I’m late with this week’s post. When I first saw the picspiration, I couldn’t tally the possibilities. When I was finally able to work on it, I had the intention of going in one direction and it ended up being something completely different. I hope that you like it.
Don’t leave me.
DON’T leave me.
Don’t leaaaaaaave meeeeee!!!!
Please. Please don’t let them leave me. I’ll do anything. Go anywhere. Just don’t let them leave me here.
I’ll be good.
I’ll be perfect.
I’ll be quiet.
Sambo peered out of the window, wishing that his family would come back; wouldn’t leave him. He didn’t know why they brought him to this place, why they didn’t want him anymore. He loved them, and he thought they loved him, too.
He shook off raindrops—they hadn’t used an umbrella when they brought him in—and watched through the large front window as his family drove away.
“Come with me, Sambo.”
A woman with a kind face put her hand gently on my shoulder and coaxed me away from the window. There was a warmth in her voice that lessened the ache of betrayal I felt. She knelt beside me so I wouldn’t have to look so far up to see her eyes.
“It’ll be okay, sweetie. They weren’t the right family for you, but I know a family that will love you as you are.”
She scratched behind my mangled ears and I turned, giving her palm a small lick.
“You’re coming home with me, Sambo,” she whispered. “Sit right here for me like a good boy, and I’ll be right back. Okay? Stay.”
I understood sit and stay, and that was the nicest any human had ever instructed me. I wanted to make her happy, so I sat still and waited while she stood up and went over to the door behind the counter. My stubby tail twitched for the first time since my family told me we were going for a ride this morning. My family. I whined and looked over my shoulder to the rain-spattered window. They weren’t my family anymore.
“Mike?!” The woman called out through the open doorway.
I yipped a little and put my head down, unsure of what was to come from her now that she had raised her voice. She must have heard me because she turned and came back. Lifting me from the floor and holding my small body close, she cuddled and shushed me, muttering soft words. She carried me with her back to the open doorway, and called out once more but not as loudly this time.
“Mike. I’m taking this pup home with me. And make a note of the people who brought him in; they shouldn’t be allowed near a pit, or any other breed for that matter, again.” She scratched under my chin and along the bottom of my jaw towards my ear, hitting all the places that made me want to purr like a kitten. “Let’s go home, Sambo.”
2015 Deidre Meyrick
Sambo, like many other pitbull puppies and adult dogs, end up in homes where they are misunderstood, mistreated, and often unloved for anything other than their innate desire to protect their “family” and how that behavior can be used to harm others. They are incredibly affectionate and sweet, and as such need loving homes, not places where their bite and snarl are celebrated. With regard to Sambo’s ears and tail, it is a trademark of the breed in certain circles to have cropped ears and a docked tail, but some amateurs go to great lengths, leaving the animal scarred beyond aesthetic and effectively mangling their bodies. Just had to share a little here as this is a breed that is dear to me. Pitbulls are not for every family, and every family is not equipped to have a pit as part of theirs.