GAMEDAWGZ
This site is dedicated to the Gamebred American Pit Bull Terrier
"HOPE"
A Short Story Courtesy of "MrBob"
How Hope Met Author Danes
The warmth of the day had no effect on the cold that had settled over me. The sweet chirps of the birds made me sick. I envied their happiness and pondered as to its source. A quick look around showed that I had not cleaned up in a while. Papers and empty bottles cluttered the floor. I gazed into the world that had rejected me and glanced about. Upon seeing two boys playing ball I began to smile. Catching myself, I turned away
.
I felt so responsible for their death, though I know I had nothing t o do with it. Still I had no one else to blame so the guilt came quite naturally. I wanted to die and hated all humanity. But then it was not a human who gave me a reason to live. Remembering, I plopped down on the couch. I was going to cry but decided not to give myself the satisfaction. I stared at a picture of my wife and son. At ten he was so innocent and though 30 she was so alive. To keep myself from thinking about them I took to cleaning the apartment.
Half-assed; never would have done that before. But now it seems I find myself doing everything that way. Perhaps it would have been different had I known no other way of life. But I had warmed myself by the fire that was my wives heart. I had been completely content.
I looked into the bathroom mirror ; it must have been days since I last shaved. After a shower, a shave, and some clean clothes. I felt good, well at least that is what I kept telling myself. Hoping that one day I'd believe it.
I could think of no reason, and over the last few weeks I've done alot of thinking why this would happen. We had the perfect life; no quarrels not even a small disagreement. When life was at its peak it came tumbling down. It seems there is no ground to catch me and that I even now fall deeper into the hole that is depression. A glass once half full is now clearly half empty.
Today is Friday and I am on my way to meet a client even though accounting has little meaning these days. While doing his taxes I noticed unusually large amounts of money coming from unlikely sources. Bill smiled when I inquired as to this, us being old friends and all, but I could see that he was nervous. It was written in his eyes and given away by the beads of sweat gathering at his forehead. He was uneasy in his telling but he soon spilled his guts, Tequila will do that to a man. At first I was disgusted but quickly my disgust turned to intrigue. Bill, it seems, had been betting on dog fights. I thought of the possibility and quickly dismissed it. After all it was illegal. Law? Who's law? It was a police officer who stole my family's lives. A high speed car chase ended in a demolished car that just so happened to contain the ones I loved. Now I was sure I would go. Not for the fight but to spite the cops- a revenge of sorts.
That night I thought the whole idea over and then I cried. The tears gathered in the corners of my eyes awaiting their salty journey down my face. I forced them back as long as I could then I let all my sorrows pour out upon my pillow. I cried for her. I missed her the most at night. And I cried for him and what he would never have the chance to become. But most of all I cried for me and what I had become. Losing everything didn�t help. The house I missed most of all my petty possessions. I hadn't been to work in so long. I just let all the bills pile up until it became overwhelming and I had to sell it. I fell asleep still wiping my tear stained face.
Morning came and I picked out a nice suit to wear, oddly enough the fight was not to be a bunch of bear bellied rednecks. I glanced into the mirror, hardly recognizing myself, I left quickly before any sense of self worth could be achieved.
I looked to the piece of paper with the address on it and then back to the huge house before me several times before convincing myself I was at the right place. I followed Bill's instructions to park out back.
All of the cars were really nice, another surprise. I walked to the back door of this small mansion. Once inside I learned that the building was unfinished and a wealthy contractor had staged the match. I found Bill and asked him where the bookie was. He began laughing hysterically. "where you hear that?", he spit out between chuckles. A little embarrassed I decided to take a look at the dogs. Approaching the pit cautiously half expecting a snake or hideous monster to leap out at me, when I saw the dogs it really caught me off guard. They didn�t fit my idea of a fighting dog at all. The first dog, a red female didn�t growl or bark at all. She sat nearly motionless next to her owner but her finely outlined muscles showed that she was ready and waiting for what lay ahead. The next was a brindle who more closely fit the description of the media�s killer dog. Her missing ear and scar covered body let me know that she was not at all new at this game. She strained with all her might to get at the little red dog, a gurgled growl rumbled from somewhere in her thick chest as her keeper struggled to hold her back. It reminded me of my life, that dog and her scars. Bill shouted out a bet and half realizing it, I did the same. Now I became engrossed in thought... of everything.
I thought of how horrid it would be to live the life of a fighting dog. What reason would there be to continue on knowing that no matter how many times you won another fight was all that would follow the victory. It was then I realized how very alike our lives are. I fight battle after battle, and for what? To fight yet another?! Living in fear of the next, and the last. Or perhaps that the next will be the last.
My thoughts were interrupted by a gruff voice; the judge. "Hope" he said, gesturing towards the red dog on which I had placed my bet. I didn�t catch the other dogs name because I began to think of how long it had been since I last thought of the word. It had seemingly vanished with the lives of those I held dear.
The dogs were silent now, as were the people. When I looked they were fighting. There was no spurting of blood as one might expect, no snarling or viscous growls. Only the occasional snap of jaws that missed the embrace of its damaging grip or a word of encouragement from an onlooker cheering to his living investment. Holds were gained and lost as the two wrestled in the dirt to prove their worth and please the crowd. It was obvious that both dogs were good and well prepared.
The brindle dog had a deep throat hold on Hope and I turned away from the violence with which I could relate to so well. To get away I searched for something to drink. There was a cooler by the far wall of the basement we were in. Inside was both soda and beer. I reached for a coke and, deciding what the hell, grabbed the beer instead. I walked away quickly so as to avoid changing my mind. When I returned Hope was standing over a dead dog. Torn and tattered she limped towards her master. She stopped halfway across and turning looked directly into my eyes. For the first time she made a noise from deep within her delicate throat. A low growl in my direction and an odd understanding passed between us. Its possible that it was the beer or maybe I am just not all there. Regardless Hope and I both survived this battle, even if it is just to fight another.
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