How "Killer Dogs" Are Made

A call from the shelter:

"Can you come help with a dog?"

"What kind of a dog?"

"German Shepherd. But he's in a really bad shape."

"What do you mean?"

"A man brought him in to be euthanized. But before that, he beat him pretty badly. The dog is urinating blood. The owner said his daughter is in the hospital now. Severely mauled."

"I'm on my way."

...

A room with faded, sickly green walls. A chipped table. Three completely mismatched chairs. In the far corner lies a large dog, breathing heavily. One eye won't open because of a massive hematoma. Dried blood crusts his muzzle. The dog doesn't react at all to two unfamiliar adults entering.

Melissa, the shelter worker on duty, tells me the dog's life story. A life that became completely different in an instant. Just yesterday, the dog had a home, owners. Today, only pain and apathy remain.

For what?

The one who was God, who fed him, kissed his nose, played with him, pampered him, drove him out here and abandoned him. And before that abandonment came the rage-twisted face. Kicks to the ribs. Blows with a chair to the head. More kicks. For a long time. Painfully. Hard. Many. Brutal and without mercy.

...

But we need to go back to the beginning. Not to yesterday when it all happened, but to the very start of this dog's life.

About a year ago, when everything seemed much bigger. Everything was incomprehensible and frightening. A strong man, a gentle woman, and a little girl. A girl whose eyes glowed with joy.

The days flew by so quickly and the memories are so pleasant. How he played with that girl every day. How they took turns snatching a big doll from each other. Sharp, milk-white puppy teeth tore at the doll's dress fabric.

The girl laughed. She always laughed when they played. Her laugh sounded like safety.

Suddenly, a hard blow to the head with a child's plastic bucket and a shout:

"Mom, he tore Katie's dress!"

The puppy pees himself and hides under the cabinet.

"Get out here! How many times do I have to tell you not to ruin the toys?! And you peed in the house again!"

A strong woman's hand, the same one that had just been petting him moments ago, roughly grabs him by the scruff. She pulls the puppy from that one place that seemed safe and drags him to the hallway. From fear, the puppy's bladder gives out again.

"You little shit! How many times are you going to piss everywhere?!"

His nose is shoved into the puddle. A slap on the rear and a rough shove toward the mat in the hallway. A puddle appears again under the trembling puppy and he tries to lick it up before the owners see.

How beautifully they used to play together.

...

The memories continue.

Alone in the house. Sad. Scared. The chewed-up ball is boring and brings no joy. The plastic bone either. But his teeth itch so much! Some baby teeth are falling out on their own, while new ones push the others out. With this process happening so quickly, the puppy's gums hurt, throb, and itch.

How nice it is to scratch them on the leg of the wooden dresser next to the mat.

After such an activity, which at least temporarily reduced the itching in his mouth, the puppy fell asleep. He woke up when the little owner came home from school.

A leash with a metal clasp strikes the puppy on the back.

"Look what you did, you worthless thing!" the girl shouts, trying to imitate her mother's voice, pointing at the gnawed dresser leg.

The telltale puddle appears on the floor again.

"You peed in the house again?!" Another blow with the leash. "For that, you're not going outside now!" Now imitating dad.

But the puppy can't hold it for more than an hour. A pile appears in the hallway and another punishment awaits.

...

Time passes.

...

The blurry colors of memories take on a sharper picture.

A training field. Around him, many other dogs and puppies. Unfamiliar smells, stairs and barriers. The owner is talking to another man dressed like a soldier. The puppy has no interest in their conversation. Much more interesting is another dog nearby. The leash tightens.

"Listen, I've got a wife and a little girl. We live in a bad neighborhood. I just need to know my family is safe when I'm not home. Can you teach him to protect them?"

"Understand, I can't teach your dog to bite until he's completed basic obedience. You can't send your child straight to a university without letting him go to school first, right?"

"Come on, you're exaggerating. Look, I'm asking you normally. Will you teach my dog to guard and attack? I'll pay you for 'sit' and 'heel' and everything else. But I need the dog to be a real dog, not some kind of a wimp."

"It's not about the money. I can't teach a dog to bite when he doesn't know how to stop. Try to understand what I'm explaining."

"Whatever, it's all clear with you. You're not the only one, I'll find someone else. Idiot. Don't want to earn money? Fine."

The new instructor immediately doesn't appeal to the puppy. There is something terrible about him. Something that can't be predicted. The dog feels neither fear nor love in him. Only strict demands.

And the lessons take place not on a normal training field, but in an abandoned lot behind a closed factory. Everything happens according to the same scenario: arrival at the lot; rustling bills moving from the owner's pocket to that man; the man puts on a big padded sleeve, ties the dog to a rusted pole, takes a long leather belt in his other hand.

The torture begins.

An hour and a half of hell. The whistling of air being cut by the belt and pain tearing through his entire body. The metallic taste of blood when he bites his own tongue. Waving the sleeve in front of his nose. Again whistling and pain. The dog hides at first, but there is nowhere to hide. Then comes barking from desperation. That doesn't help either.

Then anger and frustration begin to take over. Madness comes in waves, obscuring any awareness of surroundings, any thinking. Only one desire remains: to bite those hate-filled hands. The dog no longer sees anything except the sleeve flashing in front of him. Nearby, he can hear the owner's voice:

"Good boy! Take him! Stranger! Take him! Kill him! Good dog!"

