Buddy, a pit bull: Ideally suited to combat and to a family in Fresno

According to a story in the paper the other day, owners of pit bull terriers are trying to improve the public image of their pets, which have a reputation as dangerous to man and beast.

Pit bulls, in fact, were bred in England in the 17th Century for fighting one another in pits, to the death, and they are indeed ideally suited to combat.

They are lean in the hind quarters but mighty in the shoulders, having a big neck and a sleek head with powerful jaws. As the story said, a pit bull’s jaw can exert about 1,500 pounds of pressure per square inch--nearly twice the amount of a German shepherd’s.

Because of their belligerent appearance, their breeding and their brutal strength, pit bulls naturally terrify most people, and some cities, like Santa Monica, require them to be muzzled as well as leashed.

All this notoriety naturally saddens the owners of pit bulls, who think of their pets as intelligent, friendly, docile and sweet. Of course, like any dog, they can be trained to be aggressive and vicious, but they can also be trained to be gentle.

For what it may be worth to beleaguered pit bull owners, my family owned a pit bull when I was a small boy, and he was by far the best family dog I have ever known. He was of course strong and brave, and ferocious when he thought it was required of him; but he was also gentle with us and he would have been loyal to the death, had that been required.

We lived in Fresno at the time. I’m not sure that I have ever before revealed that I once lived in Fresno. Like pit bulls, Fresno suffers from an unfair reputation. As its own mayor recently said, it is, after all, “the gateway to Bakersfield.”

Our pit bull was a runaway that followed my father to his car in downtown Fresno. My father was then driving a Wills St. Claire touring car with an open top, and the dog simply jumped in. He was in need of a master and he had found one.

Of course we never knew his lineage, but he was obviously a pit bull, though his color was a bright brindle brown, more like that of a boxer. It struck me at the time that he looked like Jack Dempsey, who was then heavyweight boxing champion of the world and every boy’s idol. They both had the same lean flanks, the big sloping shoulders, and the sleek head with an oversize muzzle. And both could strike with the same ferocity.

The dog quickly became devoted to the members of our small family--father, mother, two brothers and a sister.

We called him Buddy.

He became our protector. He took it upon himself to defend our house and yard against the world. If anyone turned in our walk, he soon found himself held off by a snarling, crouching, savage-looking dog with fangs bared, eyes wild, his whole body poised to spring. To a stranger, this apparition must have been utterly intimidating.

Our postman refused to deliver mail. Utility men refused to read our meters. Traffic to our house simply stopped. It wasn’t that Buddy ever bit anyone. That wasn’t necessary. No one got close enough. He was never challenged.

To restore relations with the outside world, we taught Buddy to go under the house to the basement whenever he saw anyone approach. He did this willingly and without fail, peering out at the intruder from a screened vent, barking vociferously, but staying safely within his dungeon.

Buddy was not fenced but he did not often roam. One target that would lure him out was the neighborhood Airedale, the only animal that did not fear him. Once Buddy faced this dog down in a neighbor’s yard and they fought. It was chilling; primeval. They wasted no energy on useless barking. Each knew he could not intimidate the other. They went straight for the throat. Blood was drawn. The whole neighborhood was aroused by this awful contest, so long foreseen.

We couldn’t get close enough to separate them. Finally someone thought of the water hose. Both of them yielded at last to a heavy stream of water in the face. They parted and each trotted toward home, perhaps feeling lucky to have got away with his honor and his life.

I have debated whether dogs can be embarrassed, but I once saw Buddy embarrassed. My sister used to take the streetcar downtown, being old enough to go by herself, and when she stepped down from her car, about half a block from our house, Buddy would always be there to meet her.

One day he thought he saw her on the car and dashed to the corner to be there when she stepped down. It turned out to be another girl. Buddy slunk home with head down, tail between his legs, eyes shifting to see if anyone had observed his embarrassment.

Do you remember how the young German soldier died in “All Quiet on the Western Front”? He reached out of his trench to touch a butterfly on no man’s land, and was killed by a sniper’s bullet.

Buddy died in much the same way. He loved to chase butterflies. One day he was chasing one in the front yard, leaping and snapping his jaws foolishly, knowing he would never catch it. The butterfly flew out into the street. Buddy followed, still leaping joyously, and was hit by a car.