Blood sport

Dogfighting is cruel and unusual. It's also an obsessive interest for the 'dog men' who populate the subculture of combat pit bulls

by Suzette Thibeault

On a hot summer day, one boy challenged another to fight their pit bulls in Ciba-Geigy's parking lot in the Edgewood section of Cranston. Fifteen-year-old Jake hesitated. He'd just bought Crush for $50 from a friend whose mother wouldn't let him have the dog in their house. Why put Crush in a fight so he could get scarred or, worse, killed? That would defeat the reason why Jake bought him in the first place -- a model might not get as much attention as a boy with a beautiful pit strutting down the street. He figured Crush wasn't meant to die in a pit fight. But the temptation to put the dog to the test was there, soft as a whisper.

Now 29, Jake (not his real name), recalls the details of what happened that afternoon in slow precision, as if listing his personal recipe for regret: naive confidence and too much idle time. One hour after the fight, Crush died of shock, with multiple puncture wounds from the other pit marking his neck, chest and shoulders. Remembering the grim details casts Jake in the role of a chagrined boy whose shame rises anew 15 years later, along with an accompanying vow: "I'll never fight another dog again."

And Jake hasn't. Today he owns three dogs, and he's never let one of them into a real pit fight. But dog fighting is still very much part of his life. Jake, a $40,000-a-year employee at a local health-care company, is, in the language of the pit bull world, a dog man -- an owner with an almost obsessive interest in breeding, bloodlines, and just how "game" a particular pit bull is.

That last question can only be answered in the pit. For most people, dog fighting may seem cruel and terrible, but among Rhode Island's subculture of dog men, it's a way of life. For dog men, a pit bull's degree of gameness -- the dog's inexhaustible will to fight, despite injury or fatigue -- begs to be measured in the same way that a swatch of silk yearns to be caressed. It's the sun around which all other canine attributes -- sleek coat, muscular body, powerful neck -- orbit. For pit bull aficionados, a dog's game is the giddy wild card that confers the prestige of owning a pure bloodline, a champion whose power has been simultaneously mastered and liberated by the dog's owner. If such a dog is pulled from the pit in time, it will be bred with other champs in the dice-rolling effort to produce more combat pit bulls.

But there's a catch. The only way to confirm that your dog has deep game is to almost let it die in the pit.

THIRTY YEARS AGO, members of the General Assembly were disbelieving when Lionel Hetu, the new president and general agent of the Rhode Island chapter of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, told them that dog fighting was taking place in the area. After the retired state police captain found some battle-scarred dogs in Johnston, it didn't take long to convince legislators to stiffen the virtually non-existent penalties for dog fighting.

But although still hidden from public view, the blood sport of pitting dogs against each other remains common in Rhode Island, a situation that began with the rising popularity of pit bulls in the '70s. "I would say you probably have dog fights, the smaller ones, practically every other week or so," Hetu says. "It's hard to say because it's such an undercover thing. You hear about the rumbles only after they happen, not before."

The last major dog fighting bust in Rhode Island was in 1982, when two dozen local men and a similar number from nearby states and Georgia were arrested at an isolated Coventry farm. Hetu says a few big-time promoters still travel the country, arranging fights and evading detection by feeding a spontaneous trail of rendezvous points to spectators and dog owners. While people involved in dog fighting are sometimes linked to other crimes, that's usually not the case locally, he says.

Smaller, informal fights in cellars and backyards are most common, sometimes with stakes as high as $1000 per match, and investigators are rarely able to crack the secretive nature of the subculture. "You hope in the end that you're going to come out on top, and we don't come out on top very often," Hetu says.

After 31 years of advocating for animals, Hetu still has difficulty fathoming why some people want to see dogs tear each other apart. "Bottom of the barrel, these guys," he says. "Their dogs learn to trust them and are rewarded by getting thrown into a vicious fight. Those dogs were not born to fight -- they're trained." And since the stakes are much lower here than in the Southern states where dog fighting remains legal, like Georgia and the Carolinas, Hetu perceives a different motivation for the human participants. "Up here, I would say it's not so much a financial thing," he says. "It's an ego thing."

RETURNING TO HIS Olneyville home, Jake opens his door before beginning the routine dog damage assessment. Walking over to a piece of what was once a white Corningware bowl, he picks it up and mumbles, "I'm pretty sure these things are guaranteed for life. I bet if I return it, they'll send me a new one." Jake looks around. Through the living room doorway, he spies the cracked remnants of a few CDs and their holders. "Awww, you guys!" Bending down, he picks one up and reads the label. "Billy Idol -- I hate this guy. I keep all my shitty CDs on the bottom shelf anyway." As I survey the ravaged, yet otherwise neat apartment, it appears that Jake's three dogs are free to roam, piss, and chew apart any accessible object. "They're young," Jake says, turning to Sebastian, Ruby and Dakota, his giddy wild card, whose parents and grandparents were all proven game dogs. With cropped ears, a jutting chest and rippling muscles, Dakota resembles the archetypal game dog.