It works. The command "stranger" and uncontrollable rage go together.

...

We move further ahead.

Evening. The dog and owner are returning together from a walk. A drunk young man in an unbuttoned coat appears ahead, staggering toward them. The owner looks around to see if anyone is nearby, if anyone can see.

No one. Complete silence and not a single passerby.

"Well, Max, show me what you've learned! Take him! Stranger!"

The dog looks around in confusion. There's no padded sleeve to be seen. Only the staggering silhouette approaching from ahead. The command "stranger" echoes in his ears. The unsuspecting man takes another step forward.

The dog's jaws open wide.

A scream. Pain and fear in the man's eyes. He tries to back away, but the owner's voice and the command "stranger" strike like that long belt with the clasp. A leap. Impact with the chest. The man falls, the dog is already on top of him. The texture of coat fabric tearing in his teeth. The reflex kicks in: stranger equals rage.

"Max, come! Stop! Max, damn it, leave him! You idiot, you'll kill him!"

Pulling on the collar, blows with the leash on the back. The dog feels the owner's fear. The homeless man writhes in pain and the dog smells his strong urine odor. "You peed again" means punishment, humiliation. The owner finally manages to pull the dog away from the mauled man and quickly heads home.

Adrenaline slowly leaves the dog's body, though his muscles still tremble. His whole muzzle tastes of blood, but now the dog isn't thinking about what happened. He realizes that he is feared. An awareness of his own capabilities emerges. Completely new capabilities.

...

We move further ahead.

The little owner is having lunch. She often gives the dog something tasty from the table, so the dog is always nearby when this happens. Today he sits in front of the table and stares directly into the little owner's eyes. Drool hangs almost to the floor.

"Go to your place and stop begging! Ugh, what an untrained dog!"

Max stays where he was sitting. As if nailed down.

"Didn't you hear me?! Go to your place!"

The little owner raises her hand threateningly.

Long, white canine teeth slowly appear from behind lips that rise upward. As his nose wrinkles, a low growl is heard. The hand freezes in the air. Fear.

"Take it! Get away from me! You're a bad dog!"

A chicken drumstick falls to the floor, and the little owner runs to her room with tears in her eyes. The dog learns two more lessons. One about fear and another about his own power.

...

Time passes.

The hierarchy in the house begins to shift. The dog begins to realize that this small pack needs a leader. The owner currently occupies the leader's position. Yes, for now he is God. But the dog has felt his fear and the authority has wavered. They will still "discuss" this position. Later. When the right opportunity comes.

And then everything else is clear. The third place in the house belongs to the main female owner. The last place, of course, goes to the little owner.

The clock slows down.

Evening. Kitchen. Returning from an evening walk, Max greedily eats from his bowl. The little owner walks by.

A growl. Teeth. Keep your distance. This is my bowl.

The girl backs away. Fear. A book falls from her hands. It lands dangerously close to the bowl and the girl bends down to pick it up.

No, there is no anger here. There is a desire to pull the "unworthy one" away from his bowl. Max opens his jaws and prepares to snap, but the little owner's face ends up between his teeth.

For just a moment, Max heard that laugh again.

The one that used to mean safety.

But this time, it was screaming.

A scream. Blood.

The main owner and the owner come running. They carry the girl out and the owner returns. This time alone. But there is no longer fear coming from him. There is anger. Cold anger. The same kind as from a stranger.

A kick to the ribs. Another. Another. A blow with a stool. The hollow sound of the stool legs against Max's ribs.

The dog, whimpering, ends up in the corner of the kitchen. Like in childhood, a puddle of urine appears beneath him. Only this time there's blood in it too.

For what, master? For what? You yourself taught me to be merciless to those who are weaker! You are my God who made me bite a person! You gave me the ability to feel how people fear me! You gave me faith in my own strength! Why are you killing me now? I only did what you yourself taught me.

...

Night is ending. The shelter smells like disinfectant and urine and something else. Something older. Fear, maybe. Or resignation.

We carried Max to the car. Melissa drove. I sat in the back with him, his massive head resting on my thigh. His breathing was shallow, rattling. Each exhale sounded like a question he'd never get to ask.

The emergency vet was waiting. She was young, maybe thirty. Her hands were steady as she examined him. Broken ribs. Internal bleeding. Severe kidney damage. Neurological trauma from the blows to his head.

"Can you save him?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

She looked at Max, then at me. "Physically? Maybe. But he's been trained to associate pain with rage. Every time his body hurts, and it will hurt for months, he'll want to hurt back. He's a loaded weapon now. We can patch the trigger, but we can't remove the bullets."

Melissa was crying in the waiting room when I came out to get her. She already knew.

Max was still conscious when they administered the injection. His one good eye found mine. There was no recognition there. No gratitude. No relief. Just exhaustion.

He'd been so tired of being a good boy.

...

The story you have just read - isn't real. Or, is it?

Dedicated to those who have a dog.

Actually, no.

Dedicated to those who just realized they've been reading about themselves.

#EllisElms #BlurringTheLinesBetweenFictionAndReality #NewBook #ComingSoon