A Blight to Be Remembered

    Clouds overcast the sky when I returned home from work on Friday evening. The air was tepid and full of humidity. It would begin raining soon. You could say that it was the end of another dull and boring week of work. The only interesting thing that had happened was that I had to miss the previous day's work, because my son was sick with a cold. This night was going to be different. The gears of Providence had clicked into place and set into motion a short series of events that would bring to a close a two-year chapter of our lives. It all happened in a span of about twenty minutes. But before I share the story's ending, I think I should share how the drama unfolded from the beginning. What follows may seem drawn out, but it's not the entire story. I want to show adequately how important this was to my family of four. I also want to show how important is to me especially as it relates to my faith in God. I am a Christian. I have been for the majority of my life, but lately I have struggled to find "powerful and effective" prayer of the righteous that the apostle James proclaims in the Bible. I have never been blessed with eloquence in my prayer life, at least not that I'm aware of. Sometimes, however, it just seems even less so. But as you will see, God does listen. And another passage in the Bible is proven true by these events: "God works all things together for the good of those who love him."
    My wife and I moved to our current home from Shelby, a city about forty-five minutes away. We wanted something that was closer to Emilee's employer. The move would also leave me with a slightly shorter commute. We lived in a similar community to our current one in Lincolnton. That a dog or some animal would raid our trash cans during the night was not new to us. More than once I found myself cleaning up rancid papers, eggshells, and other partially decomposed waste after an invasion by whatever happened to live in the nearby woods. Cleaning up these messes was no fun in Shelby and it is no fun here either.
    Over the years I've learned to tell the difference in the way various animals will infiltrate, search and sort the contents of a trash can. Raccoons, for instance, are fairly neat. They may turn over a can and remove the lid, but the mess stays fairly well centered to the location of the can. Cats are even more surgical in their strikes. There sometimes isn't hardly any cleanup at all. There will be a simple hole that was picked out from an exposed bag. This is assuming that a bag is available, which probably means the cans are too full. In those cases I guess you could say that I had it coming.
    A dog, however, is much different. Big dogs are especially different. The contents of the can may be strewn all over the yard and even in the neighbors' yards. It just depends on what kind of mood the dog was in when he hits the cans. Dog strikes, consequently, are the most frustrating to clean up.
    The strikes began in late spring or early summer a couple years ago. It seemed to be sporadic at first, but in very short order it became a daily event. Each morning, rain or shine, I had up to fifteen or twenty minutes of extra "routine" that involved cleaning up trash. It didn't take long to figure out that we had a canine visitor. Our cans were knocked over, opened up, and spilled in a way that was characteristic of a big dog. There were more and more chew marks appearing on our plastic trash cans each morning. The dog had figured out that our trash contained a pretty reliable food supply. Other people in our neighborhood seemed to have fewer problems, because of the way they disposed of their garbage. Some kept it in their garage. Others had similar means that prevented easy access to their trash cans. We had the standard plastic thirty-three gallon cans with latching lids outside our house—an easy target for a dog bigger than fifty pounds.
    I played an endless chess match with the invader. I closed the cans tightly and then used bungee cords to hold the lids on. This was only moderately effective. Sometimes I found an entire can halfway across the yard. The lid would be off, but the bungee was still attached to the now lidless can. The smelly contents of the can were, of course, spread out in a swath between the can's original position and its final resting place some twenty yards away. Learning from this I would then use the same bungees to not only strap the lids to their respective cans, but I would also strap the cans together. The bungees didn't always hold together as well as I would like and they were also stretched so tightly that they would warp the plastic. This prevented the lids from closing as securely, which meant slightly exposed bags. The dog used this to his own advantage. There was no need to waste energy pulling on the cans themselves. He just needed to get to the bag, which he could easily tear open to enjoy any leftover gravy, moldy cheese or other gourmet treats. Eventually, I started taking my chances with leaving the smelly cans in the garage. Since it was cooler weather when I tried this, I got away with it. The problem seemed solved until spring.
