Kyle, you're the man. Reading about how you freed a chihuahua from a rottweiler's mouth (sadly, the dog ended up dying) and prevented attacks on another dog and the pets' owner, dude, you're an inspiration and a rebuke to sideline Samaritans like me who value their own ass over anyone else's, especially a dog's.
Put me in the same position, and I'd hem and haw—should I save poor thing? If I don't, will it weigh on my conscience? If I do, will I spend the next three weeks at UMC—before hedging my bets: That rottweiler didn't do anything to me. Besides, a guilty conscience is fixable and doesn't require stitches, Loritab and weeks of rehab.
But enough about you, Kyle; this is about me. It's about my growing disdain for vicious and dangerous dogs and the people who own/walk/brandish them. Used to be they had most—favored—pet status among gang members and knuckleheads. Now mean dogs are fashionable—the four—legged equivalent of a trophy wife.
Around the same time you were playing Superman, Kyle, and getting props from everyone for your heroism, I was cowering in my car, having narrowly escaped becoming dinner for two pit bulls.
So, yeah, this is personal.
••••
Generated some good laughs, did my recent brush with death. It tickled family, friends, office mates and even a few of the municipal officials I'd asked to research 2006 stats on dog bites and impounds.
"You just looking up this information for all the dogs you're scared of?" joked one municipal flack.
I can laugh, too. Now.
But when I stepped out of the house on a nippy but sunny January morning, ready for the crosstown trek to work, and heard a series of snort—barks as I exited the gate and headed to the car, and looked up and saw two pit bulls (one beige, the other beige with patches of white) two houses away, nearly flipping my wig as they locked eyes with me and began trotting toward me, snarling, woof—barking (woohf, wooooh!) and showing teeth (very sharp—looking teeth), and my flight response kicked into overdrive, and I launched into a full—fledged sprint that would've made my old track coach proud and prayed to the God in Heaven above that if he'd get me out of this predicament I wouldn't ever sin again (the promises you make under duress)—there wasn't a damn thing funny.
Minutes after the chase, all I could think about was, suppose I never made it inside the car—I'd have been human foie gras. So I got mad. At the owner, whoever he/she is, then at the dogs. And I thought: They're lucky I didn't have a gun.
••••
Before I tear off into folks who can't keep control of their dogs (not you, of course), let's gander at what the books say about unruly dogs. Take it away, Nevada Revised Statutes:
A dog is considered dangerous, says state law, "if, without provocation, on two separate occasions within 18 months, it behaves menacingly, to a degree that would lead a reasonable person to defend himself against substantial bodily harm; when the dog is off the premises of its owner or keeper, not confined in a cage, pen or vehicle and provoked when it is tormented or subjected to pain." Law enforcement may also declare a dog dangerous "if it is used in the commission of a crime by its owner or keeper."
A dog is considered vicious, the statutes say, "if, without being provoked, it kills or inflicts substantial bodily harm upon a human being, or after its owner or keeper has been notified by a law enforcement agency that it is dangerous, it continues the behavior described [above]."
Finally, a dog may not be found dangerous or vicious "because of a defensive act against a person who was committing or attempting to commit a crime or who provoked the dog."
Here's what our canons say about owners (not you, of course) who harbor dangerous or vicious dogs: "A person who knowingly owns or keeps a vicious dog, for more than seven days after he has actual notice that the dog is vicious, or transfers ownership of a vicious dog after he has actual notice that the dog is vicious, is guilty of a misdemeanor. If substantial bodily harm results from an attack by a dog known to be vicious, its owner or keeper is guilty of a category D felony and shall be punished as provided in NRS 193.130."
Get it, got it, good?
••••
Understand this, people: I like dogs. Had one as a child. Sheeba was a feisty terrier. We kept her in check—leashed in public, out of licking distance when company came. Since she was pint—sized, it was easy to control her. Not so with many of the dogs I see these days, particularly the pit bulls, rottweilers, Doberman pinschers and German shepherds that seem so popular among youth.
No doubt you've seen these guys—thin as reeds and literally being walked by the dogs, whose sole purpose seems to be making the owners look tough.
Driving down Smoke Ranch near Jones, I saw a young guy being tugged by a pit bull. He stared down every passing car. As I slowed and looked at him, he glowered at me. I had a half a mind to stop, get out and ask him why he had that dog in this neighborhood (the area's seen its share of crime). The other half of my mind thought the better of it.
I've seen the same thing all over. And lest you think this is an issue only in tougher neighborhoods, I've seen the same scenario at Sahara and Durango and Cheyenne and Buffalo.
I finally figured out that the dogs were four—legged extensions of the owners' penises. Like these guys were saying, It takes big nuts to walk a scary—looking dog, so that means I've got big nuts, and that you'd better have big nuts if you want to mess with me.
