Pit Bull Genetics?

Elizabeth Hess

Jack Dempsey with his Colby dog

So, my dog Lucy was a Colby dog, from a long line of prize fighters. She even looked like the dog in the famous photo of boxer, Jack Dempsey. But what did this mean? By the time Cyd Cross and I drove back home, I understood that no one, apart from us, her rescuer and her new owner, and a handful of Colby fanatics, would give a damn about Lucy’s genetic legacy. I had adopted an old brown dog who had been severely neglected, used up as a breeder, and tossed into the street when she could no longer deliver pups; she had been spayed, bringing her value down to zero.

But did her bloodlines have any further meaning—genetic or otherwise? Perhaps her biographer (that would be me) might answer a few questions:

Did she have a propensity to fight with other dogs? No. But she carefully selected her friends, didn’t much like other pit bulls and fell madly in love with a local border collie.

Would she eventually turn on me? Never happened. As loyal and loving as they come.

Did I, or could I, ever really know this dog? Intimately. We read each other’s mind.

But it is also true that Cross once placed a litter of pups all over New York State; one by one, they were all returned to the rescue as they were too aggressive to handle. Genes might matter after all.

In a sense, all rescue/shelter dogs are created equal by greedy breeders and callous owners who toss their dogs out. Anyone can find a gorgeous poodle, lab, husky, chihuahua, or golden retriever, to name only a few breeds, at the local pound, but if you adopt the dog—he or she will always be a rescue first and a purebred second. But hey—is that so bad?

Lucy didn’t need to work hard to encourage my growing passion for her and her misjudged breed. She taught me to understand “game bred” dogs, many of whom were ex-fighters, but most were dogfighter rejects, too passive to be worthy of training for the ring.

I started to think of all those big headed pit bulls sitting in shelters around the country as conscientious objectors. They had refused to fight.

These COs end up living life on the end of a short chain. The lucky ones are rescued from dogfighting backyards and brought to shelters or rescues.

Illustration by Emily McCully

Lucy would eventually lead me to Pearl and Spike. After her death, I kept adopting older pit bulls who reminded me of her. One occasion, my friend Esther took me to New York City’s Animal Care and Control (ACC) where there was a dog she wanted me to meet. I’m convinced that the oldest dog in any shelter is like the best wine in the cellar—carefully aged and waiting to make a special occasion memorable. The ACC is known for having all kinds of available dogs and cats for adoption and the staff is trying to save as many as possible. When we got there, and adoption counselor brought out Oreo, a tuxedo pit bull with a silky coat and a bad cough. She was 8 years old and had been in the shelter for several months, the poster child for adopting a senior dog. But her time was running out. “She’s on the list for tomorrow,” the adoption worker whispered. This was likely to be true and not a pitch. Oreo came home with me that afternoon.

It turned out that Archie (aka Oreo) was a game bred terrorist in sheep’s clothing; a longtime breeder for someone who had aged out of the profession. I adored her and she adored me and my husband. She was the only dog he ever allowed into his office. But in the beginning we did not speak the same language. I’m going to save Archie’s story for another chapter on one of my favorite subjects—dog training and idiot dog trainers. (There are some good ones, don’t worry.)

Let’s get back to Florida or you will never meet Pearl and Spike.

While living with pit bulls, I began keeping current with dogfighting busts, news thereof is plentiful across the Internet. Admittedly, this was an odd hobby for an art critic, and I could have been trolling collections in museums all over the world. But I couldn’t resist. Dogfighting culture is a deep rabbit hole. And after awhile, I learned where to fall.

Large dogfighting busts are followed closely by pit bull rescuers. The national animal welfare organizations are often in charge (HSUS, ASPCA) of these busts and the big ones, the Michael Vick case for example, make local and television news around the country. The “367” case, as it was called, was the second largest dogfighting bust in the USA. More than 480 dogs were originally confiscated, and 367 of them survived the raid. They were divided between the ASPCA and HSUS and sent to separate shelters, where they were vetted and assessed as their legal cases marched slowly through the courts. HSUS shrewdly invited rescuers in early to meet the dogs. (The ASPCA isn’t so friendly to outsiders.) Hence, Cross and I flew south.

