Pet attack Weekend Assignment rejected.

Scalzi's site refused my submission announcement.

REJECTED SUBMISSION
I find it hard to believe this tidbit is more than
2000 characters, but so be it. On another occasion I tried to
shorten but aol's computer program would have none of it. It will accept,
apparently only newly written attempts to stay in bounds.

Barry


The only pet I ever loved, Tyson, a Bull Terrier, was named and originally owned by me to serve as a guard dog. At the time, I lived on Playa Zicatella a bit south of Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca, Mexico. The land had been taken by Indians decades earlier by "An Act of Possession." I rented property that quite literally occupied land that nobody really, truly knew who it belonged to: for sure it didn't belong to any Gringo.

In photos Tyson now looks incredibly sweet and cuddly when only a small puppy.  Who knew he'd grow up to be so formidable looking, with a huge head, and black as midnight all over except for a white 'heart' on his chest?  I doubt I could have picked him up. I have no doubt, however, no doubt whatsoever that he'd have allowed me to try to pick him up without his even the slightest hint of a growl. The size of his huge head, in proportion to overall size, biologists insist, indicates his large intelligence. About every eight or nine days when he was fully grown he'd place his head, on his initiative, on my lap where I was sitting, writing, in the patio under five coconut palms. I'd stroke his head and talk to him about what a good dog he was and he'd blink, then finally remember he had other business and would wander off. He was touching base.

If a stranger came to the locked gate Tyson would stand stock still, staring. He never barked at humans, but humans quickly got that if they had mischief in mind they had come to the wrong house. He stood majestic. However, other dogs he absolutely would not tolerate for a millisecond. His mission was to wipe out all dogs. Dogs were his bete noir. In fact, says the encyclopedia, he'd been bred for dog fighting in England: bull dog crossed with terrier, white all over with odd looking eyes, a breed now almost extinct.

Of course, when I took him for a long walk on the three mile long beach, Zicatella, he was always on a short chain. How he pulled me along! How I loved it! One day in winter when nobody was on the beach, or so I thought, I let him run, unchained. How could I deny him? Oh, but he found adog, big, loose, and cocky. In seconds Tyson had him by the throat and would not let go. I wrestled with them trying with all my strength to free the hapless victim. If the dog died I'd be liable, and worse, hated for the foreign gringo that I was. I had to free the poor beast before he died. I whipped Tyson with the chain, but nothing, nothing worked. Finally, in despair, and scared, really scared, I dragged both dogs into the surf where I felt much more at home than either of the dogs. I'd been in the surf since I was a very small 'puppy.' The white, foaming salt water didn't bother Tyson, so I held them both underwater, feeling, frankly, like a murderer. That did it. Only near drowning made Tyson give it up. The wet wounded dog raced off yelping to the level of screaming.

I sincerely pray this story of pet-owner shame has not disturbed you.

Barry