CREATIVE WRITING
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." - Oscar Wilde
I was born in a caged little pen. My mother and I were separated the instant I was born, and I was the only one of my litter that survived. I cannot remember much else about my family. Over time, I was able to walk and eat food that was hard and crunchy, instead of the wet and brown stuff I used to eat. I grew up in that little pen, chained to a fence in my crate. Dinner came as the sun would set. I saw others that looked like me being moved out of their cages and into giant white vans, filthy with muddy prints on their sides. I was always worried about what those vans meant. Were they vehicles to freedom? To our families? To a better life? I had no idea. I knew one thing was certain: the guys that went into the vans never came back. I lived in this backyard every day, through snow, rain, and shine. I could not say I disliked the backyard; I had no reason to, as far as I knew. I was only eight weeks. It wasn't "bad" yet to be in that backyard - until I turned one. First, I noticed a change in my food; it started to taste slightly bitter. Something had changed. Did they buy a new feed? Maybe I ate too much. I tried to see if the others noticed. Some left their food untouched, whimpering. I noticed a giant cut on someone that looked like me; his nose was bleeding as he kept running into the door of his cage. I heard loud yelling and two bullets of a shotgun go off before he finally stopped. I peaked out of my cage again, noticing the lump laying on the ground. I had always wondered why he stopped running. Another month passed before one of the scariest days of my life occurred. I finally got a good look at the people who fed me and kept me on that binding leash. I felt someone grab a hold of my chain and I started sliding across the patchy grass, barely able to keep up with him. I wondered where they were taking me. Maybe to the white vans? “Pit bulls can fight, but they sure are stupid,” he joked to another man walking next to him. Is that what I am? Who I am? They called me Number 26, but I nicknamed myself “Pit Bull.” When I was finally at the door to the building, I felt an overwhelming sensation of warmth. There was something sweet in the air and there was a fire. My paws were numb and sore. I tried to stay off of them, but the man forced me to keep walking. I followed begrudgingly. Where was I being taken now? I finally found myself down a bunch of steps into darkness. It was black for a couple of minutes, and I felt content again. It was nice to be in such ignorant space, knowing what pain surrounds you without having to look it the eye. But, for me, the lights turned on. It happened so fast. I was thrown onto a wooden table, slapping my side against its rough and uneven boards. I yelped in pain, yet no one stopped. Someone laid on top of me. I felt a hand near my bottom. My tail. Why was he grabbing my tail? I loved my tail. It was curly and tan. He let go of it. I felt relief - for less than a second. The last time I saw my tail, it was docked from my body and red on the floor. After they sliced my ears, I felt different. I could sense my surroundings. The pain was unbearable. Searing. I think I fainted because when I awoke, I was back outside. I was shivering. What was that place? I began to sob uncontrollably for my tail. For my ears. For my shivers. For who I was: Pit Bull. I would hate to bore you with the gruesome details, so I will just say: they trained me. I am not sure what I trained for, but I trained every day for as long as I could and to the best of my ability. I spent hours on treadmills, heading nowhere but getting there faster every time. I was not sure why, but it never really hurt. I was once on the treadmill for six hours before deciding I had had enough. But it was not enough for my owner. He made me get back on for a couple more hours. I began to feel bulkier as I was forced to push heavy boxes across a hallway My meals got a little bigger. I felt a little bigger. My temper was starting to change; I got angry when I saw the others getting more food than me. I got angry when one still had his tail. I guess that was why my first fight never really bothered me. I was angry. He put us into a fourteen-foot wide pen, and I immediately noticed dried red globs on the floor and scratches all along the plywood surroundings. What was I in this pen for? I began to whimper, but my opponent had done this before; he charged me, clawed my eyes, and I was already on the ground. I looked at my paw, wincing in pain. Would I be able to walk on the treadmill? What would happen to me if I could not? I laid limp for as long as I could before I felt arms wrap around me and bring me to my feet. I heard someone in the back of the room say “Again.” Over and over and over. I fell. I was bitten. I was sore. By the time they finally pulled me from the ring, I was bleeding all over. My opponent looked excited, something in his eyes telling me he had gotten used to beating me. Something ignorant. Something that looked like the face that sliced my ears and tail off. But soon enough, I became him. I never had a reason to think it was wrong; it simply was who I had to be. By the following year, I was beating other dogs that were unsure what the plywood walls