An Anecdote

Inspired by Rebecca Traister's story over at Salon, here's a short anecdote.

My brother brought home a dog he had got from someone who couldn't take care of it anymore. It was like a cross between a Scottish terrier and some sort of fighting dog; endearingly fluffy and floppy-eared, but with a heavily muscled chest and legs and those huge jaws, built for pulling down much larger animals. My brother called him Nugget.

He had the most manic, upbeat personality of any dog I've ever come across, bouncing madly up to try and lick hands and faces, puppyishly firing little spurts of urine. To keep him from shooting into the house every time the door was opened, my father put metal bars across the entrance to the porch, but the irrepressible Nugget kept pushing at the bottom bar until he had made a gap to push his broad shoulders through.

Ultimately, however, my parents found themselves living in fear of what he might do. He leapt all over strangers and other dogs alike, and in their constant fear they found themselves unable to tell if it was with affection or ill-intent. Finally they put him down.

I was shocked to hear of it, but ultimately I had been unwilling to take care of him, and no one else was, so what could have been done? Still, I feel a twinge of sadness when I think of that mad little mutt who loved his masters so much he'd push through steel to be a little closer to them.