The Adventures of D-Dog

He’s a beautiful dog, that’s what people always tell me when they get a good look at him. He’s a mutt, with the build of a pit bull and the size of an American bulldog. Sometimes the brindle makes him look like a small tiger. All four paws, his chest, and the very tip of his tail are painted white.

I was just out of high school when I got him.

My senior year a good friend of mine was spending half of his school day at a co-op program, learning a skilled trade. This was a good career path most people would have been excited about. Although this younger punk version of myself was only interested in the hour-long lunch and the chance to smoke a cigarette on the ride down to the shop. So, I asked my buddy if I could catch a ride with him every day for twenty bucks a week in gas. I didn’t have a car at the time. He obliged. Now that I had it setup, I was curious to know. What is the program for anyway? He laughed at me, “It’s a welding class, Steve.”

Now that I’m pushing the ripe old age of thirty, yes thirty is old, ask any young person if 30 is old and they will tell you yes. Besides, they are the youth experts, aren’t they?

It’s odd, almost whimsical that these tiny little choices, regardless of why you make them, really do stay with you for the duration of your life. Even today I am still a certified welder, but I did manage to drop the smoking habit. Yay for me! Well, minus the occasional slip. I still do yearn for those hour-long lunches though.

Anyways I just started my first trade job with a small nonunion ironworking outfit when a lady friend stopped by to see me. She was going to see her dad whose dog just had a litter of puppies.

My whole life we had dogs, we didn’t have one at that time and I’m not sure I planned to get one. But hanging out and playing with a litter of puppies seemed like an enjoyable time. I can still remember what my dad told me as I walked out the door. “Steven, whatever you do, DO NOT bring one of those puppies’ home.” C’mon Dad, you have lived twice as long as me, you should have known not to say that.

The basement stairs were steep, and the planks were narrow. Bunches of puppies were down by the gate, tails wagging, yipping, and yapping at each other. Lots of young puppy energy was in the air, so palpable their youth seemed to restore your own. They bit at your pant legs and stood up on their hind legs, resting their paws on your calves and the next one would come over and push that one out of the way. They were all black with some white markings on them, like a reverse cow.

There was one in particular, a female. She was all black, so deep and rich she seemed to pull in all the light around her. She was fiery like a short girl, healthy and inquisitive. I picked her up and said, “I like this one.”

“There’s one more around here somewhere.” The old man said. We set out like a search party scanning the basement; I had the pup in my hands. Under a short stool I found him. He was the only brindle in the litter. He was a fat little rollie pollie, huddled up in a ball, with short stumpy legs. He’s chest, paws, and the tip of his tail were painted white. Passed out cold with a red wet tongue hanging out. He had passed on all the excitement with the other puppies and elected to take a nap. I set the puppy I was holding down and picked up the brindle who didn’t even wake up. I knew right there… He was my spirt animal.

I wonder whatever happened to that little black puppy. Who did she end up with? How did her life go? Was me setting her down better or worse for her?

The first week he didn’t do anything. He laid there and he slept and when we opened the can of wet food he would get up and eat and back to bed. Over the next few weeks, he began to stir. He got more energy and his legs stretched out and soon I was taking him for walks. Halfway around the trailer park at first. The dog would just stop sit down and go to sleep, on the soft grass where he could. More than once I had to carry him back home. It felt like carrying a short log.

We were rounding the corner lot. The one with the small decorative wooden fence. It was light blue and the deep purple maple leaves showered on it during the fall.

The local drunk had passed out, half on the sidewalk and half of him was in the street. I set the puppy down wrapped the man’s arm around my neck and walked him down the path. The Dog trotted behind me with puppy like wonder in his eye. Just like the happy Leo walking down the street meme. We set the drunkard down on his porch swing, turned him on his side and went on our way.

The summer heat in June pushed our walks into the nighttime. The pup didn’t like the heat from the asphalt on his pads. As we approached the mailboxes, a metal halide bulb casted a flickering blue light down on the pavement. These little black golf ball things shined the light back at us. We couldn’t tell what they were. They were everywhere, scattered, like the end of a driving range.

The pupper ran up to them and discovered his first June bug hatching. He found one in particular and barked at it and stomped his front legs. He circled it and I wondered if he was going to do it. He did. He stuck his tongue on it and took it in his mouth and--- it BIT back. The dog spit it out but that June bug held on to the tip of his tongue. He shook his head and whelped and jumped back, finally the June bug fell off. For one reason or another my brain took a screen shot at that moment. I to this day have never seen that dog mess with another one of them. On our walks he would always give them a wide berth.

