For almost the first half of my life, I was basically terrified of every dog that had teeth. Which, now that I think about it, is all of them.
The only pets my family could afford were an occasional tadpole or goldfish I won at a carnival. Most of them had about a three month lifespan before being flushed down the toilet.
The neighbor across the street from us kept two always loud barking huskies in a nine foot tall chain-link fenced in kennel in their back yard, convincing me they must be super dangerous. And the neighbor to the left had a Doberman who stared at me and my brother as if we were peanut butter doggie treats anytime we played in the backyard.
But by my thirties, I’d somehow turned into a bona fide dog lover. So much so that when I dated a woman who refused to hold my hand after I pet a stranger’s dog because it was “dirty,” I knew she wasn’t The One. (Anyone who can’t handle a little slobber clearly isn’t cut out for long-term commitment.)
Still, one type of dog continued to scare the living daylights out of me: pit bulls. Which is why, when I picked up Mindy for our first date about a year after my divorce, I knew it would also be our last.
I met Mindy the old-fashioned way — mosying me way around the produce section of Wild Oats (the crunchy organic grocery store that eventually got swallowed whole by Whole Foods).
She was clearly just back from yoga or the gym — or possibly Jazzercise, if that’s still a thing. Hair in a ponytail, a little sweaty, but still cute. I cracked a joke (“All dressed up for me, huh?”) and eventually got her number. Honestly, I don’t remember much about her outfit or her face or even if her name actually was Mindy. But boy, do I remember her dog.
Mindy lived in St. Charles, Missouri, which with traffic was a solid thirty minutes from me. Naturally, I drove there, since I was trying to be a gentleman. I arrived a few minutes early, which is unfortunately typical for me. (If you throw a party, I’ll be the guy standing in your kitchen ten minutes before you’ve even showered. Childhood trauma courtesy of parents fighting about my dad’s perpetual tardiness. Thanks, Dad.)
Anyway, I pulled up, parked, and walked to her townhouse door. The second my shoe touched the first step, it started: barking and growling that could curdle blood. I peeked through the window curtain and there it was — a pit bull the size of a sofa. Teeth straight out of a shark exhibit, slobber dripping like a leaky faucet.
I texted Mindy: “Hey, I’m here, but I don’t think your dog wants me inside.”
Her reply? “Oh, don’t be silly. Shelly’s harmless. We’re just excited!”
Shelly? Excuse me? Who names a four-legged chainsaw Shelly? What’s next, Cujo renamed “Mittens”? No way was I letting my obituary read: SHELLY GNAWS JEFFREY.
Fast forward: Mindy’s at the door, holding Shelly on what looked like a chain leash forged in Mordor. She smiled sweetly, asked if I’d come in. I smiled back and said, “Sorry… bad experience.” Was that an exaggeration? Maybe. But if you count getting chased by a pit bull in third grade and watching my cousin’s face get rearranged by one in high school, then no, not really.
I’ve never read a headline about a mistreated Labradoodle tearing off a postal worker’s arm. No reports of a neglected French bulldog snacking on a neighbor’s femur. Nobody ever whispered in horror, “Be careful, that Maltese has tasted blood.”
And yet, years later, sitting at a Denver coffee shop, I met Lilly. A big, white spotted pit bull tied to a table while her hipster bearded owner ran inside. All alone. Within two feet of my table.
Normally, this is where I’d write my will, but Lilly just smiled at me — panting, tail wagging, basically begging for a belly rub. Against my better judgment, I gave her one. And you know what? She was pure joy. No lunging, no snarling, no munching on appendages. Just love.
So yes, I’ll admit it. Not all white bitches are bad.
It turns out, our narrow life experiences don’t always tell the whole story. Might be a good idea to apply that to humans.