Our little girl is coming along nicely. Yes, she’s bull-headed and pushy and choosy with her crate-training. Yes, she can leap clear over the top of her baby gate and make herself comfortable on the couch. But she’s sweet and loves to snuggle. She barrels into closed doors at the right speed and oomph to pop them open so she can investigate the happenings on the other side. She wags her entire body.
And Zozo is amazing. He’s patient and kind and ignores the little girl until she needs to be yapped into line. He shows off his cues and proves to be a great big brother and occassional alpha.
Individually, they’re wonderful. Together, they’re their own little wolf pack. It’s delightful.
We’re excited to introduce MJ to the people and places we love to take Zo. We call to schedule her for a bath.
“How old is she?”
“Oh, almost 8 months.”
“…Hold on…. (hold muzaq).. I’m sorry, we don’t groom Pits.”
“Oh, but she’s very sweet and has never shown any signs of aggression. She loves kids-“
“Sorry, no Pit Bulls.” Click.
This happens with the daycare we like to take Zozo to. The Yappy Hour. I begin noticing people avoiding our pink bully as we puppy-lurch down the road (our leash skills could use some work). MJ doesn’t understand; she just wants to shimmy and play and give kisses.
I find myself shying away from admitting she’s Pit-mixed. “She’s Catahoula with some kind of American breed– boxer maybe.” It’s a lie no one falls for. She may be gloriously speckled, but her snout is all Pit.
And I feel like a coward for betraying her heritage.
Gradually, when I call to make plans for spa days, daycare, boarding and training, I start the conversation off with the following phrase:
Do you have breed restrictions?
The question becomes part of our vernacular. The answer? Unsurprising: can’t, no pit bulls.
We became one of those families. We’re young, living in the suburbs. We have two rescue dogs. One is a Pit Bull. Obviously we’re dangerous drug dealers or thugs and criminals, and she’s vicious.
And that’s when I get mad.