The Dog Burial

The Dog Burial
 "Hey what's going on here?" The Patrolman asked. It was around midnight and I was on the roadside out in Ragland County, hunched over in front of my car with the headlights illuminating my ass. My heart jumped when I heard his voice. I was startled and too preoccupied with getting a dead dog off the two lane blacktop to hear his patrol car pull in behind my SUV. I stood up, turned my upper torso towards him but keeping my legs spread across the bloody creature. "Uh, just dragging this dead dog out of the road!" I coughed, made a wincing face and turned back towards the mangled dog and continued flipping it over onto a pizza box I found nearby. "Did you run over it?" The officer asked. "Yeah, but it was already dead" I told him. "What are you gonna with it?" he asked as he walked towards me, stopping to look into my car with his flashlight.  I didn't answer right away. I hadn't considered what I would do yet. "I couldn't just leave him there!  The cars ahead of me ran over the little guy and I tried to go around him but didnt want to swerve and freak out the cars in the lane beside me!" I explained. I finally flipped the sad critter onto the box, and pulled the whole furry thing off the asphalt and onto the gravel shoulder. "Well, what I'm really asking is where you taking him now that you have him off the road? You cant leave a dead body on the county right way. That's  violation of county and state law well as a bio-hazard to other living creatures! " he said laughing. "I can't take it with me ! It stinks! I just felt bad for it!"  "Sir, You must dispose of the dog in the proper manner, and not here on the county right of way!" Exasperated, I opened the rear door and grabbed the poor dog and plopped it into the cargo area. With smelly blood dripping down my pants legs, I gagged and shut the door in time to see the patrolman drive off shaking his head. I drove around until I found  dirt road and pulled over. It took me  hour to dig a big enough hole for him using my tire iron. I noticed he had a collar on him. I unbuckled  it and read the tag. His name was Runner. Poor fellow will run no more. So, I covered him up with dirt and cried. Every loving creature deserves a dignified resting place, so I gave Runner the best I could do.  I found a big smooth rock and made a headstone with the collar wrapped around it. I said a few words to signify his passing over the Rainbow Bridge where he will run for eternity in God's green pastures where he will unite with the family who was probably still searching for him. I told him I was sorry but it was the best I could do, and to tell my dogs Biscuit and Woody I loved them. After my impromptu eulogy, dirty and exhausted I headed back to my car dirty and wearing bloody clothes, holding a bloody tire iron, with blood dripping down the back of my vehicle, as I shut the rear hatch, I turned to see 3 police cars, with lights flashing coming up the dirt road! I just shook my head and started laughing at the situation. I'm sure I looked like someone out of a horror movie. After all my efforts, I now dreaded having to dig poor Runner up and move him again.

