There was no marks on his body. One side of his skull was flattened with blood from his mouth. He was 50 meters or so from the road with no signs of having dragged himself from there after being hit. With my dogs' histories of shootings, clubings, and stabbings I doubt it was an accident.
Some of the locals justified their abuses by pointing out that my dogs are 'pit bulls'. Trying to convince them that there's a big difference between American Bull Terriers and Staffordshire Bull Terriers was a futile as arguing that they were raised with love and affection. None of them were ever trained to attack. Man nor other beasts.
They were country yard dogs. They kept the coyote packs, bears, and cougars at bay. Granted there were some men whom they didn't trust close to the house either. They didn't attack though. It wasn't expected of them. They'd hold the suspects at bay and call for our attention and decision to allow access. That is their job. Most folks can walk right up to the door after being sniffed. Smell seems to matter. I trust their judgement based on my own opinion of those they choose to warn off.
That they were Bull Terriers is no longer an issue. I've crossed them with Weimaraners
and Tennessee Mountain Curs to alter the bulldog look and add more hunting instincts. I think the crosses turned out well. Honest folk don't seem intimidated by them any more.
Gandolf was a fine dog. He was going to be the largest, most handsome yet. His father, Grendel , is surely proud, and has welcomed him to the other side.
Now he's in the land of fat, slow rabbits and other packs that honor scented territorial boundries.
I have to decide whether to feed him to the worms and use him as fertilizer, or to return him to nature so that he'll live on in the wildlife of the region.
His spirit and unqualified love remain with me. As with Grendel, I'm numb to all else.
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