show our love and devotion strongly
enough, nor convincingly enough that our kind should be permitted to exist?
Mistakes were made, that is true. Some of my kind hurt humans but only
because they were made to hate and attack them by foolish and overbearing
masters. Some of us were allowed to roam freely and get into trouble,
as any dog would. But were we to blame? Did we deserve extinction?
There were of course, the news reports. For a long time it seemed that
we bulldogs were the only dogs that ever bit anyone. Did all the other
breeds suddenly stop biting humans for some reason; perhaps to make us
bulldogs look bad? If not, why then was it only bites by our kind that
were reported, and why were we blamed when the breeding of the offender
wasn't even known?
Besides, haven't dogs always occasionally bitten humans? Why were we singled
out? Was it because we were courageous fighters, the best the world had
ever seen in combat? We thought that courage and tenacity and bravery
were traits humans admired. Don't they worship their sports heroes and
honor their war heroes?
Where then did we go wrong? Could we have done something differently that
all our masters might have fought harder-as mine did in the end-to keep
us from being outlawed, hunted down and executed? I have so many questions!
Some said it was the "animal rights" and "humane"
type humans. They wanted all animals to have a safe, cozy and "happy"
life. That may be okay for their Poodles and Pekinese lapdogs but bulldogs
aren't interested in getting old and fat and dying in their comfortable
beds-bulldogs need more. They didn't seem to understand that we didn't
mind a little discomfort-what they would call cruelty-if that was what
we had to endure to get to do what we loved, whether it was hunting or
fighting or protecting our masters.
If those humans are really for "animal rights" as they claim,
shouldn't it be our right to choose how we live-and die? Like any dog
can, we could refuse to do a job we didn't like. We could have quit and
curled up in a ball or pissed and hollered like a street cur being chased
away by kids throwing stones, but that was not our way!
We loved what we did! Discomfort, pain, hardship-they were nothing to
us-couldn't they understand-we were bulldogs! Couldn't they see that,
in our joy for the hunt, in our love of combat? Wherein was the cruelty
if we loved our sports? Could they not understand that we truly needed
a challenge to be happy? And how could a real bulldog be happier than
when he was locked in combat with a worthy opponent?
Perhaps it was that which scared the "animal rights" and "humane"
type humans. Perhaps they thought because we feared nothing, we would
attack them or their children, but we never would, without good reason,
unless made mean by an ignorant master. And some masters were ignorant,
not understanding our true natures any better than the "humane"
ones, thinking we would be better fighters if beaten and mistreated, even
starved and fed gunpowder to rot our stomachs and make us irritable!
Many years ago (just to make our masters look wicked) the public was told
by the "humane" ones that these foolish things were done by
our owners and were necessary to make us fighters. How silly some humans
are! Some of my ancestors were world class athletes. Who would be stupid
enough to think they would perform better if beaten or with their stomachs
eaten away by chemicals?
Didn't they realize we performed as much for our love of our masters as
for our own enjoyment? Our true masters understood why we fought. We were
bulldogs! We were born and bred for hundreds of years to love combat!
Considering these things I can't understand why the "humane"
types thought we would be better off if they killed us. If we were happier
fighting and hunting and didn't mind even the stringent living conditions
some of our masters kept us in, why would they think we would be better
off dead.
Perhaps the "humane" ones are so weak in spirit that a little
discomfort makes them wish they were dead so they mistakenly think a bulldog
must feel the same way. How foolish they must be if that is the case!
How they underestimated us!
Sometimes I suspected that they simply hated us for what we were, because
we were everything they were not, as cowards are often jealous of the
brave, and that was why they had my kind banned from existence and destroyed
by the tens of thousands. But how could even a foolish and jealous human
not admire our courage and loyalty and sweet natures with our masters
and families? I have so many questions.
So here I wait, the essence of the last bulldog to have lived on earth.
My master secreted me away (in the barn and storm cellar) and only walked
me at night for years before we were finally betrayed by one who pretended
to be his friend. And then one day, they came to take me away.
