Volume One: Weiland, the Racist Dog
My first story is about Weiland, the racist (and possibly homosexual, as Captain made mention to in my last column) pit bull I had when I lived in the Dredge House. When I first moved in, Blake came over one day with Easy E, his 80-pound pit and said he knew a guy who was getting rid of a brindle pit. Was I interested? Well yeah! Who doesn’t want a tough dog?
So we went to collect him. He was chained to a tree in this guy’s front yard and I actually walked up and took his chain off, put a lead on him and walked him back to my truck. The dog immediately took to me. He was beautiful too. I named him Weiland after the lead singer of Stone Temple Pilots, because they were very relevant in my life at the time.
When I brought Weiland home to the Dredge House, I had immediately one issue that might have concerned me a bit. I owned a seven-pound chihuahua. His name was Tyson. He was a bottle rocket too, boy. He had already met Easy E and later, Grendel, Blake’s second Pit Bull. And Tyson thought he was one of them. He would wrestle with them and bite them and basically tell them where the shit to be. Because he not only thought he was tough as hell, but he was the alpha. He knew I had his back. So if he scooted one of the pits into the corner, they knew they’d better listen. It’s all about attitude.
So when I brought Weiland home I had to make the introduction. Immediately, Tyson stood on the couch, eye to eye with Weiland, who was on the floor, and told him exactly who was going to be boss. It was like Tyson knew Weiland was moving in. He looked up at me and said, “Do I have to train this mother cobbler too, mang?” and I was like, “Yeah. Well, you know.”
And he did. He got Weiland right in line. They ended up becoming best friends, too. It was actually quite a sight to see them lying next to each other, hanging out, eating from the same bowl, sharing intimate encounters such as oral sex… Yeah. Tyson would stick his inproportionately large cock in Weiland’s mouth and just hump away. And Weiland would actually – well, I kind of don’t really want to talk about it. But Weiland did what a man would want a woman to do in that predicament.
So I’m not sure how Weiland got along with Tyson from the start, because Tyson, being a Chihuahua, was obviously a little Mexican dude. I guess he was grandfathered in by having been there longer or something. Whatever. But Weiland did not like Mexicans, Blacks, Asians or Arabs.
Once, a black man came to our door giving away Bibles. We had a screen door, which was closed. We always kept that closed, but the wooden door open. Anyway, the screen door was one of those storm ones that has a solid metal sheet on the bottom, and a window up top, which we always left open. And there was the screen in the window part. Weiland approached the door when the guy knocked, and immediately lowered his head as if to say, “Is that a black man?” And then, “Why yes, it is. Tyson, we have a black man here.” Then he jumped through the screen and chased after the guy, who took off running across my yard. He was actually quite fast, and was able to run across the road before the car drove by, unlike Weiland, who ran into the side of the damn car. He was so dead-set on catching him a black man that he failed to see the car appear in his path. Bonk.
The same thing happened over the next year with a Mexican guy who came over to sell Stuart some weed. Weiland came out of the back room and saw him and immediately started attack mode. He was a seventy-pound animal full of solid muscle. It took a lot of strength to pull him off someone. This, I attribute to tying him to a cinder block in the backyard when we were gone and letting him drag it around everywhere he went. We also had a bicycle innertube hanging from an old clothesline post out there that he would jump up and grab, then hang from it. He’d hang there swinging like a – well, like something that swings.
When I joined the service, I had to give Weiland and Tyson away. I gave them both to the woman from whom I had originally gotten Tyson. She had some land, a nice house with a screen door, and a shitload of cats. Over the next month and a half, Weiland killed six of them. One, he jumped through a glass window to get. Through a glass window. Not an open glass window. A closed one. That right there is a bad mother cobbler. But she surprisingly kept him. The plan was for me to get both dogs back when I got stationed somewhere and got a place of my own. But a couple of weeks after I left town, Tyson ran away from her house, and I never bothered to track the lady down again to get Weiland. I miss that dog, but I’m guessing he’d be dead of old age now.
Good dogs live on forever.