A few weeks ago, while taking Sean on a walk, a drunk passing me by asked if he was a pit-bull and, before I could answer, told me not to get him fixed. As I gripped the leash a bit tighter, he went on to ask me if I’d like it if someone would “cut off my shit” before trying to buy him off me because he’d make a “good fighting dog.”
I told him “No thanks!” because I didn’t want a good fighting dog, I want—and have—a good dog, period. And even though I had put it off for as long as I absolutely could, I realized it was now time: Sean, my beloved adopted puppy, had to be neutered.
Even though I know all of the human reasons why something like this should be done—controlling the dog population, the chief reason—it is something that is still a little bit infeasible to wrap my mind around, as I was paying to have a vet surgically lacerate my pet’s genitals. On the way there, as he hid down in the backseat, a nervous scowl on his mug, I knew that he knew it too.
Secure on his leash, I led him out of the car and into the arms of a waiting aide at the Oklahoma Humane Society, 5835 S. Penn. In one of the saddest moments to ever tear my heart out of my chest, as the woman started to take him into the building, Sean tried to hold his ground and absolutely refused to go into the building, at one point laying dead on the ground.