Jake was born in Guyaquil, Ecuador. His mother brought him to the US, and they moved to Edgewood when Jake was 10, before settling in Olneyville a year later. After working in Ecuador and Brazil as a travel guide, he returned to Rhode Island in 1989 and received a bachelor's degree in travel hospitality from Johnson & Wales. Jake's dad has been out of the picture for a long time. The high esteem in which he holds his dogs, his mom and a few close friends proves to him that lasting bonds are not only possible, but necessary, in a world of no-guarantee alliances.

Although Jake is a white-collar worker with a college degree, most of the guys in his circle of dog men are uneducated blue-collar workers -- dishwashers, auto mechanics, house painters -- between the ages of 23 and 45. They talk like frustrated, modern-day gladiators whose arenas have shrunk to the space of a garage, and are therefore loathe to give up the one thing that sets them apart -- knowledge about breeding and fighting pit bulls. Common among them is the central role that dogs play in their lives, a sincere admiration for truly game dogs, and an unwavering belief that combat is the pit bull's birthright.

Jake savors the camaraderie of the dog fighting world, of being able to distinguish between a fraudulent dog man and an authentic one. The biggest difference, he says, is reputation. "What makes a dog man real? Is it someone's knowledge of dog fighting, or whether or not he owns accomplished dogs? In my mind, if they have a reputation for owning champs, they're authentic dog men." At the same time, he says, "There is an attraction to the violence when you see game dogs fight, but in the end it's hard to watch."

Jake's voice is low and soft, unless he's shouting commands to his dogs. He listens patiently and pauses before speaking. He's gotten to know a few things well: music, cars and dogs. Jake's pit bull ownership and black-cropped hair hint at his Ecuadorian heritage and West End toughness, but they don't suggest the generous part of him that regularly treats his mom to flowers, dinner and a movie.

Unwilling to put Dakota's at risk for money in a match fight, Jake nonetheless sometimes enters his prize dog in a "roll," a 12-to-15 minute warm-up that often precedes a full-fledged fight. Money isn't involved, bets aren't placed, and there's minimal risk to the dogs. The owners make a congenial verbal agreement: if one dog gets hurt, they are immediately pulled apart. As he describes the roll, Jake's hesitates, as if suddenly wondering why he had rolled Dakota after losing Crush as a naive 15-year-old.

He tells an anecdote as a kind of answer: One night, he heard a sound in his yard and saw that a stray dog had squeezed under the fence. Poised by the window, Jake called Dakota, and after running to his side, she aggressively scratched and growled at the window. "Dakota wants to fight," he says. "It's her instinct." He pauses. "Why I like dog fighting? It's the little bad in every good, the black spot in the white . . . or maybe it's just that little loose screw I got back there."

A WHILE BACK, a friend of Jake's invited him to a dog fight in Trenton, New Jersey. They drove for five hours and pulled up at 7 a.m. in front of a lime green suburban ranch house. About a dozen men wearing T-shirts, muscle shirts, jeans, work boots and sneakers mingled in the kitchen and on a bright green lawn. A large black slobbering Newfoundland, the pet of the guy who was hosting the fight, was getting scratched under the chin as the dog men spilled into a backyard shaded by a canopy of leaves. Two mobile kennels drove up, and two pit bulls, Samson and Deuce, were pulled out by their owners. Jake followed the rest of the group to nearby woods, where a 14-by-14-foot sand pit filled the center of a 20-foot-deep ditch. The man whose dog won the fight would walk away $2000 richer.

Samson and Deuce waited nervously, aware they were going to fight, as their owners agreed on the rules: no assisting your dog, the referee has final say, and if you pull your dog, you lose. Most dog men will pull their dogs if they are seriously hurt, but others refuse to, unhappy to keep feeding a loser. A man referred to by the locals as "The Vet" stood nearby, ready to administer antibiotics or stitches to a wounded dog.

As soon as the referee raised his arm, palm out, the two owners released Samson and Deuce, and the dogs raced toward each other in the sand pit, before colliding and locking on. Samson's jaw clamped down on Deuce's head, and Deuce locked onto Samson's neck. They shook each other violently as their owners yelled. Releasing briefly, the dogs rammed their bodies together again, this time with Deuce flinging his body on top of Samson to lock on to the back of his neck -- a rarely defeated move. Whistles and yells came from Deuce's supporters. Both dogs briefly paused from exhaustion, frozen except for their heaving haunches in an ugly embrace.