On The Verge of Infamy

A Chance Encounter
It was 1994 and I had just began my Disco Hell dance party in Atlanta at The Star Bar on Tuesdays. I used to set up my equipment in the evening and then go home and get dressed for my show and chill for a few hours.
 It was in the Fall and I remember the sun was going down and everything had a orange glow, I was driving my '78 Eldorado down Memorial drive headed to my gig. It suddenly started raining hard and then golf ball sized Hail began bouncing off my prized automobile! I knew I had to get off the road. I turned down the volume of my 8-track tape player, reducing Rick James' Mary Jane to a grainy static.
 I quickly turned onto a side street and pulled up under an overpass and screeched to a halt. "My baby!" I hollered as I jumped out to survey the damage.
 As usual, I was dressed for work, in my favorite gangster  3 piece pinstripe suit, black fly collar shirt, white tie and black fedora with a white band. I also topped it all off with layers of pendant chains, rings, and spats worn over my black stacks.  It was my work uniform. I don't hide my style, I know it's different, but it looks good on me!  So I stood back and peered at the car for several minutes, from hood to trunk, at every angle. The hailstorm continued to pound hard.
 My Caddi was the only car under this overpass so, I sat down on the sloped cement culvert to wait out the deluge. So I pulled a fat joint out of my pocket breast pocket and lit it up. I took a long drag on it and began to cough. Before I knew it, a man came running though the pounding ice with his shirt over his head briefly revealing a full torso of tattoos. He stopped, out of breath, and soaking wet. Then he rung the water out of his shirt, and shook off the water from his head. He stood up and saw me toking and chuckled. I was shrouded in smoke, looking like a Sunday pimp, sitting under a busy highway next to a white caddi, smoking a joint and he laughed so loud it echoed. "I got here just in time!" He laughed.
"Come here and partake, traveller!" I said gesturing for him to sit beside me.  I handed him the roach and said "Hold on my friend."  and I reached into my trunk and pulled a big towel from my costume bag. "Here ya go" I said, tossing it to him while puffing the roach with one hand, caught the towel with the other, and then exhaled as he dried his head and shoulders.
 "Did it fuck your ride up?" He asked looking at my car. "Little bit, mostly on the trunk." I told him. "Not as bad as those cars out there" I replied, looking at the parade of bumper to bumper compact cars, all dented up. I turned and stared at his face. "Do I know you?" I asked. "Probably not" he said wiping his face. He seemed strangely familiar. "I know you from something... Wait, aren't you in that Digital Underground video? Was it Humpty Dance?" I asked, "Um, yeah that's me. I used to be their roadie."  "I knew I'd seen you somewhere!" I told him, taking the roach between my fingernails. "Lesane is my birth name,  I'm a rapper now, I go by Tupac Shakur." He told me. "Haha! Shakur? You named yourself after the Black Panther guy?" "He was my stepfather, but I didnt really know him. He killed some cops and went on death row. My mom raised me, she had me while she was in prison."  "Wow! That's so...um, cool." I told him. "Naw it wasn't cool. We had a hard life." He said that now his mom lives in Atlanta and that he was staying with her because he had some legal problems and was on the down low while everything blowed over. "Well I'll be" I laughed, "That Digital Underground video made you famous! You had all the ladies! Hey man, show me your tats!" and he smiled and rolled up his wet shirt, and exposed his Thug Life tat that covered half his chest. "Nice!" Hey, the sun is out, I gotta fly, can I give you a ride? "Well, A friend told me to go to this joint named The Star Bar tonight, I was hitchin' a ride there when this hail come down. Do you know where it is?" My eyes lit up. "What? Really? I'm Romeo, the DJ there tonight! That's my party!"  "For real?"he laughed and I said "Hop in."  I gave him one of my fancy tux shirts to wear and he came and hung out and danced all night. I never saw him with a crew. He seemed to be escaping something troubling. I believe he saw his impending death. But he was a fun guy and always hung with me onstage, or danced with himself. Nobody knew who he was, and he really liked being anonymous. We talked some nights after my show. We sat in my Caddi and smoked weed. A very introspective man, and a bit melancholy. We talked about philosophers like Marx and Proust. He quoted Shakespeare monologues and orators like Marcus Garvey and MLK Jr. - but we never talked about music. He was a regular for a couple of months and one night before closing, he told me his trial was dismissed  and had stuff to do. He gave me a dap and a warm hug. "Later Romie" he said "Stay Smoove!" And then he went back to the West Coast and big fame, but died the next year. I think most people think of him as dangerous thug, but the guy I knew was a sweet guy. He once told me he was a ballet dancer and I smirked at the thought. "Whaaaaat? No way!" I said. He laid down his drink and stood up on one of the bass speakers, "Check this out Romie!" he laughed and took a flying leap off the speaker and landed en pointe, did a spin and a perfect arabesque and ended with a dramatic plie' still holding his ballet pose! It's the strangest but most lasting memory I have of him. He was an interesting person and a complex individual. We could have enjoyed more of his generous, creative and rebellious spirit, if the cruel twist of fame had not robbed us of his genius.