“Damnit!” that dog chewed up my brand-new pair of shoes. Over the next couple week there were a lot of these moments. Those “Damnit!” moments. I personally watched that dog eat rocks out of the yard. He chewed on shoes and belts and ate drywall, destroyed walls, exposed studs, and chewed on the peg legs of the couch like he was on a campaign against pirates. He was gangly, long and would storm across the house and because of the clumsiness he would crash into things and slide into the wall, knocking stuff off shelves and dropping pictures… “Damnit!”

Now this dog still didn’t have a name and that wasn’t an accident. We were thinking. We really wanted a name that went with the dog. A name to match his soul. Not a normal dog name like Duke or Tank. My first dog was named chewy. Certainly not a human name, that just sounds off. A name to match his soul.

My dad was making instant coffee. He was pulling a steaming mug out of the microwave. A little bit spilled on to his thumb, and that caused him to spill a little on the floor. “Damnit!” he cursed. From the other side of the living room, that dog picked up his head. He looked at us and cocked his head to the side studying us. He jumped up and roamed out into the kitchen like we had summoned him. My Dad and I exchanged a look because we knew that dog had just named himself.

Damnit was quickly a teen. Young and fit and he loved to run. To his dismay he found out we didn’t condone him running around the trailer park freely, nor did the neighbors, but he was focused on what he wanted in life. Damnit would sit and wait under the table. As soon as that door cracked open, he would zig and zag past your legs and around the door and he was off to the neighbors.

Damnit was bounding from front lawn to front lawn. Ears flopping through the air, tail wagging so hard it slapped the sides of himself. I never cropped his ears or his tail. Wanting to cut parts of your dog off is weird. I couldn’t even bring myself to neuter him. What if in the next life he’s in charge of my testicles? A world governed by that kind of ironic justice was designed by a God with a sense of humor. I could appreciate that.

Damnit was making his way down the back skirting of the trailer. He was following his nose. His last freedom run was successful, and he was basking in it.

A little boy who had just finished eating a popsicle was playing with an action figure and they were running around the corner of the trailer. Damnit was headed right to him. This was new. Damnit hadn’t approached a tiny human before and when the boy startled him. I felt my stomach sink.

I wasn’t scared because Damnit is a pit bull. I was scared because Damnit IS a pit bull. He was a couple years old now. He was lean and athletic and weighed a little more than the kid. The physical dog, heavy, dense, muscular, with a big meaty head connected to wide powerful jaws bearing dangerous weapons to any fleshy skeleton walking around.

He reminded me of us, with our weapons; guns, knives, fist. Weapons to mutilate and inflict mortal wounds. I wasn’t worried about him being a killer pit bull, I was worried because like us he possesses the instruments of death, and he gets to choose if he’s going to use them.

He met the little boy nose to nose down at the end of the trailer. They stopped and looked at each other. The little boy reached out and touched Damnit. The Dog sat down and sniffed him. He licked the popsicle juice off the boy’s cheek. He giggled and leaned towards Damnit and hugged him. Damnit just threw his head back and up and looked at me like he was stressed this little boy was holding him, but he accepted it. Damnit yielded to him and let me hook up the leash. We walked back to the house without him even pulling on the leash. I smiled at him. “Good boy, Damnit.”

One thing about him. He is wild, like a horse who never breaks. You learn to just co-exist. Not being forced into submissions gives a creature a personality. It’s not that there aren’t any rules, you just got to give a little too. It allows them to be their own individual. A friend.

After working for a little bit, it was time to get my own place. When a cheap trailer came up for sale at a thousand bucks it was exactly what a twenty something apprentice could dream of. So, I bought a trailer a few lots down from my parents.

I knew the people fairly good, so I paid them the bucks without even looking at the place. That night I decided to go check it out for the first time. I opened the front door, turned the lights on, nice, they hadn’t got shut off yet. Some moving trash lay around the edges of the room. Right in the middle was a beer cooler with fresh crushed ice in it. Next to the cooler was a sleeping bag with a body human shaped person in it.

Well, this is interesting. Do most first-time homeowners find a body on their living room floor? I kicked it in the foot area and a man jumped out of the sleeping bag. “Oh, I’m sorry, man.” He said as he calmed down for a second and started rolling the sleeping bag up. “I don’t want no trouble. Ill gather my things and go.” I walked over to the kitchen counter. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“Ill figure it out. I just got to up here to Michigan from Kentucky. Finally landed a job up town washing dishes.”

“Well, that’s good you got a job.”

“It is, there wasn’t much work down there. Alright I’m going to get heading out.” He bent down to pick up the cooler.”

I thought it over for a second. “If you want the middle room. Its fifty dollars a week.”

He pauses for a second then moved his hand from the handle to the lid. “You wanna beer, man?”

“Sure.”

Over the next couple days, I moved in a couple more friends into the other bedroom.

