The Ballad of a Backyard Bulldog

The Ballad of a Backyard Bulldog

A short story by a Calhoun Country Boy

I was born with little more than fur on my back, and the cedar shavings beneath my paws. My home was nothing short of a perilous plywood box. It was built by the calloused hands of my master. He was a nice enough man. However, every once and awhile he would shove this nasty liquid down our gullets. I did not care for this one bit. I had a ferocious father, but my mother was as cold as Columbian snow. My mother told us all the stories of her scars. It was brutal and I realized soon what my fate would be. I sought comfort in the warmth of my mother’s breast. She gave me nutrition and life. I could recognize this at an early age. My siblings were much different than me. As I could see the life I was born for. They were blinded with young ignorance and a playful attitude.

As we all grew older, we were removed from our abode. Snatched away from the solace of all we had known. I was put in a spot. It had a house just for me, there was a stake in the middle. Attached to that stake was a chain. Long and sturdy, it stood from the likes of a transfer truck. It could have tamed many a dog. Yet, nothing could domesticate the demon inside. I would run wild like a lost ghost through the pits of hell. I would bark, jump, and chew on everything I could. I never knew what was wrong with me. As it turns out there was nothing wrong with me. This is what I was born into and the truth was; I was ready for the pit.

One fair day my owner took me off that chain. He walked me down a set of stairs. The place was dark for a moment. Then my sight was deprived from me for a short while, as he flicked on the lights. This was the first time I saw it. A blood-stained box made from wood. The bottom was laced with a fuzzy material. There set another dog. He was not happy to see me. This would be the beginning of a short schooling lesson. Another man I had never seen before was holding my opponent. My master was holding me. Time ceased to exist. I did not bark, no I just stared into my enemy’s eyes. I wanted to let him know on this day he had met his match. In the blink of an eye we were both released. As this dog and I swapped holds on each other. I realized he was stronger. The only question I had was how much grit did he have. I knew if today was the day, I was to die I would be okay with that. I was tired, bloody, and beaten, but so was my opponent. Our masters picked us up after some time. That bulldog never stood the line and neither did I. Worthy was the weapon that left the pit that day.

I must have done something right. Days after the epic battle of will power. I was beginning to heal. Once all my injuries were healed. My master began giving me more attention. He would walk me for hours. His sons would walk me. I would tug on a tasty treat with a weight attached to my back end. I would pull weights in front of other dogs. My master put me on a treadmill, and I loved to run. I grew stronger with each day. I was well fed with stacks of raw meat. This time I would be prepared for my next battle. After days, weeks, and months of training I was ready… Ready for a tussle to tame the heart of another.

My owner took me off the chain. No, we did not train today. No, he loaded me up into the back of a truck. Off we went through the land below that line of Mason-Dixon. We came upon a ragged old home. There were many cars there. A man who looked like Death walked out. His hair was low hanging and mangled beyond repair. His body had the look of a coffee and cigarette diet. His slim demeaner made me uneasy. Him and my master began exchanging words back and forth. They took me out of the truck and walked me into the house. There it stood… another box. Many a man stood around it. They all began a staring gaze at me as if I was a celebrity or something. I saw the other dog in the pit. He was being held by his master. My owner picked me up and put me in. The referee yelled release your dogs. Once again chaos ensued. I locked on to the side of his head. I jumped, twisted and turned. I made that other dog whelp in fear of what I was. We were brought back to our corners and he made the scratch. It was on again. I laughed at this cur in fashion. I went to work on his head and never let him to my back end. In a short time, his face was unrecognizable, shoulders torn, and back end torn out from underneath him. His owner cried and whined over the love of an emerald green parchment. After the match was over, I was being doctored up. Then, I heard sound of a nine-millimeter. I knew what I had become. This was the day I became a murderer.