The Sun King

The week before the election, homemade yard signs sprung up touting all the local offices out here from Sheriff to County Commission and every obscure post in between. I live on a road with very few neighbors and except for my friend Jane Ann,  I really don't know anyone else out this way.
  So it startled me when my dogs started barking and when I saw the silhouette of a small man standing at my door. "Hello? Mr. Uh..Re..si Resi Dent?" He stammered holding up stack of index cards and peering over his bifocals. "Are you Mr. Dent?" "Who wants to know?" I chuckled. " Sir I'm running for County Supervisor of Records at-large in the District 4 Schools, Roads Revenue , and Billboard Licensing Regulator Office for the Morgan County Vice Commission, and I would like your vote on November 8th." he said with smug assurance. "Well, that's quite a title, I didn't catch your name sir" I said, as I stepped onto the porch. "Oh, excuse me Mr. Dent, I'm Sunny King but people call me Sun." He said proudly, thrusting a business card towards me. " What?" I said, as I put my glasses on "Haha, really? Sun King? Louis the 14th? That's so cool! " No, its Sun, my name is Sun, not Louis!" He replied.
   "I'm running against the incumbent Reid Richards and..."  I stepped back and laughed, "Really? You're running against Mr. Fantastic? The leader of the Fantastic 4?"  He winced and said "I really don't know what youre talking about Mr. Uh.."  "Dent" I said laughing. "Well Mr. Sun King, what is your platform?"  "Oh, of course I'm a Republican! The people of District 4 are fed up with the lazy unemployed welfare mooches!" he asserted. "Let them eat cake!" I told him, with a hearty laugh. "We need to Drain the Swamp!" he said emphatically. "We have a swamp?" I asked, "Why drain the swamp? Where would the tadpoles go? And the swamp water will have to go somewhere if you drain it! I sure don't want you to flood my land with your yucky tadpole muck!"
  "It's not a real swamp, we're just saying that we want to get the incumbent, Mr. Richards-"  "Mr. Fantastic is in the swamp?" I asked. "You don't need to drain the swamp for that! The Thing will save him!"  I explained with a smirk. "Besides, you need to make sure you don't lose your head!  The swamp is the least of your problems. The peasants with the pitchforks are coming! No thanks Louis, I'm not supporting your anti-swamp wetland initiative. And besides- I'm not registered to vote in District 4!"
  So I gave him back his card and turned to go inside, and as I was closing the door, I heard him say "My name is not Louis!" and I replied with a laugh, "And my name isn't  Resident! Say hi to Marie Antoinette for me!"

Tred and Retred

PART I
  I had lived in the ghetto of Atlanta for a year without a car. So, whenever I needed groceries I had to walk for a mile to the nearest Kroger by traversing an obstacle course through a no-man's land populated by drug dealers, crack heads and thieves who used this grass filled lot to discard of stolen cash registers and women's handbags. The field was called Rape Alley despite being the preferred route of all my neighbors who, like me needed the cut-through to buy food. Without this 10 minute shortcut, it took 45 minutes to get from my house to the Kroger following the conventional streets. White Flight in the 1970s caused fearful property owners to force the city to block through-streets and erect a 9 foot tall chain link fence that divided the area in two. Black homeowners on one side white business owners on the other. But life finds a way and the efficiency of effort by the ambulatory shoppers undaunted by a feeble barrier. They soon made the path to this field the operational route and there was always a constant stream of people coming and going. It started by going through an abandoned house, out the back, around a wall, down an alley, over a gate, across two roofs, down a trellis, over a wall, then around a muddy sewage culvert.  