About a week into it a group of us were standing out in the yard. My Dad came walking down the driveway with Damnit on a leash. “You might have moved out, but you forgot to take your dog.” That dog was a handful, and we were not prepared for him. “Were not ready for that.” My buddy pleaded. My Dad smiled as he opened the door, let the dog in, flung the leash in behind him and shut the door. “Your right, you’re prolly not.”

With the ironworkers I worked long hours. When you get home from a string of 12- and 16-hour days the most rewarding thing, the thing that just quenches the thirst like no other is a cold beer. Lucky since I was in my early twenties that was the only thing stocked in the fridge. It’s just American to put some pizza with it, amirite? Obviously, those guys deliver, and I just took my work boots off.

Well as soon Damnit smelled pizza, he wanted a slice. His stare was unflinching. He reminds me of an owl, and how a trainer can swing him all around and upside down and his head stays without movement. The eyes never leave its prey.

So, on a couple of occasions, I would put a couple of slices of pizza on the top lid of the tore off pizza box. Throw it down on the kitchen floor and pour a couple brewskis in his dog bowl. He ate and he drank.

“You can’t feed that dog beer and pizza!” People told me. “Why can’t I?” I rebutted.

“It’s not good for him.”

“It’s not good for us either, it takes years off our life, but we make our choice, don’t we? Why is it any different for him?”

We developed a game we loved to play. To the dog we called it football. Any time he heard that word he would perk his head up and watch you perfectly still in anticipation, getting set. Well, he wouldn’t bail on everything. If it was beer and pizza time, Damnit would hurry up by swallowing whole chucks of food like a wild dog competing at a carcass.

The hike came when he spotted the football. It was a full contact version of keep away. Played at the farthest distance possible between the kitchen and the living room. Damnit would chase the ball back and forth. He was aggressive about it and the football became a hot potato. If you held it for to long a 100-pound pit bull was going to crash into you and take it. He never bit us on purpose I don’t think but when you’re going for a fumble at the bottom of the pile and your opponent is using his teeth, well, things happen in a contact sport.

After awhile he learned to read the defense and would fake run to a side and cut back in the middle to get a shot at the ball. He was 50/50 on jump balls. Sometimes when a buddy stopped by who didn’t know the game, we would throw the football on them and within a sec Damnit would jump in grab the ball and use their leg as a diving board to redirect his weight to flee with the ball.

He would leave bruises on us. Couple time we drew blood on each other. Broke things around the house, punched out a window, never took out the TV though. He always got the football once or twice and if you were quick, you could get the ball back before those powerful jaws punched a hole in it. You had to punch it out. That dog loved that game was always down to play and got more excited at that word than he did for a walk. That Dog never quit. We never tired him out first. He tired us out. Every time.

The Dog running around the park all the time unchecked was getting to be a little much.

I had spent a couple summers working with dogs. Helping to train. Mostly just chucking a dead duck and shooting a cap gun. The guy who ran the place was good at it, did it for a living. So, since I had some professional experience with it. An electric collar struck me as a corrective action to the dog who fled like it was an Olympic sport. I picked one up the next day.

Shocking the dog and not knowing what it felt like didn’t seem right. Even Cops get tasered before they can tase people.

So, the next day after a few cold ones, a buddy and I took turns shocking each other. We started off on low settings which felt like the gag pens you bought from the emo store in the mall. The high setting was enough to fully contract your entire core and violently up seat you from your chair till you spill your drink, and your buddy laughs at you till his eyes are wet. He sobers up quickly when it’s his turn.

The next time that dog bailed he had one on. We cornered him down in the park. I kept yelling at him to heel. He paid us no attention and did what dogs do. Looking for something to eat and female dogs, I imagen.

At first, I hit him with the low settings, it didn’t even phase him. I slowly began turning it up until the unit was at maximum shock. When Damnit ran close to you could see the muscles in his neck contracting due to the electrical current. Not one time did it ever deter him from what he was doing. It’s like it wasn’t even there.

After a while the battery died, the sunset was a yellow and orange and the streetlights came on. Damnit eventually came back. I guess he couldn’t find any lady dogs that day, but he knew where to get a couple cans of dog food.

I still have that collar. Haven’t used it since and even though he has slowed down a little he will still go for a run, given the opportunity.

The neighbor kids had the same desire as Dog. If something is running from you, you got to chase it. I think that’s why they always wanted to come out and chase Damnit. And in return Damnit had a desire to run from anybody that chased him. That made for a strong bong between Damnit and the neighborhood children.

Soon a small swarm of children were running down the street, shouting for the dog. “Damnit!” They cried. The parents of said children weren’t too happy. They promptly had the dog renamed. “D-Dog!” was the new battle cry.

It was raining so hard the water hit your face like a thick wet blanket. Almost warm spring rains. The door opened and Damnit sped past my mom, down the porch and down the sidewalk. One big crack filled the area with ionized air, as if lighting hit the neighbor’s lot. Damnit dashed around the trailer in record time and just as I opened the door to see what happened he plowed into the door and deflected back into the house.