    One of the most frustrating parts of this whole ordeal was that I had not yet even seen my adversary. A man likes to know his opponent. I had seen a black dog wandering around the neighborhood, but I had no proof that it was this particular dog. I could never catch him in the act. I became sort of paranoid about it. There were nights when the slightest sound would interrupt my sleep and I would run to the window at the back of the house to see what was there. Sometimes there would be a can overturned. Sometimes there would be nothing. Sometimes I saw a shadowy four-legged specter racing through the yard. Each time seemed to raise my ire more. "I'll get you!" My level of frustration rose steadily as I fought in vain to catch him in the act.
    I also tried to eliminate the threat altogether. Friends provided plenty of advice. "Electrocute the sucker," they said. "Just attach a live wire to the cans and he'll not be botherin' you no mo." My cans are plastic, so that was doomed to failure in the planning stages. Another thought was to shoot him. I don't own a gun and my wife won't let me buy one. Bummer. My own personal variation of this idea was to get a bow and arrow. Silent and assumedly less likely to have collateral damage from stray bullets and kids playing around with it when dad's not looking, my wife would still not approve the purchase. She was not as irate about it as me and so I had to continue plotting. The old antifreeze-poisoning strategy was among the most frequently offered suggestions. Looking back, I can see how this particular tactic reeked of redneck ingenuity. I eventually tried it a couple times, but it didn't work. The dog was much too clever and resilient to be taken down by such feebleness. The first time I tried this approach I poured some antifreeze into a tray in hope that the "natural sweetness" of the nectar would be enough to lure him to a gastronomic death. The dog hit the trash and avoided the poison altogether. Next, I tried mixing it into some livermush (it's similar to scrapple or liver pudding to all you Northerners). No dog can resist the savory aroma of fried livermush. This one couldn't either. I placed the bait in a small plastic bowl and placed the bowl inside the trash can. I reasoned that this would do two things: 1) it would make the dog think he was actually getting into something I didn't want him to have and 2) if he did have an owner, I could always say, "He dug it out of the trash." Brilliant. The next morning I found the trash can overturned, the bowl empty. It was licked clean. However, there was no dog carcass to reward my ingenuity. If the dog I targeted actually did take the bait (and I assume he did), he proved to me that he is impervious to antifreeze. Perhaps he had built up a tolerance to antifreeze in his trash can terrorism training. Alas, I was foiled.
    All of this and I still had not stared down my adversary. That changed unexpectedly one night when I heard some scratchy noises through the kitchen window. It was warm weather again, so the cans were placed back outside. It was only about 10:00, so I was still awake. I walked through the house not quite as carefully as I would if I had known the culprit was right outside the back door. Aha! I mouthed silently. There he was. I watched as a black pit bull tugged at the can. He was about 30 inches tall at the shoulder. His head appeared thick and robust in the shadows as he patiently worked on unwrapping his meal. I watched him for a few moments in unbelief. This was only entertaining for a little while for I realized that I was about to have another mess to clean up. I flipped the switch to the outside flood light and he disappeared around the corner of the house. I savored my small victory and plotted some more as I drifted to sleep.
    By this time the stakes had been raised on our ordeal. This was not simply a trash can terrorist. He was officially a killer and a menace. My wife and I spoke with many of the neighbors about our frustrations as we looked for more information about the dog and his activities elsewhere. Surely we weren't the only ones. Indeed we weren't. We discovered that this pit bull had killed four cats. One of them was slaughtered right in front of its owner on their front door step. He also killed a pet rabbit by digging it out of its hutch before mauling it to death. The worst of all his attacks was against a teenage girl from the other side of the neighborhood. She was out walking one day when the dog approached her in broad daylight and bit her leg. The attack was malicious and unprovoked. The wound broke the skin, but she kept her wits about her and didn't panic. Fortunately, the attack ended there. There were other acts of aggression, not the least of which was when he moved toward my own daughter as she was exiting the school bus one afternoon. She was too frightened by his barking and growling to exit the bus until my wife could pick her up. This dog needed to be eliminated—immediately.