They took me to a place where hundreds of dogs were barking furiously
for their families and friends. They dragged me from the truck and threw
me into a big 'tank' with several other dogs of outlawed breeds, a Rottweiler,
a Doberman and one of my relatives, a big, white American Bulldog. They
slammed the heavy door and sealed it up tight and I could hear the muffled
sound of a compressor starting up outside.
For a short time we did have some fun though. While the others were scared
and cowered away from us, the American Bulldog and I went at each other
like step-brothers, swapping every hold we could get-what a joyous time
we were having-but then it got very hard to breathe and my tongue felt
swollen and my eyes and eardrums ached as if they were going to explode....
And then I was here. Someone is coming! He seems to be in charge. Now
I will find out if I have been a good dog, after all. I've been awfully
worried about that, afraid I was a bad dog and did something wrong, because
it just doesn't make sense that they would kill a good dog for no reason.
I hope there will be other bulldogs where I'm going. If dogs and masters
go to the same place maybe I will even see my master! From what I remember,
I'm afraid he may be here too.
As they took me away those humans in shiny uniforms were shooting at him
with guns, like the ones he used when he took me hunting. (I think they
were shooting at him, although I'd never before seen one human shoot at
another in my life!) My master taught me that humans respect each other's
lives, so why would they be shooting at him?
I tried to protect him but the uniformed ones wouldn't stand for a fair
fight. As I charged out to meet them, one of them sprayed me in the face
with something that burned my eyes so I couldn't see, while another shot
me with a dart that made me feel dizzy.
But they weren't dealing with some lesser breed, I was a bulldog, and
I fought back hard through the blindness and the drug, and finally grabbed
one of them by the leg and I sank my cutters deep in his flesh and shook
with everything I had left, making the man scream in pain and terror.
But another grabbed my back legs and stretched me out while two more put
a steel cable around my throat, and pulled it taught, choking me until
I blacked out.
As my fight had been transpiring I could hear my master crying out my
name, swearing and screaming at them, "Let go of my dog! Leave my
dog alone!" He was fighting hard but there were so many of them and
only my master, all alone, to fight for me.
In the truck I woke up groggy from asphyxiation, but I could hear the
guns still firing and see that without me, my master was in trouble. He
had said many times they would have to 'take me over his dead body', but
I never understood what that meant. Why would anyone want to take me from
the master I loved? And how could my master be dead?
I could see the fight going on in our yard. My master was shooting back
at them from behind the cover of his car-and he was fighting fiercely,
like a real bulldog! But I could see that he was hurt-his body jerking
over and over as they fired-and he fell to his knees, the life-blood spreading
from many places on his shirt and pants.
I was enraged, furious to get free and go to his side and help him! I
tore at the bars of my cage until my teeth were broken and useless, my
lips and gums shredded and burning, but I couldn't free myself! I couldn't
believe he was fighting all those humans for me! I mean, I was just an
old bulldog but he was a human, a master-my master! How could this be
happening?
As they hurriedly drove me away the shooting faded and stopped. The last
thing I saw the uniformed ones were cautiously moving in. One of them
kicked at my master's body, but I think for him the fight was finally
over.
Please tell me I didn't fail my master! Oh, I hope not! If I did, they
may punish me-send me to a bad place, where there are no bulldogs to fight,
no game to hunt, and no masters to love. I hope they will decide I was
a good dog so I can go to the other place.
Maybe my master is already there waiting for me! When I see him we will
run and play until we are spent, throwing ourselves down in the grass,
joyous to be together again! I'll lick his face all over and he'll chuckle,
halfheartedly admonishing me to stop, as he always did.
We'll lie there in the soft grass and watch the sun set like we used to
do on warm summer evenings. He will pat me on the head and stroke my back,
and tell me what a good boy I am-and I'll ask him why a good dog and a
good master would be treated this way.
My master is wise-he will answer my questions.
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