Suddenly, Samson's head snapped back and he locked onto Deuce's throat, a startling move that brought both owners to the ground in an attempt to get as close as they could to their dogs without touching them. "Get 'em boy, get 'em, shake 'em, shake 'em!" came the shouts.

Moments later, Samson went for the kill, flipping Deuce over and placing his paws on the other dog's chest to shake it madly. Deuce's eyes rolled backward, seeking out his owner. Samson also looked toward his owner, to hold his stare as he won the match.

Deuce went limp, and his owner jumped in to pull him from the pit, signaling the referee to call the match. Samson's head and neck were chewed up, but he was the victor. Deuce was left with puncture wounds on his paws and chest. "The Vet" injected the two dogs with antibiotics, and their wounds were cleaned with warm water before they were packed into separate kennels and driven away.

The episode lasted less than an hour. At 8:30 a.m., the host and his friends went into the kitchen, drank Wild Turkey chased with Bud Light, and traded dog stories for the next seven hours.

IN THE 19TH-CENTURY, pit bulls gained favor in England and Ireland in bull-baiting, a sport in which the small, fierce dogs pulled bulls down by a metal ring placed through the pierced septum of the larger animal. Richard Stratton, author of The Truth About the American Pit Bull Terrier, writes that it was this kind of ferocity and strength that made pit bulls the breed of choice in dog fights. When the Irish began immigrating to New England, they brought a demand for pit bulls, and an emigre named John Colby began importing the dogs in 1889. To this day, a Colby dog is still considered top of the line when it comes to pit bull bloodlines.

Like Jake, Colby had some ambivalence about dog fights. He respected game dogs for qualities other than their fighting ability, including emotional stability, courage and agility. But as Colby saw it, pure game bloodlines could be best measured only by a dog's performance in the pit, and he continued to sell high-quality pit bulls to the public for 30 years. Colby is also considered one of the first to register pit bulls, thereby creating a system to preserve the purity of game bloodlines.

While a subculture of dog fighting persisted among Irish-Americans, pit bulls didn't gain widespread recognition until drug dealers and gang members appropriated them in recent decades as a form of intimidation and protection. Pit bull attacks brought more notoriety to the breed as the dogs became more popular in the '80s. Due to these attacks, a law was enacted in Rhode Island that requires a special license for owning a pit bull, as well as $25,000 in liability insurance.

Like many observers, John Washburn, director of animal control at the Providence dog pound, is saddened by the fixed image of the pit bull as a fighting dog. "As with many things, viciousness in a pit bull can be attributed to the human element," he says.

Washburn says it's difficult to measure the extent to which a pit bull is dangerous. But because of the number and seriousness of pit bull attacks, it's the city's practice to err on the side of safety, and for the most part, euthanize the stray pits that wind up at the pound. "If they have papers, have never attacked and are clearly harmless, we try to adopt them out," Washburn says.

Some animal rights activists, like Ingrid Newkirk, president of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), believe the pit bull has been so damaged by people that the most humane thing would be to eliminate the breed through attrition. "I have known gentle, loving pit bulls, but the pit bull is the product of a natural dog that we bastardized," she says, "so people could wager on dog fighting."

Meanwhile, the dog fighting subculture uses widely circulated journals and other venues to communicate the market status of combat pit bulls.

One of the main conduits is Sporting Dog Journal, which contains breeding and fighting information, detailed accounts of the exploits of dogs from renowned bloodlines, as well as the anonymous correspondence (with only PO boxes for return addresses) sent by dog men throughout the US. In the same secretive way, the return address for the publication is a post office box in Jefferson, Georgia, and aspiring readers have to be sponsored by an existing subscriber to receive the publication. The only names in the Journal are the code-like names of dogs: Big Dust, Gator, Budda, Hi Voltage, Little Tater, Lady in Red, BoomaRang, Miss Spike.

The euphemistic language used in the secretive Journal offers a veil for dog men, while allowing them to trade information. This language rarely contains even a hint of its explicit meaning. But dog fighting enthusiasts know, for example, that the words "grand champ" beneath a dog's name on an American Dog Breeders Association (ADBA) certificate, ostensibly meaning the dog took a blue ribbon at show, actually indicates that it has won seven fights.

The two main registries for pit bulls, known formally as the American Pit Bull Terrier, are the ADBA and United Kennel Club (UKC). The UKC, located in England, discourages dog fights. The ADBA, founded in 1909 and based in Salt Lake City, is the registry for more than a million pit bulls. An ADBA spokeswoman, who declined to identify herself, says the association "denounces the Sporting Dog Journal and any illegal activity with these dogs."

