The story of Daisy...

Changing Attitudes One at a Time

American Pit Bull Terrier: A medium sized, solidly built, short coated breed of dog. Pretty generic as far as descriptions go. My depiction of the breed was a bit more descriptive, and according to my son and husband, downright contentious. “An ugly junkyard looking mutt that resembles a pig on steroids,” I would tell them. “Such beasts surely would only be owned by thugs or men with challenged levels of testosterone.”

I chanted this anti Pit Bull mantra each time I caught my son scrolling down the list of adoptable puppies on the local animal shelter website. My husband wasn’t much help, having owned several Pit Bulls before we ever met; he was always quick to list the accolades of this particular breed. There was no way, I assured anyone listening, that a Pit Bull would ever cross our threshold to stay. But, as has happened too many times in the past, I underestimated the persistently persuasive abilities of my younger son Danny. Bargaining, begging and bartering, he used whatever swaying powers he could muster.

Of course, all of this was life BD; Before Daisy. Daisy was an eight week old Pit Bull puppy when she joined the Edwards household. All puppies are cute, I thought, when we first brought her home. Puppies are also a lot of work, but this was my son’s gig.

It wasn’t long after that I would be relaxing on my bed, catching up on my soaps and the top of her little white head would pop up. Still too small to see over the top of the mattress, she resembled a bouncing q-tip. Pretty soon she was sleeping in our bed, curled by my side. I would carry her on my shoulder like the solid, floppy eared, toddler that she was.

Daisy has never been overbearing in her affection, but she was also isn’t stingy. She patiently tolerates the hugs and kisses I constantly plant on the top of her head. We are amazed daily by her demonstrations of what we are convinced is above average canine intelligence. She tries so hard to please. No one is more disheartened than Daisy if she thinks she has let us down. All we have to do is shake our heads in exaggerated disappointment and off she goes, tail tucked, ears back, to the farthest corner of our home which just happens to be the tub in the boys’ bathroom.

Ironically, I now found myself in the position of contending with the prejudice against this particular breed of dog. Taking her for a walk around our neighborhood, other pet owners will cross the street or even pick up their pet while eyeing my dog with an almost palpable mistrust.

Then, in January, when Daisy was about six months old, there was an anticipated knock on the door. It was time for the annual Girl Scout cookie sales. I opened the door to the neighborhood youngsters. My friendly greeting was readily acknowledged and returned. Daisy’s enthusiastic welcome, however, was not well received. Although her tail was wagging with all the force she could muster, Daisy was definitely about to deal with some serious rejection. Erin, one of the youngsters, turned and ran back to her mother’s car, proclaiming in panic, that we had a “Pimpbull!” Or as we now like to refer to Daisy’s comical misnomer, a “Pimple.” Fortunately, we were able to complete the cookie transaction, after I relocated Daisy to another room.

The next day I assured Erin that Daisy was a very sweet and gentle dog, nothing like the reputation her breed has been burdened with. However, someone, probably an over imaginative classmate, had told her that “Pimples” possessed poisonous whiskers that, if touched, would imbed themselves in your skin. I assured her that this was not the case, a Pit Bull’s whiskers were just as harmless as any other breed. She listened politely, but I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

Months later while walking Daisy in our neighborhood park. Erin was riding her bike with a few of her young friends. The other girls immediately dumped their bikes to say “Hi,” but Erin conspicuously held back. “Honey,” I said softly, so as not to embarrass her in front of her friends. “I wouldn’t bring a dog around you if I thought she could hurt you.” Erin took a couple of steps forward and cautiously gave Daisy a few light pats on the nose. “See?” I started. “I know,” she said quickly, trying not to look at Daisy, “She’s a nice dog.” So, it wasn’t exactly a greeting card moment, but it was a start.