The day of the epic dog fight

I was living on a dairy farm near Chapel Hill, NC, when the animal protection folks came by and asked if I would mind keeping one of their dogs for a while–y’know, to keep it from being killed and all.  Under the circumstances they laid out, I couldn’t think of a reason why I couldn’t.  I took in the dog without knowing what an episode in my life was getting ready to unfold.

The dog turned out to be quite a specimen–affable but quite imposing.  He was definitely part American Pit Bull Terrier, something the nice lady had left artfully unstated.  The ears, the jaw line–it couldn’t have been anything else.  Instead of being a moderately sized dog of about 40 pounds, though, this one was a cross with something maybe in the Labrador Retriever line, something substantial that put some heft and size behind those jaws.  He was 80 pounds, easy, and it was 80 pounds of rippling muscle, too.

With all that, he was the nicest dog ever.  Loyal, grateful, and kind of dim like most Labs I have known.  He didn’t get a lot of his own ideas, but he was glad to get involved with anything I had in mind.  He was just smart enough to know he didn’t want to go back where he had come from and figured charm was his best insurance against that.

We were getting settled in nicely when my parents called.  They had an Airedale that had grown neurotic and begun behaving egregiously of late.  It seems that every time anyone moved a muscle in the neighborhood, this dog would run over and grab the person by the ankle and hold on until my father told him it was all right to let go.  People actually coped with this quite nicely for a while, but predictably, they grew tired of the situation when it was clear it was going to continue into the future for some period known only to the Airedale.

My parents made quite a case for the dog, saying that all he needed was some stress-free country living and he’d be right as rain in no time.  I would only have to keep him for a couple of weeks, and it would be a great and much appreciated favor if I would.  I took the dog in, but this dog’s personality was quite different from the newly acquired “Big Dog’s.”  It wasn’t that he was any smarter–he wasn’t–but he did have plenty of his own ideas, misguided ones mostly.

Being neurotic, he had no concept of himself other than the one he thought he saw in other people’s eyes.  He was constantly “on,” trying to get everyone’s attention, and completely oblivious to the quality of that regard.  It didn’t matter to him if you were beating him with a rolled-up newspaper as long as you were focusing on him to the exclusion of all else.  Any entity, especially those of a canine aspect, that would threaten to absorb any measure of human attention whatsoever, was deemed a dire enemy.  He made every effort he could to drive off said interloper, even if said interloper had been there first and was much better regarded by all and sundry.

This particular Airedale was no pipsqueak either.  He was trim and fit and large for the breed–70 pounds or so.  Terriers were bred to dig up badgers, for example, and to dispatch all manner of feisty vermin, and their persistence is legendary.  This particular Airedale would grab a stick in his jaws, and even if you swung him around and around for minutes on end, he would never let go.  You would tire first, or he would chew through the stick, but he would not let go, guaranteed.

The skirmishes between the two dogs started immediately and continued intermittently, almost daily, adding drama to almost every waking moment.  The worst fights occurred when I came home after a day away at work or school.  The dogs would hear my car coming up the gravel drive and come running out to meet me.  As they ran, they’d become aware of each other, and the Airedale would become incensed that another dog was giving thought to the possibility of perhaps soaking up some of the attention that so rightly belonged solely to him.  He’d attack savagely at these times, and the fight would be on.

For all his size and obvious prowess, the Pit Bull fought mainly defensive battles.  It was as if he couldn’t take the Airedale seriously, which incensed the Airedale even more.  He’d go into a canine version of the rope-a-dope, never committing to a direct confrontation, but never allowing the Airedale to hurt him in any way.  The battles were loud, but “Biggie” rarely even squared off on the Airedale.

That changed one full-moon winter’s night.  The dogs had been fighting daily for a couple of weeks, and nothing was getting any better–the Airedale wouldn’t allow it–and the big dog was getting tired.  As I drove up that night, parked, and got out, I saw the dogs running my way in the bright moonlight.  As usual, the Airedale turned on the Pit Bull and burrowed in, trying to get his jaws locked on some part of the other dog.  This night, though, the Pit Bull finally squared off on him, and in one lightning gesture, he had the 70-pound Airedale in his jaws, across the shoulders.  He lifted him over his head and slammed him into the ground three times–left…right…left.  He let go of the shoulders and grabbed some throat and pushed the dog across the ground for several feet.  He never made a sound.  He was the image of efficiency.

The Airedale finally had his fill.  He ran off into the woods, and we didn’t see him back for a few hours.  It was the first peace the big dog and I had felt for two weeks, and I invited him inside to celebrate by the fire.

That didn’t end things, though.  The Airedale came back and took a day to mend, walking around stiffly and avoiding eye contact with anyone.  Then he went right back to his old ways.  He never quit trying to win the war, even though the battles continued to go badly for him.

I called my parents the next day and told them the situation.  I took the dog back to them the next weekend and was glad for the end to the hostilities.  A few months later, the Airedale died of a heart attack, so peace came to my parents’ house as well.  I think the neighbors adopted a philosophical attitude when they heard of his demise.

The time came for Biggie to move on.  It had always been a temporary arrangement, and the lady from animal protection came back to inform me that she had found a permanent home for him.  She let slip, now that the immediate crisis had passed, that the dog had come to animal protection because he had washed out of some sort of dog fighting concern or other.  This was not a big surprise.

I missed that big dog immensely.  I missed his heart.  I missed his goodness.  He was one of the best guys I have ever known, but he was going to a better place, a permanent home somewhere, and I hoped he would be happy there.

The thing is, after seeing him in action, I knew he hadn’t “washed out” of the dog fighting scene.  He just had such a slow fuse, such a tolerant attitude, such a true dominance, that the other dogs couldn’t really get to him.  I had seen what happened when a dog got to him, and I had no question what would happen to any real opponent he was ever likely to encounter.  I was glad he was out of that world, though.  So glad.

Here’s to you Biggie.  You were all too rare–whether dog or human.  All too rare.

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