Still, the ADBA is the de facto national clearinghouse for registering, and disseminating information about, game bloodlines. The ADBA's connection to dog fighting can be traced to its founder, Guy McCord, a well-known fancier of pit bulls who was a close friend of John Colby. And the association's book list contains titles that are explicitly about dog fighting. Asked about this, the spokeswoman points out a statement about the association's philosophy: "The ADBA does not condone any illegal activity, but will never deny the history of our breed."

JAKE AND I decide to drive past the home of Eddy, a fellow dog man in Olneyville, to see if his dogs are out. A six-foot fence, legally mandated for pit bull owners, surrounds his backyard, and a bright orange "Beware of Dog" sign shines in the reflection beneath his porch light. In the yard, a hook with a huge knot hangs from a pulley on a line. This contraption is used to condition the pit bull. The dog will leap, snatch the knot in its powerful jaw, lock on, hold it for as long as possible, and then release.

Although Eddy hesitates when he sees me, he opens the door to his home and lets us in. Wearing a tired blue sweat suit spattered with white paint, he talks quietly out of the corner of his mouth and moves with underwater slowness, like a man who intends to be forgotten. Eddy mentions that his dog, Wendy, recently took a chunk out of his thigh. "Did she lock on?" Jake asks. "Yeah, but I cracked her over the head with a shovel." She died days later. In revealing the details, Eddy sounds melancholy, proud of Wendy, and ultimately resolute that his dogs will know who is boss. Like many dog men, he was caught up in an ever-shifting balance of power with his dogs.

Jake and Eddy banter about dogs. "Twenty-two minutes without a scratch?" Eddy asks, referring to Dakota's impressive roll time. "Yeah, yeah," Burke says. To scratch a dog during a roll, the owner leans over his fighter, and lifts the front of the dog. If the dog's front legs vigorously scratch at the air, it's game for more. The longer a dog fights without a scratch, the greater the proof of its game.

In a match, separating two fighting dogs requires a finesse that only the best dog men have. If the dogs have locked on with their jaws, a breaking stick is required to pry them part. The stick is approximately 10 to 12 inches long, wide at the end and narrow at the top, with a wedge carved directly beneath the tip for leverage. A dog man will jam the wedge end of the stick into the dog's jowls and work it like a manual water pump until the dog's grip loosens. The owner will then breed the salvaged dog to try to produce another contender.

Soon, Jake and I are directed to a South County kennel with a reputation for producing combat pit bulls. As we walk out of Eddy's, the question of whether Jake might want to match Dakota hangs in the air, but remains unasked.

At the kennel, the breeder resembles a chubby wrestler who's still pissed about the fights he lost in high school. Jake met the guy, who also works as a security guard, when he was advertising puppies for sale. They started talking bloodlines, and Jake soon realized he was talking with a fellow dog man.

After the breeder and Jake acknowledge one another at the kennel, we walk up a small incline and look out over an enclosed expanse of packed mud that's filled with barking pit bulls.

"Colby line all the way," the breeder says.

He speaks at length about the failure and success of gene manipulation and inbreeding, pointing to a cage that holds what he calls the "demon dog." This pup killed two of its siblings. The breeder chalks it up to a case of overly intense inbreeding, but also touts his ability to produce champion dogs.

Elsewhere, Buck, a Hell Raiser pit bull that was jumping madly toward us, would have sailed 20 feet in the air if a short chain didn't choke him to a sudden halt. One of the hangers-on at the kennel teases Buck, nervously calling, "chicken shit," and jumps within a few inches of the seething dog. Buck launches his body toward the heckler like a salivating cannon ball. The man jumps back, his face tense with fear.

Triggered by Buck's war cry, the other dogs on the kennel grounds set to barking and throwing around their compact, muscular bodies. "Give 'em your Tarzan cry," one of the guys says to the breeder, and the rest quieted, waiting. The breeder responded slowly, looking at the men and over the crowded camp of pit bulls, before letting loose a long jungle scream.

Silence suddenly enveloped the muddy, feces-spattered expanse. The quiet was prolonged by our relief that someone could control these dogs. For the men and the dogs, the silence seemed proof that, for a moment anyway, the hierarchy that held them was more beautiful and significant than any lone creature's lamentable place within it.

Before we leave, the breeder lowers his voice and asks Jake if he'd be interested in a fight. Jake thought of Dakota. "Probably not," he responds. "It makes her real defensive for weeks after."

With reports by Ian Donnis.