Benched

Last week I got taken down by a dark gray pit bull in the dog run. I was sniffing after this hot young golden lab and he wasn’t having it. I tried to tell him, “My brutha, let her be the one to choose.” The moment I barked out the end of that statement, he pounced. I fought back as best I could. I wiggled beneath him and slid out from under him only to be dragged back to where he wanted me to be and pummeled again by his monstrous paws and hind legs.

My mom jumped into the mix and grabbed him by the collar. He hopped up, snarled at her and lunged at the arm that she had tried to save me with. She backed away with a look of sheer terror on her face. I tried to make my move but the heavy brute hopped on top of me again. Mom dukes yelled over and over again, “No, no, no, no,” until the pit owner realized that we weren’t playing and told the bully to get off of me. He complied but not before he spit in my face, snarled at me one more time and whispered “That bitch is mine, son.”

I’ve been shook ever since. I’m scared of tryna’ roll with the big dogs now. Moms took me to the dog run yesterday and of course there were two more pits there. I just played my position, yo, and stuck to darting from bench to bench every time they got too close. Underneath benches, yo, that’s the safest place to be.