“Yes.”
“They’re vicious.”
“They’re misunderstood,” he repeats. His voice doesn’t gentle because she’s a child. I remember this about Jack. He was always quick to argue, and once riled, he didn’t back down from a fight.Rather like a pit bull,I think. But, really, what do I know about pit bulls, or Jack Sabathian after twenty long years?
“Will he bite me?” Joy asks.
“If you pick up a stick and come at him, he might.”
“What if I try to pet him?”
“Go ahead. Just put your hand out so he can see you mean no harm.”
She does that, inching it closer to the dog. I want to pull her back, but don’t want to teach her fear, and if Jack is watching, she’ll be safe. A vet wouldn’t stand by and let a mad dog bite a child, not even a vet with an ax to grind.
The dog barely looks at her hand but continues to stare into her eyes.
“Poor thing,” she says. “He’s so ugly.”
“Joy,” I protest. She’s right. But I’ve taught her not to be mean.
That said, she is the type of child whose big heart bleeds as much for ugliness as for the rape of natural resources. Still holding out her hand, she moves closer. The dog sniffs it and waits. Very lightly, she strokes its head. When she looks back at me with wide eyes and a smile, I feel a spray of pride.
Eyes returning to the dog, she continues to pet it. “Don’t pit bulls have stand-up ears?”
“Some do,” Jack says, gentling now. Animals are clearly his thing. “Some are gray. Some are black. Some are brown with white markings. They’re all different, like people.”
“Why does he look so sad?”
This dog’s eyes are indeed soulful. I’m touched by that myself.
“Maybe because he’s used to being pre-judged. Maybe because he’s used to being abused.”
She gasps. “Washe?”
“Oh yeah. He was beaten and abandoned, then turned in to a shelter that would have euthanized him if the humane society hadn’t rescued him.”
“What kind of shelter would euthanize a poor, abused dog?” Joy asks with disdain.
“The kind that sees an abused pet as damaged goods. Or that has too many other abused dogs, too many intractable dogs, too many dogs, period. Rescue operations go on all the time. They bring animals to parts of the country like this. We’re bigger with spay and neuter here than in some parts of the country, so we have fewer unwanted litters and therefore more room in shelters for adoptable pets.”
Her hand has moved to the dog’s chin. “What’s his name?”
“Guy.”
As in,Good Guy,I realize, and am thinking that’s an awful name for a dog, when Joy says, “That’s an awful name for a dog.” I don’t look at her. I know the kind of face she’s making, have seen it often enough when she finds something distasteful. “It’s what everybody calls everybody. If he’s a survivor, he needs something special like… like Phoenix.”
“Phoenix,” Jack repeats. He is making a face, too. I can hear it, though I don’t look at him. My eyes are glued on the dog. Abused pets can turn in an instant.
But Jack doesn’t yield. “Phoenix is no good. He wouldn’t answer to that.”
Joy has seen as many muzzled dogs on the streets of New York as I have, but she clearly doesn’t feel threatened, either by this one or by Jack. “Then Griffin. Or Jagger.”
“He knows Guy.”
“Or Knox. You know, like the fort? I can’t believe he would have been killed,” she says as she cups the dog’s chin. “He’s so sweet.”
“Shows the power of ignorance,” Jack resumes, and I hear renewed purpose, even relief to be on safer ground again. “People make assumptions that are just plain wrong.”
