Munchies died a questionable death.
Only 6 years old.
Dead on the kitchen floor.
Young for a pit bull.
Munchies was a black wonderful pit bull
who let her inner demon out,
and I do mean nip,
a little boy in my house.
Bad dog Munchies,
For many reasons I knew her time was up,
She had a mean streak with strangers,
and truth be told everyone is a stranger,
when the lights are out.
My grandchildren were being born,
and now this.
It was time for Munchies to go.
I called every pit bull rescue on the east coast,
not one would consider
taking a dog who bites.
The best most compassionate
last resort places said,
“Put her down.”
The older children stole her out the back door,
and hid her away at a friend’s house.
She got into poison of some sort there,
she started having seizures,
she was losing weight,
The kids brought her back.
So in the end,
She died at home.
Found her early one morning.
Still,with gritted teeth.
Apologized that I couldn’t have done better for her.
After a spell.
I wanted another dog,
not another pit although I truly love them.
I wanted something safer for my grandbabies.
I visited a local rescue for weeks on end.
I got to know the dogs who weren’t being adopted out.
I wanted them all.
But none of them was right.
I visited the puppy room.
I heard a loud mouth mutt yapping away,
I saw him standing against the cage door,
barking his little head off,
Good morning Cujo.
The volunteer brought him to the meet and greet room
where he promptly pooped a pile of worms on the floor,
and then retreated to a filthy corner,
where he trembled to the beat of an inner earthquake.
“I better take him,no one else will.”
So Cujo, my new companion came home.
Scared of his own shadow.
Took weeks for him to take food from my hand.
Cried, no… shrieked if we tried to catch him.
What happened to you Cujo????
Well, (the volunteer who was showing me Cujo offered),He’s been neutered.
Yup no balls.
That must be it, I thought sarcastically.
He had the rescue center tattooed on his hind quarter.
“We would like you to get him micro-chipped, in case he gets lost it will help get him back to you.”
But he has a freakin’ big tattoo on his leg!
I skipped the chip.
I carried his scared behind out of there along with a small bag of food
and a squeaky toy he was afraid to sit on the seat with.
My kids made endless fun of me,
and my crackers dog,
“Mom you couldn’t get a dog
who was just depressed could you,
you had to pick the one
with bipolar/OCD/w/suicidal tendencies.
Good job Mom.”
But time (patience and lots of love)
can heal all wounds,
or at least make them less visible.
It’s been 6 months now.
Cujo comes when called,
but never within arm’s reach.
He’ll take food from me but no one else.
He cuddles on my lap.
He heads for the hills
and the safety of his crate
when he hears the doorbell.
Cujo the dog, you will see him on almost every post,
he is always on my heel in the light or dark,
of night or day.
I feel his presence right there.
Feel free to be his friend.
He could use some.
Don’t we all just need some friends
who will accept us as scared and
as scarred as we are?