meant or what the dried red globs were and what they were supposed to do when I came charging in. I became the alpha. I won over and over again. Finally, I was ready. Finally, I was hoisted into the white van. My expectations of the inside of the van were not met. To be perfectly honest, that van was incredibly stuffy and cold. The ride felt endless. I did not like how I felt like I was moving, but my legs were not. Cars scared me, and I found myself trembling on the ride to wherever I was going. The car eventually stopped. I waited for a while before the doors to the van opened. As the night invaded the car, I began to sniff. Maybe my mom was waiting for me. Maybe I was going to have to go on a long journey to meet my dad. Maybe I was going to be able to run away from these people. Maybe I was getting a new tail! But my wishes were quickly diminished. My “owners” hooked a chain to my leash and guided me into a narrow road between two tall structures. White clumps were melting on the sides of the streets, and yellow lights flickered to guide the way as it was the dead of night. As we kept walking closer to where we were going, I noticed a familiar sight: plywood and stains of red. An unfamiliar sight was the people. Why were there so many humans? They were all sitting around the pen looking eagerly at me as I approached. I had never even seen so many humans in my life at once! I knew I was going to have to fight someone, but why the people? Some of them looked at me pitifully, but most of them looked like my owners. “He’s not gonna make it. Did you see that other thing? It was a beast!”, someone whispered as I passed. What thing? I could smell another like me, but I could not find him with my eyes. I wonder if he recognized the plywood and the red stains. I wonder if he came in a van like me. My owner unhooked my leash and I decided to start to sniff for my fellow canine. Before I could, my owner hauled me into the corner of the ring. I looked up and saw him. He looked much like me in the face, though his fur was darker and he was much bigger. Something about him scared me. Maybe it was his size. Maybe it was the way the drool bubbled at his mouth. Maybe it was his bloodshot eyes. All I knew was that I did not want to fight this guy. It was too late. He pummeled me while I decided if I wanted to fight him - as if I had ever had a choice before. I was on the ground. Loud clapping noises evaded my ears; where was that coming from? He bit me and scratched at my eyes. More clapping. He bit me again. And again. And again. Black was beginning to fog the corners of my eyes. I kept feeling his ruthless bites. But just as the black invaded, I saw red and blue flashes. A hand awoke me, stroking my neck. It was the strangest sensation; this calming and rhythmic pattern lulling me back to sleep. Yet it was scary; what if the hand stopped stroking and started hitting? The thought startled me and I jumped up. I began barking as loud as I could. I had no idea what I was barking at, but I just kept screaming. “Oh, I knew I should have let him sleep. He just looked so precious.”, I heard someone say. It was not a deep voice; it was quiet and sounded worried. I slowed my bark to look at where the voice was coming from and saw a person with long, brown stuff falling from its head. It looked at me with a frown, but it looked so nice. I missed its hand on my stomach. As I slowed my bark, I felt my leg give out. It hurt so much, I started to pant and lay on my side. I began to worry; would the person make me walk on it? Fight on it? Or would she try to pet my stomach again? The person came to sit next to me. What was going to happen? I was too scared to move. It took out a long rope and put it on its ears. Then, I felt something cool on my side. It moved from left to right as I breathed. My breaths came in gasps of relief; I was so worried that rope was going to go around my neck and drag me to the plywood and the red stains. I was too hurt to move. The person removed the cool thing from my side and took out another rope. This time, it took my leg that was hurting and began to wrap the rope around it. I grew anxious again, but this time a little less; I knew the person was not going to hurt me. The rope tightened and I felt relief. This person wanted to help me. I do not know where I was, and I do not where I am. What I do know is that I get belly rubs. I get to sleep in a warm bed. I even get peanut butter. My paws never hurt anymore and I never have to be around other dogs that want to fight me. I get to be loved, and little people that are my height want to sleep next to me or convince the bigger people to give me more treats! Sometimes, I see bigger people that remind me of my owners and I get scared, but my new friends keep me close when this happens and rub my neck- rubbing all the worries away. I know that I am safe. I will never have to fight again. Yet, no matter how hard I try, I worry about the other dogs that go into the white vans. I worry about the other dogs back at the yard, and I worry about where their rides take them. |
About the author.I love creative writing, especially poetry and short narratives. I hope expand my career as a poet and to always be reading something. Archives
April 2019
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