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The True Story of One Lucky Bait Dog...

**This story is vaugley graphic, please read on with caution.

As I type, I stare around a bit. In front of me, the pictures of my best horses - Barrel Racers, Dressage Champions, Top Studs, and halter winners, all of them. Staring at the letters appear across the screen is Teddy - a humorous cat. Bumping into my feet, a small lop eared rabbit named peter, and lounging across my bed a ragtag assortment of beasts. Wolf hybrids, catahoula's, pitbulls, Australian Shepherds, and Jack russels, amongst the crew.

But with her scarred, monochrome face across my lap, Terra lays content. She's not a big dog. She's an average pitbull terrier - 50 something odd pounds, short legs, and a thick barreled chest. Her nails, which are overgrown, serrate my carpet like lace, and every stain - every patched hole in the wall is courtesy of her. But neither of us care.

Some four years ago, I rescued Terra. I was nothing better than she was; except human. An old aquantience invited me to a dog fight, slash training arena. It was a small outdoor, chainlink gated farm that I was bustled into. Lit with a few free-standing lightbulbs, and decorated with dogs. Dogs chained to anything sturdy, and caged behind bars meant for tigers. It was the darkest night I'd ever seen. There was no moon to light this dreary compilation of people and animals alike. All of us stood huddled under whichever source of light we could find. Even the chainlink fence was hard to see in such dim light.

Around a small building were littered an assortment of strange devices - whips, choke collars, treadmills, muzzles, shock collars, and spiked lances, amongst the few. And in another shack, far from this one, was where this sacred fight was to begin.

The center of attention was a small arena. Held together with plywood, 2 x 4's, and what have you. Men (and women) and children, even, hung around this shady spot. It was the dead of night, and freezing cold. I remember even helping to kick the water dishes, to crack the ice.

It was about an hour when this scrawny little halloween and hardware puppy was brought out. Tail crouched between her legs, eyes sullen, and her hindquarters littered with an assortment of lash marks. This was Terra - or at the time, "Number 12." So full of dirt, you could hardly recognize that she was white and black - not brown and black. She was lead; no excuse me, dragged out on a thick, rusted chain, staked to a pole, and kicked once.

The audience laughed.

After another moment, a differnet gentlemen, tall and sharp of features took the stage. He grinned, and announced the dogs,

"Number 12," - The audience laughed, as he gestured to the quivering beast.

"And.. Cane; at a thousand dollars."

Completley confused, I sat and watched; dumbfounded as this scene unfolded before me. Cane was a gorgeous dog though. A big white male, still a puppy by the looks of him, but big, and powerful. He jerked on a chain leash every chance he got.

The "announcer" stepped away, jumping over the arena fence and the fella with Cane slowly unleashed his dog. What happened next, is probably only too obvious.

Number 12, tied to such a short stake as she was, ran in circles around the stake, avoiding Cane's snapping jowels. As Cane ripped and tore at this dirty, emaciated puppy, people laughed, thew things, and yelled numbers at the top of their lungs, "2 thousand!" "Two thousand an' a hundred!"

After only 5 minutes - the longest 5 minutes of my life. Cane was pulled off the screeching, urinating Number 12. Cane was eventually sold for somewhere over 4 thousand dollars, but the most memorable part of the night was probably this small, particular scene;

"Number 12 - 50 cents!" The announcer carped, while the audience giggled and guffawed uproariously. And a tiny, squealing voice - equal to the painful yelps of the fallen Number 12, wailed above the crowd,

"ONE DOLLAR!"

And I reached into my pocket, took out the dollar, and crying and shaking - bought Number 12.

Four years later, on a cold night in December, I remember that day exactally. I call it Terra's birthday, she perhaps just calls it a day where she gets extra helpings of food - and a hike in the mountains, if she's lucky.

She's gotten overweight in the years past. And it was a wrenching trial adjusting her to life in a home. She's a smart, and driven female; I say she's brilliant, but don't we all? In my home, she's become a heartwarming addition to anyone who meets her - and to anyone that'll listen, I'll tell her story, our story. She's been an over-loyal companion, since I've known her.

Perhaps annoying, and skittish - and --heck-- to train! But she pulls her keep - literally. She's a "Weight Pulling" dog, and I compete with her often. She is Canine Good Citizen certified, and competes very well in Shutzund. I'll be starting her in agility soon, but for now, maybe just a nice warm bed, a rawhide (or two...), and occasional walks in the mountains keep her happy.

A trooper. This is just a true story of the Life of a Bait Dog. A grim one, but a true one. I believe she's a true ambassador to an old, and often forgotten quote;

"Only in the darkest of nights, can the brightest stars be seen."