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Moline to Chicago--A Dog's Tail by Winston

NEWSFLASH, "Sick"...

Disgraced QB Michael "Sick", speaking for the HSUS to a small group at a church: “Who knows what could have happened at 3 in the morning when you’re fighting dogs?” he said. “It’s almost like being involved in the streets, dealing drugs, in criminal life.”

NEWSFLASH, "Sick". Fighting Dogs to the death and killing dogs that don't "perform" IS criminal life. Nothing "almost" about it!

First Anniversary at the Bridge

One year ago I drove to the vet with one hand on the steering wheel, and one handle stroking the brown spot on the top of your head--the spot where the angel's kissed you. One year ago I had to let you go.

I tried to write a Tail of Devotion for you in February, when you celebrated your first Birthday at the Bridge. Those same thoughts crowd back into my mind today, on the eve of your First Anniversary at the Bridge.

I think about how you came to be ours. Dad and I had driven across the state of Illinois to Moline to pick up your roommate, Gipper, and bring him back to Chicago. He was going into an As Good as Gold--Golden Retriever Rescue of Northern Illinois foster home. While we were filling out the paperwork and Dad was walking Gipper around the driveway, the lady said "do you know anyone who would want a Bulldog"?

To say we were stunned would be an understatement. Your Dad had wanted a Bulldog for years--since 1973--but we could never find one up for adoption when we had a "vacancy". We followed the lady to her friend's house, where you had been kept in a crate in the basement for three months. I remember sitting on the steps leading down to the drive-way of the split-level house. The garage door opened, and there you were.

You waddled your special waddle with all your swagger and attitude over to a large landscaping rock--and watered it! Then, as if an afterthought, you glanced over and saw us. You casually shuffled over on those massive paws. You leaned in, sniffed us both, snorted, and then walked away as if to tell us we were of no consequence to you.

Fast forward a year. The strangest thing has happened. You have become my baby. My puppy. My Winstie. Your Dad, who wanted the bulldog, has had to settle for whatever attention you bestow on him when I'm not around. When I am here, you are my shadow. You don't have to be right next to me--but you have to be able to see me. Then you are content. And so am I.

When we adopted you, you were seven years old, already a senior citizen by Bulldog standards. I think the lady thought she was sending you off with us to die. But we were blessed. We had four and a half years together, though the last year and a half was rough, courtesy of Nutro and Menu Foods. But you beat them. You survived.

Oh, how I would give anything to cuddle with you again on "your" couch. Feel your big tongue wash my face--you never did anything as simple as a "lick". To stroke your so very soft and unbulldog-like fur. To plant a kiss on the brown spot on the top of your head--the spot where the angel kissed you before you were born. To scritch your ears and scratch your fuzzy butt. To hear you lay down in the doorway and start to snore.

How suddenly you were gone. A giant hole ripped out of my heart and life. I never got to tell you how much you meant to me. I hope somewhere, somehow, you know how much you were loved, and are loved. I can't believe it's been a year. It seems like yesterday. It seems like forever. I miss you so.

A Second Chance, Vick? How 'bout you swim-for-your-life- instead...

...like you made those dogs swim for theirs? One of the most heinous features of the Michael Vick dog fighting operation was never widely published. If it had, I wonder how many of the "live and let live" and "he's paid his dues" people would change their minds. A federal agent involved in the Vick investigation in Sept. 2007 shared this bit of info that has been blogged about, but never widely reported in mainstream media:

"The details that got to me then and stay with me today involve the swimming pool that was used to kill some of the dogs. Jumper cables were clipped onto the ears of underperforming dogs, then, just like with a car, the cables were connected to the terminals of car batteries before lifting and tossing the shamed dogs into the water. Most of Vick's dogs were small - 40lbs or so - so tossing them in would've been fast and easy work for thick athlete arms. We don't know how many suffered this premeditated murder, but the damage to the pool walls tells a story. It seems that while they were scrambling to escape, they scratched and clawed at the pool liner and bit at the dented aluminum sides like a hungry dog on a tin can.

I wear some pretty thick skin during our work with dogs, but I can't shake my minds-eye image of a little black dog splashing frantically in bloody water ... screaming in pain and terror ... brown eyes saucer wide and tiny black white-toed feet clawing at anything, desperate to get ahold. This death did not come quickly. The rescuer in me keeps trying to think of a way to go back in time and somehow stop this torture and pull the little dog to safety. I think I'll be looking for ways to pull that dog out for the rest of my life."

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I too can't get this image out of my thoughts... A second chance for Vick? I say "Vick, go jump in your pool and then we'll talk about it!"