And soon as the path reached this open field, everyone called Rape Alley, you still had to run the gauntlet of hustlers, drug dealers, hookers, ruffians and drunks in order to squeeze through a narrow slit in the gigantic fence, which ran directly behind the Kroger. On one particular evening, I made it to the store, but after making my purchase, It was pitch dark outside and I didn't like the idea of going back over the trash strewn obstacle course with an armful of food and a 50lb bag of dog food.
  Outside the store I noticed a dapper elderly man. Standing alone wearing a purple 3 piece pinstripe suit with matching Fedora and shoes. He was an elegant gentleman and I watched him stand there as people greeted him and pressed folding money into his hands, gracefully thanking them. In 10 minutes I watched a dozen people hand him hundreds of dollars! I was exhausted and plopped the food down and sat on the bag of kibble. He smiled at me with a glint in his eye. "Hello sir" he said. "How's it goin'?" I answered. "I like your get-up!" He admonished me saying "It's an outfit. Get-ups are what cowboys wear!" I apologized profusely and he laughed showing me his 24 karat capped teeth "That's OK whiteboy, I forgive thee." ( In this neighborhood everyone called me white boy. It isn't a pejorative, but actually a term of endearment! ) "I am not aggrieved by your compliment! You were admiring my distinctive wardrobe, therefore expressing a sophisticated awareness of my fashion proclivity!"
" Indubitably," I said laughing, " I too have a unique love of expressive clothing! Tonight I'm undercover though." Pointing to my dusty jumpsuit, " I have to take the cut-through home and don't want to draw attention!" "Wise choice whiteboy!" He told me, as two more grinning shoppers handed him money.
  "People call me Tred." he explained. "It's short for Tredacious." And he held out a wrinkled hand filled with rings under his purple coat sleeve and yellow ruffled tux shirt. I gave his slender palm a gentle shake, "I'm Romeo, pleased to meet you sir! Are you a pimp?" I asked. "I am not! I abjectly abhor the practice of objectifying women and immoral and evil  sexual slavery for illicit monetary gain! Its a sin!  But in a sense, I am a pimp... for the Lord!" He told me.  " I dress this way to bring light and love into this dark world." We talked for awhile and learned he was indeed a famous local minister of a church that recently burned down following the drunken escapade of his adopted son also named Tredacious, but everyone knew him as Retred. The young man was the beneficiary of all his dad's lifelong work praising the Lord and expressing his love of fashion. But despite being a deacon, Retred caused havoc by smoking crack, and sleeping with whores in the sanctuary. He robbed the church treasury and even wrecked the hearse his father allowed him to use. But even the Lord didn't stop Retred from causing the 150 year old historic church called Old Bertha to burn to the ground. So, with nobody in the community able to give Tred a new place to worship, he made it known that he would be here at Kroger every night taking parishioner's donations to rebuild. It was a heartbreaking story but his resilience was inspiring, so as I started to pick up my groceries and go home, I handed the man $100. and walked into the darkness to go home. "Mr. Romeo!" He yelled, "Can I assist you in reaching you domicile?" He said gesturing to his car, a purple 1978 Eldorado. "That would be so kind of you sir!" I said. He smiled broadly as we walked to his gleaming chariot,  "Any man willing to depart with such a generous gift to God should have good fortune and safe passage home in such an inhospitable and unforgiving environment as this."
"Indubitably" I agreed.