Our destination was a large but decrepit shelter in Jacksonville, Florida with ample room for more than 200 dogs. Cross wanted to select a few to take into her adoption program for her rescue, Out of the Pits (OOTP), near Albany, New York. I was there to help make the selections. No journalists, at this point, were allowed to see the dogs. (I wore a different hat.) The lawyers were making a case against those involved with the dogfighting operation, as the veterinarians were gathering evidence of cruelty. Many of the dogs were starving, dehydrated and in terrible shape. I had never seen such a large group of dogs—hurting.

Rose Bala (not her real name), in charge of the dogs, greeted us at the shelter. She led the Animal Rescue and Response Team for HSUS and had been with the dogs since the day they were seized, given new names, fed and taken to safety in this canine version of a Witness Protection Program.

Bala is the quintessential dog person. She’s a large woman, easily six feet tall, with long, fire-red hair and a porcelain complexion peppered with freckles. She’s Pipi Longstockings on steroids. A tattoo of Jesus embracing a pit bull with angel wings covers her entire right arm. I asked about the tattoo. “These are the two loves of my life: Jesus Christ and pit bulls,” she said. Cross, who has deep religious beliefs, immediately hit it off with Bala.

This was not Bala’s first rodeo. She had been working for HSUS rehabilitating pit bulls for a decade and also had her own rescue. Whenever there was a dogfighting bust, anywhere in the country, she was there. When our group of rescuers (Bad Rap, Animal Farm and several others were also invited) arrived at the shelter, twelve “pit bull people” eager to meet the dogs, Bala brusquely explained that she was there for the dogs—not us. This was not a warm welcome, but we all understood: The dogs were needy. Don’t ask too many questions. Get out there and help these dogs acclimate to people. There were dozens of court cases involved, and the dogs would be held as evidence for however long the courts might take to rule on each one. At that point, the adoptable dogs would be placed with various rescues around the country. Our task was to get to know as many dogs as possible, do anything we could to assist them in this difficult transition, and make selections for our adoption programs.

Cross has always thrived in this kind of situation. She particularly loves the challenge of assessing any dog in any situation, no matter how difficult. I’ve been to prisons, puppy mills and back alleys with her. Everyone who knows her understands that she is picky about pit bulls. Adopters joke that for a dog, getting into Out of the Pits is harder than getting into Harvard. Many rescuers believe that all dogs can be rehabilitated. Cross does not.

Bala had developed a rigorous enrichment program for the 367 crew: Two leash walks a day, peanut butter kongs at 3:00pm, outdoor play in a small pen twice a week, clean toys and blankets in their kennels every night. None of the dogs had been neutered or spayed, which made their time there even more difficult. I imagined what would happen to the males when the females went into heat. The “dangerous” dogs were segregated in a separate area which was not accessible to us. These dogs could not be leash walked or safely removed from their kennels until they calmed down, a bit of a catch 22. We were asked to ignore their constant, noisy protests and stay away. 

     Soon after introductions, Bala took Cross and me through the kennels and introduced us to each dog by name. The variety of dogs—sizes, colors, ages—was surprising. They all knew Bala and got visibly excited when they saw, or maybe smelled, her approaching. It took about an hour to get through all the dogs and Cross selected six potential candidates for Out of the Pits. All of them needed serious behavioral work, which goes with the territory. The dogs were not going to be easy to place, despite the fact that the 367 dogs were famous on the Internet. Late in the process, I spotted a pup, maybe six months old, named Herbie, after Bala’s favorite uncle. He was sitting alone in his kennel looking totally dejected. Herbie was desperate for attention, not unlike the others, but there was something heartbreaking about a single puppy all alone. I pointed him out to Cross and when she finally agreed to check him out, I added Herbie to our list. The following day we began spending time with each dog on our list, one on one.

(Next week: Guess who is in the mix?)

Please do comment. Pit bulls are controversial and I know you have something to say.