Dogs, Dealers and Double Wides:

"Stop looking at me."

The thought hit me hard as Misty—muscle-bound, blue-nosed, and entirely too enthusiastic—stared me down. I had no idea how much she weighed, but she was solid. Unshakable. The kind of dog that, in another time and place, I would have crossed the street to avoid.

My friend had taken me to their cousin’s house—no, correction, their cousin’s double-wide. A home that, from the outside, looked unimpressive, but once inside, expanded like Doctor Who’s TARDIS.

The cousin? A dude so dedicated to gaming that he had a full-on cockpit setup just to play Halo. Monitors surrounding him, flight sticks, pedals, the works. This wasn’t a casual gamer situation—this was a man training for e-sports glory.

He had also, very importantly, promised to smoke us out. So I was trying to get comfortable, except for the small problem currently pressing its very large, very muscular body against my leg.

Let me start with this: I was terrified of large dogs. And the most dangerous of all? The Great White of dog breeds growing up? The pit bull. Close second? Rottweilers. Rounding out the list? Boxers. And I had my reasons.

See, where I grew up, these dogs weren’t just pets. They were status symbols. The low-income neighborhoods I knew were full of them, each one an extension of their owner’s reputation. The bigger the dog, the badder the man. Every small-time, low-volume dealer worth his salt had at least one. The bigger the operation, the bigger the pack.

At first, I’m sure they were for protection. But like anything that men twist to prove power, it evolved. And not in a good way.



***Trigger warning: animal cruelty, gun violence, graphic content.****

Okay. If you’re still here—

Originally, these dogs were protection. "Don’t mess with me or my urban lion." But by the '90s, where I lived, a disgusting tradition had formed.

Men—wannabe Pablo Escobars—would make their dogs as dangerous as possible. They’d devocalize them so they could move silently. Bob their ears and tails to make them look even more intimidating. Train them in backyard rings where blood was the currency of pride.

I shit you not, my friend and I once stood behind a chain-link fence, watching in horror as an owner used some kind of pulley system and a live chicken to teach his pit bull to attack and never let go.

I was seven when I learned that our Pomeranian, JoJo, was a fighter.

It was the middle of the day. My parents were napping, which meant I was unsupervised. Bored. I heard growling outside and ran to check—just in time to see JoJo in the fight of his life. A pit bull had leaped into our yard.

I screamed.

My dad—one of the few times he ever acted like a hero—ran outside with his shotgun. He waited for the right moment, the impossible second when the two dogs were tangled together just enough to take the shot without killing JoJo.

He fired.

The pit bull dropped. JoJo barely survived.

The owners came over when the police arrived. The man held a bandaged ear and told us—casually, like he was discussing the weather—that this same dog had bitten his ear off two weeks ago. He understood why we had to put it down.

That was life in my neighborhood.

Playing outside was a risk. Kids got attacked. Family pets got mauled. Runners were chased down just for existing in the wrong place at the wrong time. These dogs weren’t born vicious—they were trained to be.

As my dad used to say, 'The only difference between a pitbull and a gun, is you can unload a gun.' And in my neighborhood, plenty of people were loading them.

We had animal control on speed dial. Which, honestly, wasn’t reassuring. They always sent one guy, armed with what looked like a giant latch hook and zero self-preservation. He’d square up with the dog—growling, drooling, snapping, all muscle and rage—like some bargain-bin Paul Blart on a suicide mission.

By the time I was older, I had my own run-ins. My strategy? Controversial, but effective.

Once, in my early twenties, a boxer came barreling toward me at full speed.

Every instinct screamed run. But instead—
I white-girled it.

I made my voice sweet and non-threatening, knelt on the pavement, and called to her like she was a lost baby:

"Aww, what a sweet girl. Who’s a good girl? Can I pet you?"

I don’t even remember what happened after that. All I know is—I didn’t get bitten. I didn’t use my mace. I made it home. And I bought a treadmill.

Fast forward. I’m in my friend’s cousin’s double-wide.
And there’s Misty.

A blue-nosed pit bull who wants to be my best friend.

I have spent my whole life avoiding this breed. And now, one is practically glued to my side.

"Alright," I mutter. "If I pet you, will you just… leave me alone?"

I should’ve known better.

I am, arguably, one of the world’s greatest dog petters.
No official titles, but my track record is solid. If a dog gets within five feet of me, it will want affection. That’s just science.

I begrudgingly pet her. She immediately takes this as an invitation to climb into my lap, roll onto her back, and demand belly rubs.

And then—somewhere in the middle of it—I start crying.

"What’s wrong?" my friend asks.

I shake my head. "She’s just… she’s really nice."

My friend nods and walks away, leaving me there with my new best friend.

And in that moment, I feel like a marine biologist swimming with great whites. Like Steve Irwin following an alligator, calling it pretty.

And I realize something.

My fear was valid. It was earned. But it wasn’t the truth.
It was one truth.

Yes, there are dogs that are dangerous. But it’s not the breed—it’s the hands that raised them.

And when I find myself afraid of something now—when I feel anger, resentment, or fear rising in my chest— I stop and ask myself:

Why?

Is this fear real? Is it justified? Is it still serving me, or am I holding onto something old?

Sometimes, I make friends with my fears.
Other times, I still avoid them.

But now, at least, I ask the question.