Society’s Reply to Rogue Pit Bulls: Bomb-Wielding Mental Patients

Tony Kornheiser is on vacation. This column originally was published in April 1998.

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I’ve got domestic problems, gang.

A few weeks ago, I was shocked to discover, in my two-Volvo neighborhood, a one-pit-bull home.

My sweet but hopelessly incorrigible Brittany, Maggie--there have been reports in this space about her eating freshly used tissues, sponges and $120 in cash--was attacked by a pit bull. The dog, which was not on a leash, spied her and immediately thought, “Buffet!” It fastened on Maggie’s back, terrifying her so much that she wriggled out of her collar and bolted hysterically to save her life. The pit bull chased Maggie all the way back to our house, chomping on her like a chew toy, causing six puncture wounds.

As we chased helplessly after the dogs, I asked the pit bull’s owner, “What the heck kind of dog do you have there?”

“A Jack Russell terrier,” he said.

“If that’s a Jack Russell,” I said, “then I’m Jackie Onassis.”

We ran and ran, calling out for the dogs.

“Maggie!” I yelled.

“Lovey!” he yelled.

Lovey?

Fortunately, we were able to separate the dogs, and I called the police to report what had happened. The pit bull was taken away for evaluation. A couple of weeks later, I was informed the pit bull would be allowed back into the neighborhood because an animal psychiatrist had examined it and decided it was not aggressive.

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“Great news, Maggie,” I said. “The dog shrink says Lovey isn’t aggressive. So I guess it was all a misunderstanding. Oh, I’m sorry, Maggie, I forgot you can’t hear well anymore since half your ear was bitten off.”

I wish you could have seen Maggie. To treat her, the veterinarian shaved much of her hair, inserted four drainage tubes into her back and fitted her with one of those Elizabethan collars. She looked like a topiary lampshade doing a Van Gogh impression.

So I’m nervous about the impending return of Lovey. But that isn’t my only domestic problem. My lawn is a nightmare. It is wildly out of control. It knows no bounds. It is a disgrace.

Because I’m getting so old, I decided to get someone to take care of my lawn. So I signed up a fellow who offered to clean my yard, fertilize it and mow it.

It’s a sizable yard, so I asked him, “You think you’ll be able to do this all by yourself? Might you need some help?”

He said, and I’m quoting him exactly: “Sometimes when I need help, I get outpatients from mental hospitals to work with me. Would that be a problem for you?”

I stood there mute. I could have been a mime.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “They’re on medication. They’re fine.”

“Please don’t think me callous,” I said. “But the idea of a mental patient running around my backyard with a chain saw might take some getting used to. I mean, it’s a wooden house.”

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“They’re fine,” he assured me.

In the few minutes we were talking, my grass grew another 6 inches. It was now brushing my knees. By the morning, it would cover Gheorghe Muresan.

“I’ll try it,” I said. “But nobody in a hockey mask, OK?”

A few days later, he brought over a huge supply of fertilizer and mulch--hundreds of bags, enough to cover Montana. And they sat there. After a week, I began to get nervous because I knew that commercial fertilizer was a key component in making bombs. Add some heating oil, and for all intents and purposes, I was just a beaker or two away from blowing up Baltimore.

Pretty soon, I’d have myself a tidy little terrorist compound, complete with a perimeter of FBI sharpshooters trained on me. Which seemed OK to me--at least Maggie would be safe from the pit bull.