I used to be afraid of pit bulls.
This isn’t something I’m proud to admit, especially when my fear was based on what the media was saying rather than any first-hand experiences.
But seriously, how many stories do you hear about a Golden Retriever sending a child to the hospital?
Still, I knew I had to get over my fear if I wanted to devote time to helping shelter dogs.
So … long ago, when I was volunteering for a shelter far, far away, the day came when I was ready to start working with dogs who were more challenging — and the majority of these dogs happened to be pits.
The reason for this is simple: Pits typically are athletic, high-energy dogs who need a lot of exercise. You can’t keep them locked up in a tiny space for days, weeks and months and not expect them to deteriorate physically, mentally and behaviorally. (Of course, this applies to ALL shelter dogs. But we’re talking about pits right now.)
On this particular day, the dog I was most afraid of walking was Major.
Major was a pit bull who had what’s known as “no bite inhibition.” Now, don’t think bite as in bite. He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Like most dogs, Major enjoyed mouthing, and he’d never learned to control the intensity of his mouth.
Did I have to walk him? Of course not.
But I knew how typical dogs like Major were in shelters. So my reasoning was: If I’m going to help shelter dogs, I have to start with Major.
Here was the procedure I was told to follow for taking Major out of his kennel:
- Slide open Major’s kennel door an inch, using my foot to prevent it from opening further
- Make a lasso of my leash
- Take a large-sized treat and hold it through the lasso
- As Major goes for the treat, slip the lasso over his head and hustle him to another room away from all the barking and kennel hysteria.
- Slide a collar over his head, clip up his leash and take him outside.
Easy peasy, right?
“Do I hold onto the treat while lassoing him?” I asked the woman who was training me.
She raised one eyebrow. “Try it — you won’t have any fingers left.”
To give you the complete picture, let me explain that Major was a large, powerhouse of a dog. He spent much of his day jumping wildly in his kennel, barking frantically.
I knew he’d be jumping when I approached his kennel door with a leash. Getting out of that confined space is the most exciting thing that can happen to a shelter dog.
“Why don’t we do some other dogs first?” the trainer suggested. “That way you can ease into Major.”
I thought about it. After all, a meteor could fall on the shelter by then, and I’d never have to deal with Major.
“No,” I said. “I’ll be too nervous to work with the other dogs. Plus, if I can handle Major, I can handle anything.”
I walked over to his kennel door — and instantly, he began spinning, leaping, lunging, and barking hysterically. All 70 pounds of him.
I gripped the leash-lasso and clutched a peanut butter-slathered treat. Inhale … exhale, I thought. Then I slid open the bar on his cage door, shoving my foot in place so he couldn’t push it — or me — down.
He was jumping wildly as I held out the treat through the opening of the lasso.
He grabbed it — I dropped it — oh, who the hell knows?! The lasso never made it over his head.
Try #2: I reached in with a visibly shaking hand, and he tore the treat from my fingers. Again, I didn’t get the lasso over his head.
I looked at the trainer, who hadn’t said a word. “I’m doing this,” I said, and she smiled.
Try #3: I handed him the treat and quickly dropped the lasso over his head — got him!
Without wasting a second, I hurried him out of his kennel and past the other dogs, the visitors, the volunteers, all the usual confusion … and moved into a quiet room.
He noisily munched on another treat as I slipped a collar over his head and clipped the leash to it.
“Let’s go, Major,” I said.
I took a deep breath … but as it turns out, I didn’t need to. Because as soon as we got outside, Major ambled along happily at my side. In silence, I led him over to some grass.
“Mind if I lie down in the sun for a while?” he asked me.
“Umm … OK,” I said.
Major lay down contentedly at my feet and gazed up at me. Without thinking twice about it, I knelt down beside him.
“Major, you old fraud,” I said softly to him, running my hands down his back and stroking his powerful body, warm from the sun, that was never meant to be shut up in a cramped kennel all day.
He thumped his tail. “I’m a pushover,” he said.
“So I see,” I told him. “But don’t worry — I won’t tell.”
He sighed and a long, peaceful time later, trotted happily beside me when I returned him to his kennel.
“You’re pretty cool,” I told him, reluctantly sliding his door closed. “I’m glad I got to know you.”
Major smiled at me. “Right back at ya.”
Years later, I still think of Major.
I don’t know if he made it out of that shelter. I can only hope he did, and is spending his days running happily in someone’s backyard and curling up at the foot of their bed at night.
I can only hope.
What have you learned from the dogs in your life? Let us know in the comments section below.
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