You never know with a new dog. Especially one like Pip whose previous life is shrouded in mystery: the year he spent somewhere, with someone, before Animal Rescue picked him up, a wanderer, and took him to the Santa Fe Animal Shelter.
One thing I know for sure: whoever that previous owner was, she let him get in her bed.
Yes, it must have been a woman. Would a man let a big handsome black male pit bull get in his bed?
But—would a woman?
Well, certainly not this one. There are limits (not very severe ones) to my affection…
I know of Pip’s previous experience because this morning when I came back to my bedroom after talking on the phone with my sweeties, there Pip was, curled up, a big black ball, in the center of my pristine white bed.
Not easily moved, either. He was way too comfortable. Treats meant nothing; he’s not much of a treat dog and clearly knows when he’s being bribed against his own best interest.
Finally, I had to haul all thirty pounds of him out in my arms. He didn’t seem to mind. Breakfast was next. And who knows, one of these lonely nights I may decide I’d rather have Pip in my bed than nothing at all.
And what a noble beast he is! This morning he encountered a frantically barking tiny dog; they are always the most aggressive barkers, having nothing else to offer. Pit stood staring. He would have liked to play with the tiny tyrant; he’s lonely for dog companions. But, no dice. And never a bark from him, never a lunge.
He’s proving to be a great trail dog, too. Meeting something about his size but old and timid this morning, he greeted her politely; her owner congratulated me on adopting a black male pit bull, opining, as I did in my last post, that these dogs are seldom adopted not only because of suspicions about the breed but because of the underlying racism that controls so many of our decisions, even if only on an unconscious level.
The truth is, his glossy black self looked pretty good in my white bed. Who knows what I’ll allow this weekend—as a special celebration for the Fourth of July?