I don’t even remember your name. You told me your name when you came out to see what a 27-year-old woman was doing running around in your backyard barefoot in 25-degree weather. I explained to you, quite out of breath, that my dog ran off while I was taking him outside. The rolled up slices of ham I had taken with me did not work to keep him in my yard. That’s my own fault. I should have used a leash. You laughed and introduced yourself and went back in your house as I went back to frantically trying to get my dog to come to me.
My dog was too busy sniffing your dogs’ asses in greeting and peeing on every bush he could find to pay much attention to me. He had to be crated the night before due to the cold weather. I managed to get my hands on him once, but he wriggled free. 70+ lbs. of pitbull will do that.
Yes, my dog was 100% blue brindle pitbull. Yes, I know the reputation that they have. This is why my dog had a secure pen and why this was the first time I had taken him out without a leash. Funny enough? All the residents on our street seem to have their dogs in pens except for you. Your dogs get to roam free in your backyard. It didn’t help that your dog was trying to tag along with my dog as I tried to catch him. He truly wanted to play.
I ran back to my house to finally grab the new collar that didn’t fit very well and the leash. The only reason why I did not do this to begin with when he ran off was because I didn’t want him to scare anyone. I didn’t want him to accidentally hurt anyone in a fit of excitement trying to greet them. He was truly a 70 lbs. lap dog. I just wanted to get him back home as fast as possible to prevent any issues.
I’ve never seen him growl at anyone who would come in our yard when he was outside on a tie. He knew the man who does maintenance to our pool. He knew the UPS man. He knew the mail lady. He greeted them with a wagging tail and a slobbery tongue hanging out of his mouth with that goofy look on his face that screamed, “HEY! You got some bologna?!” But, I’m not stupid. Due to sheer size, I knew what he was capable of even if it was accidentally.
My dog actually followed me back home (albeit with enough distance so I couldn’t grab him – he wanted to play). While I tried to get the leash. When I walked up to my house, he ran off again. I had to stop because the cold air I was breathing started making me dizzy. I actually almost passed out in my kitchen, but I knew I had to get my dog. I ended up inducing bronchoconstriction. The rest of the day I wheezed like a 30-year dedicated smoker.
I was at your front yard when I heard you shoot. Though far off, it was a huge thunderous boom that filled the air in our quiet little neighborhood. I heard no dog yelping. I saw no dog running away. I knew you had killed my dog even though I had seen nothing yet. I was yelling “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please wait… see? I’m trying to get him…” when you saw me, and you stopped dead in your tracks and stared. The first words out of your mouth were “Oh Lord, I’m sorry.” You knew you had jumped the gun, literally.
You kept repeating the same things over and over. You were sorry. My dog had charged you. It was an accident. You only wanted to shoot and scare him off, but you hit him.
The little bit of hope I had in me was erased when I stood over my dog silently breathing his last few breaths with his intestines hanging out of him, steam rising up off of them in the cold weather. I knew it was too much just because of an anatomy class I took that involved dissecting a cat. I could recognize what was hanging out of him. I kneeled down and sat in his blood while I stroked his head and cried.
You had the audacity to say, “He was a beautiful dog.” Yes, I know my dog was a beautiful dog. You even said, “Come on, let’s take him to the vet. He’s still alive. He might be able to do something.” I told you no.
My dog looked and saw it was me. He tried to roll over on his back for one more belly rub. I was able to give him that. I asked you to finish your terrible deed but to wait until I made it across the street. I couldn’t have stood to hear one more gunshot. I told you I would call my husband and have him come pick the body up, and you’d have to deal with nothing.
You never finished it. You took my husband and my dog to a vet, where of course, he didn’t make it. He had to suffer even longer. There is nothing in me that says maybe had we taken him earlier he’d still be alive. I know he would not have made it.
If you really felt you were in danger of being harmed, fine, I get it. I really do. I understand. Who wouldn’t? However, there’s a few things that have bothered me since the shock wore off and the anger has set in.
You told my husband you fired warning shots. You didn’t. I heard one shot. You knew I had been in your yard. You knew I was trying to get my dog. Why did you step outside? It’s your property to step outside on, but why? Why was your shotgun so readily available to you? After talking to me, you went inside and got your gun or at least had it handy. You could have called animal control. I’d have been fine with that even.
But what bothers me most is this: what would have happened if I had not stopped for a few moments in my home because I got dizzy? Timing is everything. Would I have ran up just as you had shot? Would I have been shot in the process? Would my intestines be laying on the ground, steaming in the cold air? Even worse, what if it had been my son chasing after his dog? What if my son had been tagging along with me? Since we live in such a closely packed neighborhood, what if you had missed my dog? What would have been at the receiving end of buck shot? Sure, it’s all a bunch of what ifs that never happened. I’m a mother though. My brain is filled at times with nothing but what ifs.
Ultimately, it is my fault my dog was in your yard, on your property. The issue I have is the quick reflex to grab a gun when you knew I was trying to do something about it. It bothers me that everybody on this street keeps their dogs penned up in tiny pens, but your dogs roam free. It bothers me you say it was an accident and you didn’t mean to hit him; yet, you did. If your aim was that off, you shouldn’t have a gun. If you did mean to shoot him, I’d rather you just be honest. At best, it was very poor judgment. Again, I can understand if you felt like you were possibly going to be harmed. You didn’t know me, and you didn’t know my dog. At worst though, you were trying to be a complete bad ass with a loaded shotgun. You really showed me, a 27-year-old woman, barefoot in 25-degree weather, about to have an asthma attack that’s never bothered anyone on her street. No one even knows my name.
This is why so many people want stricter gun control amongst thousands of more reasons that make a lot more sense than what the NRA can spew out of their vile mouths. The accidental shootings in Walmart lines, the accidental deaths of children, it’s endless. I’ve never stepped into the gun debate because I come from a family with guns, but we’ve also never accidentally shot anything we didn’t mean to shoot either. If you want your second amendment so damn much, stop contributing to our arguments and giving us the ammunition (no pun intended) to fuel a debate.
Whether I’m right or wrong in all of this, I don’t really give a shit. My dog is gone. I’m heartbroken. And all I have to be thankful for is that the timing was just right that I didn’t run up as you were going to shoot, that it wasn’t my son, and that you didn’t harm someone else or another child that could have been playing in their yard.
The one soul I knew I could turn to when my son would throw temper tantrums and my husband would be short with me is gone. He wasn’t human, but I knew he loved me 100% no matter what… especially if I had bologna. We buried him at my parents’ house in a grove of bamboo because we won’t stay in this neighborhood much longer if we can sell our home, and I’ll be damned if I leave him here. I can’t live near people anymore. Call me melodramatic. Tell me I’m overreacting. I don’t care. I’m pissed off, and I’d rather just have my family and animals at this point.