    As the stakes grew, so did the dog's prominence in the neighborhood collective psyche. We all felt that it was just a matter of time before he seriously hurt someone. I didn't share with any of the neighbors, but I had privately decided that the dog needed to be named. I chose Blight. It was a fitting description of what he was to our previously quiet community. Black Bart was suggested by a co-worker, but that seemed to too cartoonish and friendly or like something from more innocent times.
    Our county's animal control division of the sheriff's department had been trying to capture Blight for nearly two years now. He had avoided capture as he ran from officers on ATV's and on foot as they crisscrossed our yards over and over again to no avail. He was shot twice with light caliber weapons, but would not fall. He even—this is amazing to me—walked inside a cage trap, ate the food that was placed there and then exited without engaging the trap's door. I know the traps worked against other dogs. I saw it catch one of Blight's buddies. That was the last I saw of that one. I presume he met his fate in the county gas chamber. Blight was bad news not only because was he determined to impose his will on the community, but also because he was very high on the dog intelligence scale. I'd call him a genius. He seemed to understand that if a human looked at him for too long or pointed anything in his direction, it was time to run. It was hard to even get his picture, because as soon as my hands rose with a camera he vanished. He recognized animal control vehicles from a distance. If one rose over the hill leading to our house, he was gone. He even seemed to recognize the young girl's father as he approached in his pickup truck. Blight apparently understood familial retribution. Honestly, I don't think I would be fully surprised if I stumbled on his evening hangout to find him reading a magazine. It was totally baffling.
    I prayed about this situation often. I was afraid of the consequences of doing nothing. I was more afraid of my own inability to capture this dog. No one else had any better results from their best efforts. What was I going to do? I have a son that is eighteen months old. Outside play is becoming a must for him. He loves being outdoors, but there was a serious threat to his safety lurking outside our home even while under the close protection of my wife and me. I am aware of what happens to small children when dogs turn bad. My son is not the only child in our neighborhood. What if something were happen to any of the others? This couldn't be allowed to happen. I pleaded with God to "deliver this dog into my hand." I wanted him dead for the purpose of protecting of my son. I know that's a stained-glass-sounding kind of prayer, but that's what I prayed.
    That brings me back to the fateful day. We keep our dog tied to a running line on our property. We only have two sides of the back yard enclosed by a fence, which leaves the rest of the yard open. Coda escaped from his running line that morning. This was not the first time this happened. As usual he found Blight in the neighbor's yard and the two started running together. I knew it was pointless to try to run him down that morning. Once he gets away, he can be very hard to wrangle (I don't blame him for that). I left for work knowing that I may have a chore that night. When I returned home from work that evening, it seemed like a normal Friday night. I wasn't worried about Coda, but I still knew I needed to find him before he got into trouble. Emilee then noticed the two "pals" walking across a couple of the neighbors' yards. "Scott, there's Coda running with that dog!" I walked outside through the garage, grabbing Coda's bright orange leash. I walked down the driveway as I saw the pair about two houses down the street on the opposite side of the road. Would this be a chase? I had also thought clearly enough to grab a couple cookies, which I hoped to use as a lure. When I got to the end of the driveway, I decided a more passive approach. I knelt down and called him. "Here boy." Coda stopped and looked. I broke a cookie and threw part of it in his direction. Coda walked a few steps toward me. I threw another cookie. He came halfway and then the rest of the way. Surely it wasn't that easy. I snapped on his leash and walked him back to the house. When we returned to the garage, I decided to reward his obedience with a thorough brushing. He likes that. Once I had him chained up again, I went inside the house.
    Maybe five minutes passed when Emilee called through the house again, "That dog's outside. Call that guy." "That guy" was the aforementioned bite victim's father. He was as determined to rid the neighborhood of Blight as I was. Unlike me, however, he owns a gun. I watched Blight in the back yard for a moment. The sky was getting more ominous as the wind picked up. I knew the dog was afraid of storms. I had watched him tremble inside Coda's dog house on more than one occasion as the thunder rolled overhead. He trotted across the lawn and lay down under some small trees near Coda's house while Coda occupied the shelter. This approach hadn't worked in times past. As soon as Blight sensed something wasn't right, he ran away for safer surroundings. This time he got relaxed. I called a cell phone number that we kept on the refrigerator. My soon-to-be new friend answered. "Are you still interested in that dog?" I asked. He was. As it happened, he was just entering the neighborhood on his way home from work and he had his gun, a .40 caliber hand gun, in his truck. He said, "I'll be right over." I advised him not to pull up the driveway so as not to spook the dog. He stayed in the grassy area in the center of our cul de sac. The quickly-baked plan was working so far. Blight was still relaxing in the leaves. We crept quietly around to the back of the house, staying out of sight. "Where is he?" he asked. I pointed him to a triple-trunked tree that provided cover from being spotted. He could get a clear shot between the trunks.
