What is a pit bull? There is no consensus on their legacy, conformation, temperament, social and genetic baggage, or even the name of the “breed.” Their advocates, dog clubs, and the foremost (few) experts on the pit bull all have their own versions of what kinds of homes these dogs require to excel. The Internet is flooded with discussions about the identity and nature of the pit bull, while the dogs themselves drown in shelters. There are just too many of them born.
This is exactly why I am curious about Louis Colby and his line of dogs who are, in theory, the real deal. The originals.
As you might remember from last week, Lucy and I are driving to Newburyport, Massachusetts, to meet the infamous breeder who still runs his father’s bustling kennel at the family home on a prosperous, suburban street, which is not difficult to find; the dogs are perfectly visible from the road in spacious outdoor runs. The Colbys are not hiding anything. Nevertheless, if you are a (sketchy) person who wants to begin a line of fighting dogs—this is ground zero. The bloodline is over 100 years old and is known to have produced many and major champions.
I forgot to mention that Cydney Cross is with me. There’s no way she would allow me to enter “dog-fighting culture” alone. Colby is pit bull royalty and when the king granted me a meeting she offered to come. I am always happy for her company.
We pull into the driveway, surprised by how “normal” everything looks. The annuals are watered, the lawn mowed and the dogs don’t start barking until we open the car door. From a distance, the dogs look like—dogs. Hardly scary pit bulls. But I want to get closer. Lucy remains quietly in the car. I’m not letting her anywhere near these dogs!
Louis Colby peaks out the front door and waves us into the house. Cross and I look at each other and smile. The man is in his late eighties, over six feet and has a full head of wavy white hair. He’s tall, handsome and welcoming. A brown and white pit bull who is the size of a St. Bernard is guarding his front door; the dog looks like a mensch; Colby tells us that he’s a retired champion who “deserves to be in the house.” The others are kenneled in the yard or in the barn.
Colby is gracious. He offers us tea and a seat at his dining room table. The house is full of bird cages and signing parakeets all of whom belong to his wife. The only birds Colby appreciates are roosters, which he breeds in another area. “Isn’t cock fighting illegal, “ I comment. “I breed them for their feathers,” Colby says, chuckling. He’s either joking with us or he thinks we are idiots. I’m not sure which.
I can tell Cross is smitten as she chatters on about rescuing pit bulls. The great man listens. Then he says, “I’m going to show you some real pit bulls.”
Pulling an oxygen tank behind him, we exit the house. (A few years later, he died of emphysema.) We pass a row of kennels where the breeding stock resides. “The secret to good breeding is allowing the dogs to pick their own mates,” says Colby. These are the Colby studs who have made history and I imagine some of them have been in a ring, somewhere. But no one is snarling or grousing at his or her neighbor. In fact, they are all a bit homely. They look like ordinary dogs to me. Perhaps they have rounder faces and shorter snouts than most pit bulls. They do have a certain look—and it’s friendly, not fierce, much to my surprise. We are welcome to approach the kennels and enjoy the dogs.
Colby moves us along to a nearby barn, which is clean as a whistle, to meet a four week old litter of 10 pups all squealing at us. Absolutely adorable. I want to buy one on the spot. Cross gives me a dirty look. Adopt—Don’t Buy, as the saying goes. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. They’re all sold anyway.
I ask Colby if he sells his dogs to dogfighters. He looks at me, winks and says, “of course not.” His dogs are shipped all over the world. We talk and talk about the old days of dog fighting and the new days; the latter are a cruel version of the original sport, according to Colby.
He’s getting tired and we make our way back to the house. “Would you like to meet Lucy before you go in?” Colby hadn’t realized my dog was along for the ride. He raises his eyes and chastises me for leaving her in the car and orders me to bring her out immediately. “Walk her up my driveway and back,” he says, while he watches closely. Lucy shakes herself awake and marches along by my side. She doesn’t even alert to the dogs barking at her. She’s such a cool character. When we turn around to walk towards Colby, she actually goes right up to him with a poised calm and sits in front of him, as if on cue. Colby looks at Lucy and then looks at me and says, “By God, you’ve got a Colby dog!”
(photo by Val Shaff)
Next week: Florida!