Another day my group of friends and I arrive home. We had spent the day playing woodball. Paintball in wooded cover. Covered in paint and welts our bodies hurt. Damnit escaped as we got home. We chased him for a couple hours and ended up coming back home. He came to the porch, pawed at the door, and bailed when we answered.

He was ding dong ditching us! We creaked the door open, and he just sat on the porch. “Come in the house, dog, or I’m shooting you in the ass.” He just stared at me as I picked the paintball gun up. “Last chance dog.” I swear he smiled at me. I shot him in the ass. He didn’t even flinch, just kept sitting there.

“Leave the door open,” I said. I tossed the gun in the chair and went and sat on our new couch. A few minutes later Damnit walked in the house jumped up on the couch. He laid the paint on his back side right on the new couch and put his head in my lap. I scratched his neck. “Good Dog.”

It was bath day. For whatever reason Damnit wasn’t feeling it that day. I shouldn’t have pushed him. I had the bath water ran and towels ready to go. He was resisting me, wouldn’t listen. I bent down and went to pick him up and he growled at me, and I felt offended. How dare you growl at me. I’m the human you’re the dog! I grabbed him and got him about halfway up and he sunk one of his canines straight down into my arm, just under the wrist. Down to the bone. Damnit let go quickly and I dropped him to the ground.

As time marches on, the roommates ended up leaving for one reason or another and it ended up being just me and Dog.

Around the same time a girl came into my life. She was a friend of a friend, and she needed a place to stay for a bit. I had a romantic interest in her and this was my chance to be her knight in shining armor. Spoiler alert, to live with someone you are falling for, if they don’t feel the same way, you’re going to have a bad time. To watch them be with someone else is an insidious kind of hurt.

She had a couple of kids. Damnit was never aggressive towards them, but there were a couple times he would plow them out of the way for a scrap of food or he would snatch a pb and j sandwich right out of their hands. They were good kids, but Damnit pegged them as an easy mark.

She seemed hesitant about moving in with the dog there. She never mentioned it and I don’t think she would have. I could tell though. Damnit was deterring her from moving in. I was conflicted about it and I wanted this to work. Under the thralls of infatuation, I chose the girl and her kids. Even just a shot to be with her was enough at the time.

Damnit and I lived life together. There were good times and bad, but it was a safety thing. He had bitten me, drew blood even. It was a safety thing. That’s what I kept telling myself.

We were supposed to quarantine the dog for a rabies watch. Animal control what supposed to stop by and take exam him.

The next morning, I was packing my lunch. She was getting ready for her day. “What time is animal control coming over to check on Damnit?”

“About ten o’clock,” I said. “When they get here, tell them to just take Damnit.”

“They will take him to the pound.”

“I know, but I want you guys to feel safe here.” I grabbed my lunch box and headed off to work.

At about nine o’clock, she called my mother and told her, “Steven said to have animal control just take Damnit.”

My mom came straight over and took the dog to his new home.

She was waiting for me when I got out of work, and she was pissed. “You don’t just go get an animal because it’s fun and treat it like trash and discard it when you don’t want it anymore. What the hell is the matter with you. I should have taken your ass to the pound when you were a baby. They would have put him down.”

Sometimes I tell myself I knew she was going to tell my mom about Damnit and that I knew it wouldn’t fly with her. I’m not sure if that’s true or not. Looking back, it just might be a lie I tell myself to make me feel better, and it’s been long enough, and I’ve regretted it enough, I almost believe it.

A few months after that she got a different place, with somebody else. I went from having a bunch of roommates and a dog at the house to it just being me.

“NO!” Was the usual reaction when I talked to my mom about getting that dog back. “He’s my dog now.” After a while she let me get him on the weekends though.

Next week I must take him to the Vet. I still help bathe him and take care of him and see him weekly. We still played Tug of war and wrestle, although my mom has opted out of playing football with him.

He was putting a little weight on, so we switched him to a vegan pizza and a low carb beer. I’m just kidding, he’s a dog not a vegan. That’s a joke. He hasn’t had beer and pizza since the early bachelor pad days.

He’s getting old now. He doesn’t run as hard as he used too. His joints click and pop when he gets up and his muzzle is getting grey. He’s getting growths around his eye.

I’m glad I’ve gotten the chance to know him in his golden years. I will be there for him till the end now. I will help him get up and feed himself if I must. No matter what. If the day comes where it’s his last, I will not abandon him in that veterinary office. I will stay there and hold his paw till the end.

He’s got time yet, and we got time to make up for. Not all the memories are good ones, but I’m a firm believer the best memory is yet to come, I’ll keep you posted.