Part II
 The next time I saw Tred was about a year later. I was arrested for stealing an abused  dog from his chain. Everyone around knew I had done it, because I had been to every house on my block trying to find the owner. So, I copped a plea deal to avoid a trial. That way I didn't have to reveal where the dog was. I was fined $3000 but given the option to serve 14 days in the Atlanta lockup if I couldn't pay it. I took the jail time because where else could I save that much money in 14 days? Since I worked on weekends the judge gave me a "weekend pass" that allowed me to log out of jail on Friday evening, but I had to show up Monday at 6:00 am to get locked up for the rest of the week. I was strip searched and given a gray zip up coverall that had to wear all week. They let me keep my underwear and socks because they don't provide them in the city jail.
  The wing I was assigned to had 12 cells, 6 on the ground level, 6 on a tier above the Commons, where there was a "House Boss" desk where the CO sat at a bank of monitors and a big gray control panel that opened and closed the cell doors and operated a large roll up garage door that opened onto a loading dock where the jail received all it's daily deliveries and was the pick up location for all inmates travelling under guard for court appearances. We were the wing with all the non violent convictions and determined to be most trustworthy and all us "grays"  spent our work time moving through that service door until 6:00 pm when It was rolled down and electronically locked from the House Boss control panel until morning. 
  At first I was put in a cell by myself for the first 3 days. It was the first cell by the desk and had a bunkbed and a mattress that was just a mattress cover filled with torn newspaper. A small sink about 6" wide a steel toilet with no seat. The only natural light was from a 3' long narrow horizontal window near the ceiling. The jail had only black men and I was the only white guy out of about 20 inmates. The guards were black as well and half of them were women. I didn't ask for preferential treatment, but I sure wasn't going to turn it down. (Because, you know white privilege I'm guessing). They isolated me from the others and made me a "house boy" (trustee) in this wing of the jail. I was allowed out of my cell for 6 hours each day to sweep the TV bay in the Commons, and empty trash in the CO lounge where all the officers on the bottom floor of all the wings gathered for shift changes and breaks. They all joked with me why I couldn't arrange to avoid jail. They acted like they felt bad I had to be there. They let me sit at the elevated desk and sometimes told me to hit the big Lockdown button on the control panel. It was strangely casual in the jail. ( It was also the same jail that a few months later allowed the ex DeKalb County Sheriff's to stroll out of his cell while awaiting murder charges for having his successor killed)
   I also did chores for the "wing boss" the top officer in my wing who we only saw when there was trouble. His name was Captain B. Low, ( his brass name tag said B. Low, and everyone called him Blow). A real dick. He was a short guy with a strange outfit that resembled General Patton's from WW II. Waist coat, helmet, jodhpurs and riding crop. The whole bit. Problem was he'd get pissed off and strutted around shaking random prisoners down while screaming at them. Everyone, even the COs laughed at the guy. He was a joke. He looked like George Jefferson and the inmates would laugh loudly an behind his back mimic his little tyrant routine.
  One day he came strutting from the elevator with a new prisoner in shackles and handcuffs. An elderly black man I instantly recognized as my friend Tredacious! His hair was long and his gray beard covered his face. He didn't look good. "Hey white boy!" He said with a surprised look. "Mr Tredacious!" I replied offering a handshake. He smiled warmly at me, revealing his golden grin
 Captain Blow began yelling at anyone and everyone who laughed at his funky strut whenever he came to our unit.   He unlocked Tred's cuffs and shackles and strutted off to his office mumbling. "I have found myself entangled in a legal disagreement within the power structure of the black elites in this city and forced to succumb to a forced vacation in this ignominious incarceration facility for the past year! A humiliating defeat by members of my previous congregation who have blamed myself for the actions of my misguided progeny!" He explained. "Indubitably!" I said.
  The House Boss assigned Tred to share my cell and help me around the unit doing busy work.
  By the end of my first week, I was allowed to help feed the prisoners in my unit and unload food from the commissary that arrived every morning in a big box truck. Tred was well-known at the jail because he was a preacher and vocal advocate for the poor, (Also, because his son Retred owed many of them money.) So I arranged for him to help me with my House Boy chores. Next week, after being let out of the jail to work, when I checked myself back in, I brought Tred the only items allowed from the outside. I wore two purple tee shirts, two purple boxer shorts, two pair of purple socks and purple sneakers! (The rules didn't specify how many you could have. He had spent the last year in the State Prison with no underwear at all and only state-issued flip flops. For such a dignified man of God who had always dressed in the finest purple suits, I felt it was the best I could do to help him prepare for being released. He loved them so much and made sure everyone knew where he got them!
Tred and I were cleaning Captain Blow's office one day and I accidently knocked over a whiteboard by his desk. It had the name of all the transition prisoners who were either transferring to other jails, or being released. Since all transition inmates came through our unit before catching the prison bus to the courthouse or getting released, this board indicated their destination with a red or blue magnet by their name. The Wing Boss got very upset because he wasn't sure if we put the magnets on the board properly and caused much confusion for the whole staff.
 Tred was planning on his release in two days to accompany his fuckup son Retred, to a rehab facility in Amsterdam.  The plane tickets were bought and the day of his release was on a Friday. But the asshole Wing Boss picked that day to do an inspection. Tred was afraid it would all fall apart if he wasn't released by 5:00 pm and by 4:30 Blow had only made it through the top tier. "What will I do Romeo? My boy needs help and I have to make my flight!" The transition prisoners were already lining up to catch the prison bus and the ones getting released were sitting in the Commons. As the big roll up doors opened and the inmates shuffled out to the loading dock, I knocked over a bucket of mop water and asked one of the guards to let Tred help me out. Release papers in hand, Tred started mopping up and when I looked outside I saw a purple Cadillac parking by the gate. " Here, go empty this bucket!" And I winked at him. He smiled back at me. I saw Blow upstairs screaming and strutting and soon as Tred was on the dock, I hit the button that closed all the doors. Every cell shut and locked and all the guards were either outside or locked inside their break room, including Captain Blow- the only guard with an override key that could get them opened. I watched Tred zip off his gray coveralls and wearing just the purple outfit I gave him, casually show the guard his release papers and turned toward me and bowed before walking out the gate, greeting his son and driving away. It took two hours before the night Wing Boss arrived to unlock the cell doors. In the mean time I slid into Blow's office and put Tred's magnet in the "release" column and then finished my chores and watched TV. I was reprimanded for "accidently" causing so much trouble that day but nobody said a word about Tredacious.

