A
46
DOGS
Harry Nesbitt was sitting up in the back of the arena, in a corner under a burned-out light. I stopped a
couple of rows below him and checked out the crowd. Nobody „as interested in us; they were
concentrating on the two dogs getting ready for the first fight. One was a dirty gray pug, its lacerated
face seamed with the red scars of other battles. The other, a white mutt, part bulldog, was fresh and
unscathed and an obvious virgin to the pit.
Two men, obviously the owners of the dogs, were on opposite sides of the pit but not in it, and they
seemed to be washing the dogs down with a white substance. One of the men reached over and nipped
the bulldog?s neck.
I moved up and sat down next to Nesbitt.
“I wasn?t sure you?d show,” he said.
“I?m a real curious fellow,” I said. “Besides, I like your pal Benny Skeeler.” -
“Yeah, what a guy.”
“What are they doing?” I asked, nodding toward the arena.
“Checking out each other?s dogs. That white stuff there, that?s warm milk. They?re checking for
toxics in the dog.”
“Why?s that one guy biting it on the neck?”
“Tastin? the skin. Some claim they can taste it if the dog?s been juiced up.”
He pointed down at the small bulldog.
“Lookit there, see that little no-hair mutt down there, looks like a bulldog only uglier.”
“I really don?t like dog fights, Nesbitt.”
“Call me Harry. Makes me feel secure, okay?”
“Sure, Harry.”
“Anyways, that ugly little bowser, that?s called a hog dog. You know why? Because they use them
kind of mutts to hunt wild boars. The dog grabs the boar by the ear, see, and he just hangs on for dear
life, pulls that fuckin? hog?s head right down to the ground and holds him there. Tough motherfuckers.
I got a hundred down on that one.”
“You do this often?”
“Every week. Better than horse racing. The reason I picked the place, nobody?ll ever go with me. So I