    The wind was blowing harder now as heavy drops occasionally fell to the ground around us. Blight continued to rest in the leaves. He hadn't yet noticed the sniper creeping through some bushes in his direction. The aim was taken as I grew nervous with excitement and some fear. This was something with which I was not familiar. I had never been hunting. I had never watched an animal get shot. Now I was watching a surreal drama unfold in my own back yard! The first shot pierced the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze above us. "I got him! He's toast!" The man with the gun was a good shot. I suspected he had had some training. Blight jarred before rolling backward a little. He tried to recompose, but had trouble righting himself. At this point, death was imminent. Victory was near. Hollow tipped bullets will hit their target and then shatter. When this happens inside a body, the resulting shrapnel will rip through flesh and bone alike, leaving the victim in great internal disrepair. Now it was time to be as humane as possible.
    I knelt again and called Coda, who was still in his dog house looking a bit confused. He came immediately, allowing me to grab his collar and hold him away from his fallen comrade. A second and a third shot rang out. Blight continued his death roll, but was still living. He displayed the sort of iron-willed determination that made him notorious in life. He simply did not want to die. He refused. The fourth and final shot was a head shot. It was over.
    Rain began to pour down on us as we dragged the carcass to the wooded lot on the opposite side of the fence. I tried to call the county's leading animal control officer with a request to dispose of the carcass. He had given permission months earlier to kill the dog, since he and his department were as impotent as everyone else up to that point to rid us of this nuisance. My neighbor and I shook hands and he went on his way.
    Emilee and I were both a little giddy and maybe a little more shaken up. We were not experienced witnesses to death. But we were grateful to God for answering our prayer. I believe God worked out that series of events. I thanked him that evening over our meal with Emilee's sister and her husband. It was no small thing to protect our son from this threat.
    Animal Control Services arrived the next morning to pick up the prized carcass of such a formidable adversary. Blight's physical condition was typical of a dog that had been a stray for so long. Though his ribs were all visible, his musculature was still imposing. Bullet wounds were barely visible as flesh had closed around the small openings. There was around his neck a dark-colored collar with no tag. This collar clung to Blight's neck as a monument to the failure of an irresponsible pet owner. Had Blight been dropped off near our neighborhood by someone that just didn't want him anymore? Had he escaped a cruel master? Was the former owner nearby? I had noticed the collar before. Many times I had imagined meeting this individual and letting him know in impolite terms the extent of his failure. At this point, it no longer mattered. This threat was eliminated.
A great lesson to be learned from this saga is that pet ownership requires commitment and responsibility. I cannot claim to be a perfect owner, nor can I be viewed as a model for others. However, I will say that I take responsibility for my pets. Coda caused me great embarrassment on one of his adventures. I had to retrieve him in the middle of the night from a neighbor's house after he called me to let me know about Coda's own raid on some trash cans. I offered to right the situation by cleaning up the mess. Fortunately, it cost me nothing more than an apology and a chilly walk home with a wet, smelly dog. These things always seem to happen in the rain.
    My inability to capture a single stray dog was humbling. Even though it worked out that I was involved in the final drama, I still felt so powerless for so long to make it happen when I wanted or how I wanted. I know the Lord's hand was in that. He protected my family from harm. He has reminded me that he hears and answers my prayers. He has demonstrated that he can be found in the strangest things. I don't know how the neighbors will tell this story, but I think I will remember Blight as God's anointed instrument to challenge and preserve my faith. May God be praised for his love endures forever!