Sharp Shooter

  I picked a friend of a friend up at the Atlanta airport who needed a ride to nearby County Fair, where she was some sort of big top celebrity.
  A tiny woman in her '70s who wore one of those embroidered country western outfits with purple roses down the sleeve of her fringed cowhide jacket and along the bottom of her skirt.  And on the front above each breast pocket, there were crossed long barrel 6-shooters embroidered over a bulls eye target. Of course with matching boots and hat.  She carried a wooden box as big as a mailbox with the same western  pattern of crossed handguns elaborately carved and inlaid with mother of pearl. "Goddamn TSA wouldn't let me take my shootin' irons in my carry-on bags!"
  She grumbled and hopped into my truck. "You don't look like a Romeo!" She chuckled. "I hate planes!" Her name was Jennie Lee Sacks and before we left the kiss-ride, she started reciting her famous history. At 7 years old she travelled the U.S. with Ringling Brothers as a solo trick sharpshooter riding a painted pony bareback, that jumped through flaming hoops as she shot bottles tossed in the air and even doing a headstand could shoot a cigar from a man's mouth while the pony leaped over logs.
  She was a prodigy shooter and horse rider known throughout the west. She said she held the record for consecutive target hits with 137 bottles shot in one minute. "Got paid good money for a kid in 1953! Sent me to college where I majored in finance!" Retired from the rodeo circuit at 20 she got a good job as a CPA  for Exxon and now just does seminars.
 She said she shows up at rodeos and country fairs just to sign autographs and get a smell of the manure.  She showed me a poster of her doing the hangman trick, hanging from one leg over the saddle taking shots at a spinning wheel with candles on the rim. "Well look at that! Impressive!"
  As we drove through the darkness she became quiet. After 30 minutes she fell asleep and folded herself up into a tiny little ball. She still seemed very childlike with her western outfit and curlicue hairstyle.
 As I rounded a curve, I saw a horrible site!  Right in the middle of the road was a magnificent 14 point buck, braying and bloody, trying to stand up.
  Two young men in a camo painted truck had hit the deer and it couldn't stand up.The two guys, dressed in camo coveralls we're panicking and hollering at each other. I parked and ran over to them. "Calm the fuck down!" I said. "Goddamn it Patton" the bearded one said. "Hell, I tried to stop, Chase!  What can we do?"  I said, "The poor guy is in pain! Don't you have a rifle or something in that big truck?" " Shit I never actually shot a deer before!" "What?" I said.
They both got more hysterical and they just started pulling the buck by his huge antlers, when  we heard a BANG! We saw the deer collapse with a single drop of blood drip down his nose. All 3 of us turned to see my passenger standing in front of the headlight with her pistol still pointing towards the deer as she flipped it caught it with her other hand, twirled it around her finger, flipped it back to her other hand and slid it into her holster.  The two men just stared with curiosity. "There's your trophy boys! Suitable for mounting!" She laughed and crawled back into my truck and said "Pussies- Come on Romeo, I have to be in Greensboro by 8:00!"

Dreamin'

My life is such a blessing. It's odd for me to say that, because I once was a sad and bewildered boy who couldn't deal with the pain and abuse I suffered and so i turned inward. Instead of reflecting my suffering onto others I consoled myself by creating a fantasy world to live in. I hated the real world and its callous and constricted rigidity. My illusions gave me a safe place live. Nobody could hurt me there. It was a phantasmagoric neon-hued dreamland where I levitated above the purple clouds and bathed in brilliant glittering light. I spoke to the animals through my eyes, and I read their thoughts by waving my palms above their heads.
Music was made by every object I touched. Trees would hum in harmony and bells would chime when I splashed into the cold rivers and lakes. Raindrops whistled and in the breeze tall grass had the spiritual lift of violins.
I was the only human in my grandiloquent paradise. I don't have many memories of my childhood that aren't intermingled with my imaginary experiences. I often hesitate when speaking to my family of our shared experiences for fear of embarrassing myself with some utterly absurd imaginary event.
These are the lengths a child will go to when faced with the reality of a brutal unloving father who beat me literally every day. I like to think that these fantasy experiences and my glorious glittering creations have leeched out and influenced the real world somewhat. And as I look at my life today, with my family of happy and loving cast offs, spinning mirror balls, flashing colored lights, enlightening music and spiritually inspired dancing people - I know that by a small measure, I'm sure that they have.