My second match would not come easily. No, this would be a battle to the very end. I guess it was not who was the stronger dog; but the grit you were born with. He was a buckskin dog. A black mask for a muzzle. The dog looked stronger than myself. However, I had stared into the eyes of the reaper before. I came out the victor before why would this be any different. Once we were released, we began swapping holds. Oh no, this dog was as smart as me and just as strong. I went to his back end and he promptly removed me immediately. As we went tit for tat and neither of us were gaining any ground. Our proprietors broke us apart with a couple of break sticks. We both made the scratch when released. Hitting each other in the middle of the pit like two freight trains on a collision course. The battle of equilibrium would ensue. Yin and yang would fade to moments of peril, life, and death. After my muscles were fatigued, my mouth sore, and life slipping away from my jaws. I gave one last shot. I went for the kill. I grasped his throat. I flung my body with grit and hope. I ripped his throat out. I was now a two timer.

The last ferocious fight took a toll on my body and mind. I eventually healed. However, these scars would taint my soul for an eternity. After months of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories my body had fully recovered. It was back to the gracious grind of work. I was always a hard worker. I loved the mill and the loyalty I held for my Irishman was unwavering. This keep was a great one. The work was hard. The rainy season was upon the South. I drug weights through mud and creeks. It was the longest keep I had to endure, but by the end I was tougher than the bull and the bear. I never had a care for my own life, only blind loyalty to my master.

This time my adversary came to me. That’s right he came to my yard, my home, my stomping grounds. On that fateful day I met a jet-black dog. Same size as myself. He had just as many scars as I did. He looked like one of them swamp dogs from Louisiana. His muscles jetted out from his fur like the smoky mountain from a valley. He ne’er spoke a word. Ne’er a peep left his vise grips. When I stared into his eyes, I saw the reapers scythe. The referee spoke those famous words once more. Release your dogs. I was just as unyielding as all the other times. This time I had a new plan. This would not be the day I die. No, I slipped underneath him. I grabbed that mutt by his throat and went straight for the kill. That dog was a bulldog. Yet, he never cried or whined in the face of the cliff of chaos. This was the shortest match I had to endure. In less than ten minutes a brother at arms laid dead before me. I howled as loud as I could for what I had done. Yet, I was brought out the victor but felt pity. Sorrow would plague my existence for a time to come.

I was put back on the chain with little more than a few bruises and some scratches. I guess I had done everything my master expected of me. I was bred to many fine females. My genetics would pass on to the next generation of bulldogs. I lived the rest of my life on a hill, burdened by that bulldog’s chain. I was well fed and always got the biggest deer bone. I was walked and loved on by my master’s two sons. I went by many names. The sons called me Mushie. My master called me The Machete. All my fellow peers called me Champion. What did I call myself? Bulldog… I never stood the line. I never yielded in the face of demise. As age would take its toll upon my body, I knew death was coming. At the ripe age of twelve I greeted The Grim with open paws. His scythe grasped my collar. I was taken to side of an old drainage ditch. A hole stood beside it. I looked at the Reaper, it was an Irishman with tears streaming down his face. By the sound of an ole nine my life ended… or so I thought.

This world was different. Blinding lights, rushing noises, and then it all stopped. I woke up beside a cloudy staircase. Its’ only direction was up. I began the climb. Long and arduous it was. It seemed to never end. This laborious grind was brought to an end by a large pearly gate. I was walking on clouds. Level ground. A man by the name of Rock stood beside it. When our eyes met, he smiled. The gates proceeded to open. I was hesitant to set a paw inside, but he gave me a smack on my backend. I stumbled in, just how I stumbled to my mother’s breast for the first time. I looked up and around. Then it caught my eye. A box with another bulldog in it. No man, no parchment. Only the gamest bulldog in the land. Our eyes met. We both had a little bulldog grin upon our faces. He jumped the box and I began the run. This is the day when time did not exist, nor pain, nor the greed of man. Just two bulldogs running and rumbling, to make the scratch.

Author’s Note

In dedication to any and every backyard bulldog. In the face of death you gave your all. In the light of an undeserving owner, you gave your heart. You fought for the love of the game. You fought because, it was all you knew. Not yet a breed could compare to you. There is no heart like the heart of an American Pit Bull Terrier.