An A–Z of Exceptional Dogs. Mikita Brottman

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      In this way, perhaps, David’s relationship with Grisby is healthier than mine. With me, Grisby is enmeshed; with David, he knows his place. In other words, David has what most people would probably consider to be an appropriate kind of relationship with his dog. He loves Grisby, worries when he’s sick, enjoys having him around, but doesn’t miss him—doesn’t even think about him, doesn’t even really notice—when he’s not there. He has his own pet names for Grisby—Bright Eyes, Big Boy, Señor—that are affectionate but not infantilizing. It seems ridiculous for me to be jealous, but sometimes I wonder whether, as males, David and Grisby have a bond I’ll never share. It’s tempting to romanticize the man-dog connection, and to overlook the fact that it can be instrumental or exploitative, or that it usually involves questions of aggression and control.

      These issues appear most overtly in the hypermale world of dogfighting, a practice that goes back to ancient times. The Egyptians, Greeks, and Babylonians all employed fighting dogs on the battlefield. During the Roman invasion of Britain, the conquering legions were impressed by what early historians referred to as the pugnaces britanniae: the fighting dogs of Britain. The specific breed of these ferocious, battle-ready beasts is unknown, but in light of an early reference to them as “broad-mouthed,” it’s widely believed they were remote ancestors of the modern-day mastiff.

      Soon after their invasion, the Romans began to import British fighting dogs, even appointing an officer whose job was to select especially pugnacious animals to send abroad. Some were trained to fight in battle; others were turned into gladiators and pitted against bulls, bears, and wild elephants in the Colosseum, a precursor to modern bullfighting. Later, the pugnaces britanniae were used in bearbaiting, a “sport” that flourished in the sixteenth century and was especially popular among English noblemen (ironically, it’s the blue bloods who pursue blood sports most earnestly). By the early nineteenth century, the pastime had become less common, owing to the increasing scarcity and rising cost of bears (as well as growing concerns about cruelty to animals), and in 1835 bear- and bullbaiting were both outlawed by an Act of Parliament. Henceforth, these “sports” were replaced by the cheaper, legal alternative of dog-on-dog combat, and fighting breeds were crossbred to create agile and vicious creatures capable of brawling for hours at a time.

      Shortly before the American Civil War, English fighting dogs were imported to the United States, where they were mated with native breeds. Dogfighting quickly became a popular spectator and betting sport in the United States, and the United Kennel Club created formal rules and sanctioned referees. Fights were held in taverns and halls, and railroads would sometimes offer special fares to passengers traveling to well-publicized events. The observer of a Brooklyn dogfight in 1876 described its spectators as a “villainous-looking set … more inhuman in appearance than the dogs … a crowd of brutal wretches whose conduct stamps them as beneath the struggling beasts.” Unsurprisingly, perhaps, most dogfighters were men in typically macho working-class professions: police officers, soldiers, and firefighters. When dogfighting became illegal in the 1930s and ’40s, it was driven underground, where it continues to thrive, despite its being classed as a felony in all fifty states.

      “Let dogs delight to bark and bite,” begins a hymn by the English theologian Isaac Watts. This is the line usually taken by defenders of legalized dogfighting—that dogs naturally exult in their strength and are eager for combat; that fighting, in other words, is “in their nature.” I know there are fighting rings in Baltimore, and I sometimes worry Grisby might be stolen for use as bait. Pet theft is apparently on the rise in the city, though since it’s lumped in with other kinds of property theft, it’s difficult to know how widespread it really is.

      Such theft is certainly not as common as it was in nineteenth-century London, when substantial ransoms would be asked for the animals’ safe return. The most notorious of these mercenary pet pilferers was a gang whose members called themselves “the Fancy.” Their modus operandi was to wait until the dog was momentarily unattended, lure the unsuspecting creature—usually with liver mixed with myrrh or opium, or sometimes with a bitch in heat—then shove the poor animal in a sack and disappear into the crowd. When the gang’s demands weren’t met, the dog’s paws or even its head would be delivered to its owner. Flush, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s spaniel, was kidnapped three times by the Fancy, and each time she unhesitatingly and immediately paid the ransom (see FLUSH). Who can blame her?

      Still, when I asked an animal control officer whether I was taking a risk by leaving Grisby tied up outside a Starbucks, he looked amused. “No risk at all,” he assured me, condescendingly. “Anybody that’s involved in illegal activities is going to want to stay under the radar as much as possible. If they wanted dogs as bait, they’re not going to steal one off the street. For one thing, you can just go and get a mutt from the pound—this city’s full of people trying to get rid of dogs they can’t afford to keep. Another thing—if you steal a purebred, it’s probably going to have a microchip and it’s going to be worth some money, which bumps it up from a theft to a felony. Nobody’s going to take those kinds of risks for what’s at stake.”

      I felt foolish. When you think about it, the idea of gangsters emerging from the ghetto to steal “our” innocent pets is really absurd; what’s more, it bespeaks all kinds of race and class anxieties. These sensitive issues also saturate the discourse around pit bull “rescue” campaigns, in which dogs are taken from young black men in the city’s run-down neighborhoods, inoculated, bathed, “altered,” given friendly names, adopted by middle-class families, and taken to live in the suburbs. We do to the dogs what we really want to do to the barbarians who breed them: make them submit.

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       CAESAR III