The Misunderstood

Ignorance, vanity and fear is killing these amazing dogs. Lots of people see posts like this and think "gangbanger" or "dogfighter", but they are so wrong! We know the truth about these dogs, and we are trying to correct the mistaken belief that these are dangerous and uncontrollable. 30 years of explotation by the media and popular rap videos has created a myth that will continue to cause death and suffering for this type of mixed-breed dog. We can end this horror only by educating the public so we can reverse the tragic mass killing of these smart and loving animals. We owe these dogs a fair chance of survival and I believe one day in the future, they will no longer be brutalized by sick individuals, released from the sad practice of chaining, stopped from being the most euthanized shelter dog, and given a chance to be a beloved family member like all other dogs have. We must be vigilant and do our best to reeducate the public and stand up for the much maligned Pit Bull mixed-breed type dogs. They are not weapons. They are not warning systems. They aren't yard ornaments. They also are not for the feeble and insecure to use as prorection. They are not the device cruelly used to fight each other for the entertainment of evil and soulless gamblers. They aren't the sweeps-week sensationalist magnet the media uses to enhance viewership. They are the sweetest most devoted and most intelligent of all dogs. They are members of the military and police. They are support for the mentally fragile and medically needy. They are pure love!

Visualizers

I am an action guy. I don't day-dream or construct elaborate useless fantasies. I don't have much tolerance for people who never actualize their ideas. Most artists are portrayed as flaky dreamers but I'm not like that. I don't entertain all the pipe-dreaming, pixie-fluffing, wish-weavers, rainbow-painters and unicorn jockeys. People like that give real artists a bad name. The only ''starving artists' that I know are the ones who really have done nothing substantial outside of telling un-creative people their grand ideas and bold schemes. I have never expounded upon an idea, process, performance or invention without actually making it happen. Now, I have been called crazy for the many outrageous or provocative things I have actually done. And that description may fit me fine at times, for sure. Haha, But I would consider it the highest insult to imply that I am just a dreamer.
You see, like many artists, I have the ability to see the future. It's the act of visualization, and very few people have that skill. If you can visualize something, you can make it come true. All prophets were visualizers. But it also takes a confidence in your ability to develop and construct these visualizations through planning and hard work. It took a lot of failure, poor choice of materials and bad work ethics before I learned to trust my skills to manifest the creation of these hallucinations from the abstract to reality. The power of the creative mind is unparalleled in this world. It is a phenomenon that has propelled mankind's progress on earth and will be the force that propels us beyond the stars.

No Regrets

I'm standing in line at Family Dollar. A middle-aged woman stands behind me. She is using her outside voice. "Hey white boy" she says "Did you take my dog?" I do not move or blink. "Cause I seen you carryin' on with all yo Pitbulls!" I slowly turn my head and look at her angry face and smile "Are you speaking to me?" "Godamn right I am! My neighbor said you steal people's dogs. Ima call Dekalb Po-leeses on you if you got my dawg. He was from a champion fightin' dog, worth five hunnert dolla'. I know you got him!" "Ma'am I certainly don't have your prized canine, you have me confused with another Caucasian fellow." I mutter as the line inches forward. "Well Mrs Martin say she seen a white boy get him while I was in South Carolina!" she says, hand on hip. "Must have been another white boy. I don't even like dogs." I reply, trying to block her view of the 3 bags of dog food in my cart. "O.k. My old man was pissed off when he find out" she says, finally lowering her volume. "How unfortunate for you to have lost his fighting dog. I understand your consternation. He was rightfully perturbed." I said. "What?" she asks quizzically. "If I catch that muthafukkin white boy done stole 'im, Ima cut him up!" the woman grumbles, making a stabbing motion with her purchase, a pair of pink flip-flops. "Indeed" I assure her. Then, she throws her flip-flops and a package of discount panty hose on the nearby day-old bread table and steams out the door. Silence. Then, everyone in line chuckles as I toss my bags of dog food onto the checkout counter.
I smile and think to myself, "Yes lady, I took your dog. The little white baby PitBull I found emaciated and scrounging for food in busy traffic. You're damn right! I grabbed that little boy and drove him to a place far away. Where he got neutered and vaccinated. Where he was fed well and is loved ferociously! I have no regrets. I'd do it again. No, I didn't put signs up. But neither did you or your old man, who probably calls himself a breeder! Ha! Right. So every negligent dog owner gets his prized so-called "fighting dog" knocked-up and they all of a sudden realize... ."I'm a BREEDER! ". Lazy dog-fighting scum.
.Yeah, I took your dog!"