Sounds eerily like the mindset of many a gun owner.
••••
We've all heard it: Guns don't kill people, people do. But the correct phrasing should be: People with guns kill people with their guns.
To me, dangerous dogs are similar to guns. Or, more precisely, automatic weapons. These types of guns are used primarily to intimidate and, when that doesn't work, to slaughter. Think about it: Automatic weapons are generally the province of gangs, drug dealers and other criminals. So don't believe the pro—gun lobby's bull that it's anti—American to ban ownership of these death—dealing machines. I'm all for the right to bear arms—and the spirit of that constitutional amendment revolves generally around national defense and less generally around personal defense. Yes, I want to defend my home, but do I need a Tec—9 to do it? Invoked when discussing bullying and teen isolation, Columbine should also be looked to as an example of how automatic weapons can do so much damage in a short time.
I've yet to come up with a beneficent use for vicious and dangerous dogs: Owners often use them as protectors and attackers. Through no fault of their own, pit bulls, rotts and other breeds are also used to defend crack houses, compete in illegal dog—fighting circuits and mark gang or drug—dealing turf. Years ago, police in Venice Beach, California, noticed that rival gangs confronted each other with dogs rather than knives and guns, for which they could be arrested. Simply trading one weapon for another.
In all I've said, here's what I'm not saying: that we should ban these dogs (though if I wanted to make a case for it, I could. The county impounded more than 2,000 dogs last year, with pit bulls the most common breed. Same for the city, which had 855 bites, 199 of them by bit bulls. Henderson impounded 2,855 dogs last year and had 207 bites; stats weren't readily available by breed. North Las Vegas' numbers were similarly high.)
Here's what I am saying: We need more rules governing the possession of those dogs with a history and propensity to cause harm. (Sorry, but there's no way to do this without discriminating against some breeds.)
Proposal No. 1: A special registration license for the dogs responsible for the most bites, and training for those dogs, like pits, that are often used for nefarious purposes.
Proposal No. 2: Follow Illinois' footsteps. In December, lawmakers there approved the nation's first law prohibiting convicted felons from using dogs to intimidate people and participate in dog fights.
Proposal No. 3: Government funding and support to groups who rescue dogs—particularly efforts to remove them from careless owners—and to shelters housing them.
My proposal for automatic weapons is simple: ban them. If you need 40 rounds to hit a burglar, carjacker or attacker, you probably shouldn't own a gun.
••••
Luckily for everyone involved, I didn't have a gun. So that meant I had to run for my life.
When those terrorizing dogs caught sight of me, and me them, I dropped everything (papers, notebook, laptop) and booked it to the car, miraculously opening the passenger door without my usual fumbling—at that point I couldn't tell whether the pits were in my vicinity; unlike those fools in horror flicks that always fall when the bad guy's in hot pursuit, I stayed focused on the task at hand, which was saving my ass.
Though I lamented the probable destruction of the new laptop the wife bought, several reporters' notebooks with interviews I'd yet to transcribe into stories, my copy of Barack Obama's The Audacity of Hope and a phone book—sized collections of unread stories and press releases, I felt safe. That's until I realized that I left the keys in the car door. F——k me.
Each time the dogs jumped up to the window, snarling and raking their infernal claws on the car, my heart jumped. I hit the automatic lock on the doors just because, worried they'd somehow grow hands, turn the keys, open the door and invite themselves in. When you're scared, you tend to think irrationally.
Then I realized I'd left the gate and the front door to the house open. F——k me, again.
So I watched helplessly as one dog went through the gate and up a few stairs. When his mutt mate turned to look and join him, I frantically grabbed the keys from outside the car door, and started the car, driving on the sidewalk and honking—I gave a damn about waking the neighbors—causing the dogs to look and, thank God, to scamper. I had half a mind to drive through the gate and into the bottom—floor bedroom if I had to, anything to avoid telling the wife that my dumb ass left the gate and the front door open. The other half of my mind rejoiced as the incessant honking unnerved the pits and they ran off.
I sat in the car for a good 10 minutes, scared as a beeyotch, before summoning the guts to run through the gate and into the house (setting the record for the 15—yard dash), slamming the door, plopping on the floor in a heap, safe.
Memories of my close call lingered for days, weeks. That night I was scared to get out of the car. Soon as I stepped out of the door the next morning, I looked both ways twice, like I was crossing a busy street, and ran to the car. What I thought was barking was my mind playing tricks on me.
Kyle, I don't know how you did it, man. I've seen an adult rott attack a baby rott and, though I felt a pang of remorse, I didn't intervene. After all, it didn't make sense for me and the pup to get jacked up. And, hey, that dog lived.