| S.P.C.A. CASE 280141 |
| by John Held Jr. circa 1925 I'VE ALWAYS BEEN PROUD OF THE FACT THAT I CAN TAKE IT. Yeah, any way it comes. I've been three days now with nothing to eat and no water. It don't mean a thing to me. There ain't any of 'em my weight I can't win from. I can give 'em eight pounds and eat 'em up. I've done it so I know. Many's the time I've gone without eating for longer than three days. That's the way they train me for a fight. Makes me more vicious when I'm hungry. And Jeeze, do I eat 'em? Ask 'em. Go on and ask 'em. I know it's three days because I can see the light through the grating up on the sidewalk. It's come dark three times. The only light I've ever seen is through the grating. We always fight at night. That's the only time He ever takes me out is when we're going to fight. He works me on a treadmill to build up my strenck. I always know when there's going to be a fight because He feeds me up plenty. Then every day on the mill, and that turns the heavy grub into big long muscles on my shoulders and quarters. Then I get starved to make me lean and vicious. I'm vicious all right without the starving part of it. I eat 'em up, I do. I'm so mean that His brother had to feed me on a long pole when He was in stir. They got Him with a loft full of sacramental wine, then they railroaded Him before the wrong judge. A great bunch, the cops. Can't trust 'em. He pays plenty for protection and never knows whether He's going to get it or not. But I suppose that's part of the racket. This fight game is a racket too, but there's no paying for protection for fights. The cops say that fighting is cruel. Maybe it is, but it's my game and it's all I know. They have to be plenty quiet about where they hold the fights. We generally have 'em upstairs in the stables where they keep the horses that they rent to peddlers. They always bet lots of jack on our fights, so you see the better I can take it, the more valuable I am to Him. He's a great little guy. He can take it as well as I can. He always says He's ready. He never knows when He's going to get it in the back, which is the way His kind fight. He never packs a rod. He gets the work done for Him by the needle-workers and the hop-heads. It ain't because He's yellow that He don't pack a rod, it's just that the cops are always trying to hang something on Him, but He never gives 'em a chanct. I hate cops just like He does. I don't see why there has to be cops. They are against everything. There may be some good cops, but the general run of 'em are always coming 'round and asking personal questions or taking Him in to give Him the works, but He is a wise egg and never knows nothing. He's no squealer. Squealers don't live long in this district. It seems like He's getting me ready for a fight, not feeding me or bringing me a drink for all this time. But there's something queer about it all. I haven't had the heavy feeding or any work on the treadmill. But I'm in fighting trim without it. I sort of look forward to a good stiff battle. I'd like to get my teeth in one of those Long Island City babies right this minute. I'd tear him to shreds. I'm getting sick of the clank of my chain. I'd sort of like to see Him. I like it when He comes down and runs His hands over my back and neck to see if I'm hard. Perhaps this is going to be a hard fight and He wants to get me extra vicious. Maybe He has made a big bet on me. He don't need to worry. I'll win for Him. I would like a drink of water. I've tried to lick the moisture off the basement wall, but there ain't much. But what the Hell, I'm tough enough to take it. I wish He would come down to see if I was hard. I don't know what's the matter with me, but I feel kind of creepy every time that cop walks across the grating up there. I can always tell cops' feet. There he is now. He's stopping. There's a second cops' feet. Now the second cop is talking. "We don't need to worry about this Dago any more". The first cop says, "What happened"? Then the second one says, "They took him for a ride". "Who"? "Eddie the Wop". That's Him they are talking about. Him. He's Eddie the Wop. "Yeah, they found him up outside of White Plains in the blue car". "Dead"? "Deader than Hell. Six holes in the back of his curly head". Those cops are crazy. It can't be Him. They wouldn't take Him for a ride. He's no squealer. Maybe it's just because I'm hungry that I'm hearing things. No. Here the cops come down the steps. "The Captain told me to come over here and look things over. What's down here? Have you got your flashlight"? Now they are flashing the light all around the basement. I'm growling, low, I always like to give 'em a chanct. But don't let 'em come too near. I'll eat 'em up. I always wanted a chanct to tear up a cop. "Look out for the dog", one of 'em says. "Jesus, he looks like a nasty one", says the other one. "Shall I let him have it"? asks the first one as he takes out his gat. "Hell, no, if you shoot him you'll have to make out a report. I'll 'phone the S.P. Let them do the dirty work". Then they both go back up to the sidewalk and go away. Then He wasn't starving me for a fight. He's dead. He won't come down and chain me in the mill again. I'll never see Him no more. Jeeze, I wish I could break this chain, I'd go up and tear those cops to ribbons. I'll bet it was a cop that done it to Him. I'll bet it was. I'd like to get my teeth into that yellow quitter. I wish there was a weak link in my chain so I could kink it and get loose. They have left the door open. If I could get off this chain I could go out there on the street and tear a few cops to pieces. I'd get even with them for putting him on the spot. He won't come down here with His friends no more to show them how vicious I am. That was fine sport. I would lunge on my chain and curl back my lips and show my sharp teeth and roar. And then He would pretend to give me the boot and I would pretend to go into a mad rage. His friends would be scared stiff. That won't happen no more. I wish I could get a little sleep, but the hunger pains keep me awake. My mouth is dry and sticky. I'd like a drink to cool my tongue. I wonder what will happen to me now that He's gone. Jeeze, time goes slow now that I know He won't ever come again. I wish that cop had let me have it. Then I would be dead same as Him. Now there's somebody else coming down the steps. Another one come to look around, I suppose. Yeah, it's a cop all right. He's in a uniform. Maybe I can chew this one up. He's coming right over to me. He ain't afraid like the others were. I'll get him. But he smells of dog. There's something wrong here. He's in uniform, and he smells of dog and he ain't afraid of me! I guess this guy must be all right. Now he's undoing my chain. He's leading me out, and I'm going up the steps into the daylight. This is the first time I've ever been out in the daylight. Now he's unfastening the doors of a car that's built like a cage. He's putting me in. There's straw on the floor of the cage, and there's been dogs in here. I wonder where we're going. It must be O.K. because he wasn't afraid of me. |
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| DAWNREST |
| S.P.C.A. CASE 280141 |
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| DAWNREST |
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| DAWNREST |
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