Less Talk More Action

There's several archetypes of folks I know or run across that occupy this sphere of activity known as Animal Rescue. 
  One common type I don't indulge are the Armchair Rescue people. Keyboard Commandos that do absolutely nothing to help dogs.They are a blight upon the massive needs at hand for swift assured action. Animal Rescue volunteers aren't Walter Mitty action figures. We don't just share or re-post videos that show abused and neglected dogs as we lounge in the comfort of our suburban breakfast nook over a fresh-brewed Columbian Roast Cappuchino, We aren't the fools who make histrionic pleas in ALL CAPS filled with exclamations!!! while demanding others take action. "SOMEBODY HELP THIS DOG!" I have no patience for the delusional people who surf the Animal Rescue sites for posts about abused or tortured dogs so they can feel important by pleading for others to act. "I'd take the dog myself, but it's so far away from my house, and I just vacuumed the carpet" "Oh, I would go get that dog, but I have allergies" or, "Well, my boyfriend doesn't like dogs." and, "My landlord won't let me keep one here in my tiny apartment". The worse type will post "OMG, the evil killers at this shelter are going to murder this dog tomorrow! Somebody save him!" "Go get that poor baby NOW!" As they cut another slice of coffee cake and flip through the TV channels to see what Jenny Macarthy is wearing today. Helping at-risk animals is not the time-filling activity of bored suburban housewives.This is not a game.
  No, we are activists working ahead of the curve to anticipate situations and be proactive supporters. We have our resources in place and keep a vigilant awareness of our surroundings in order to act swiftly and without hesitation to help end the suffering of at-risk dogs and get them medical help. I am appalled by the lack of involvement by people who see these animals in traffic or chained to a tree, and do nothing. The people who will drive by a stray dog without rendering help are themselves very sick, selfish and dangerous sociopaths. Anyone who will see a dog in danger, but casually hurry on by so they can make their friggin' important business appointment, to me is a mentally deficient and morally corrupt individual.
  My friends on the other hand will risk their own safety to do whatever has to me done to help the dog. Come hell or high water, we jump in and grab the ones on the street or network to line up rescue orgs or get fosters for death-row dogs. We never order people to act if we can just take action ourselves. So when I make disparaging remarks about abusers, I'm not anxious or morbid at the thought of these evil people hurting these animals. There's really no time to dwell on what-ifs when action is needed. All needs are centered on the animal, not our comfort, our finances, our relationships or our clean carpets. Those things don't matter when the safety of an injured or fearful dog is at risk.
  We aren't heroic either. We are only doing what any decent person should do. The question should be, Why are there not more decent people in the world?

A Dog's Gift

A few years ago, when I first moved into this pocket of evil here in Decatur, It was more common to see dogs running loose on the street. You couldn't go one block without seeing several dogs running down the street or rummaging through garbage cans. On my street alone, I was stunned that backyard "breeders" openly defied the laws and no matter how many calls to Dekalb County Animal Control I made, I was more likely to get a knock on my door by an officer who loudly rebuked me for making threatening calls than have someone who cared about animals coming to their aid. Since LifeLine Animal Projecttook over the operation of the shelter, there have been great changes, but they have zero control over the Dekalb County officers who have a hostile attitude towards dogs. The dispatcher at the AC here recently said their job was to protect people from dogs but not to protect dogs from people. I had reported two dogs chained up, and after two months, nothing had been done. After raising hell I finally got a response that the owners were given an ambiguous period of time to comply and now 6 months later, the dogs are still on chains. There is no accountability in this department.
Last year I was riding in a taxi and suddenly a Pitbull dog ran out into the road and the car in the lane next to my taxi slammed into the poor dog and kept going. I screamed for the driver to stop, and he eventually did, more than a block away. I jumped out and ran back to the dog, who got hit two more times before I ran out into the road and waved my arms to stop cars. Every car that stopped began screaming obscenities at me. I called Dekalb Animal Control to get some help, but the dispatch told me they didn't help animals hit by cars, but to call back if it was dead and they would send somebody to get the body. I picked the dog up and carried him to the curb, as a line of cars streamed by me, but I got nothing but angry looks. "Please" I said, "Can you take me to a vet?" But I only got cussed out. I held the poor boy and stroked his face, and talked to him in a soothing voice -but I could tell it was too late. I vividly remember him turning his head towards mine and looking at me as tears streamed down my face and seemed to say "It's OK, please don't cry." And then he gave me a hearty wag of his tail, and as I looked deep into his eyes, and he looked into mine, he seemed to smile, and then he was gone. The last gift from a dying dog was his profound ability to love.