White Guy, Living in the 'HOOD'- (My Stolen Dog Story)

angryman (67)in #life • 6 years ago

About twenty five years ago, I found myself living in “The Hood” …It was another State, having left New York City right before Mayor Rudy Giuliani kind of “cleaned things up”

Now, I use the term ‘Hood’ a little lightly because it’s a title that mostly certain ‘inhabitants’ label their neighborhood in a sort of tough guy ‘Gangsta’ pride way…Most people living there, just call it a neighborhood.

This place though ‘was’ kind of ‘Hood-ish’ because people hung out a lot selling dope on street corners, shot at each other, blasted Gangsta-Rap from their cars and ‘Slum-Lord’ apartments, were generally nasty acting and nasty looking most of the time…

So, @AngryMan had left crazy NYC for some peace of mind, but found just additional heartache instead, many miles away. I probably should have stayed in New York, but who knew Giuliani was about to kick the ‘low level’ hoodlums out to places like where I moved too? The ‘Top’ Dogs, all stayed behind though… ‘Politicians’

I knew that I had probably made a mistake moving there when I heard people going up and down my old, rusty and rickety fire-escape all night long. The top floor apartment was occupied by a crack-head who let people in through his window, for a small fee, to light up.

Anyway…soon after I had gotten there, I bumped into a young guy with a Pit-bull that reminded me of the dog I’d recently lost. Leaving him my number, I told him that if he ever had puppies for sale, to give me a call. Having a little friend with some ‘bite’ to him seemed like a very worthwhile idea too, in ‘Crack City.’

Sometime later, my phone rang and the young voice from the other end announced to me that his dog made puppies, and he’s only got one left; he saved it for me. Gee…wasn’t ‘I’ the ‘lucky’ one? A stranger that I met months ago, decided to be my buddy...

I got in my old work truck and drove to the address the kid directed me too. It was a rather nondescript, typical messy type property you usually find in the Ghetto, but he and one of his boys ‘did’ have a puppy for me. Only problem was…it looked more like a Chihuahua then a fearsome Pit-bull.

Don’t ask what got into me, but I decided I’d take a chance on the tail wagging, little girl who was dancing around me in a circle. The guy only wanted thirty bucks for her, till his friend whispered “try and get more” in his ear…I offered thirty “take it or leave it”…he took it.

‘Aja’ turned out to be a great dog; hyper as hell, but loving, non-destructive to furniture or shoes, yet bold and protective of her territory. She also grew into a fairly decent size ‘Mixed Pit’ that commanded a bit of respect from the local yokels.

Aja’s favorite play was Tug-of-War. She loved the knotted rope that I made and could hang onto it with her jaws forever, so it seemed. If I told her to “drop it”, she’d let go, allowing me to fling it for her to give chase. When she brought it back to me, I needed to fight her tugging to get it back…Plenty of fun times.

My building had a long side-yard with a high, wrought iron fence and gate by the street, yet it had some kind of window like opening in it about four feet from the ground. I lived on the ground floor with a back door, and was able to chain-lock the gate keeping the space private.

Even though my dog was territorial, I did catch a few people befriending her at the gate once in awhile with treats and sweet talk…something I wasn’t happy about. I didn’t like ‘trusted’ hands reaching through, petting Aja’s head; those same hands could become the ones that steal her. And…they were…

One night after letting her out to pee and run around the yard, I stayed inside with the door open so Aja could come and go as she pleased. Usually, she would pop in to check on me pretty regularly, but this night, too much time had passed without her coming back in. When I came out to see what she was up to, she was nowhere to be found...

It was the wee hours by then, the street was eerily quiet and my heart sank in the stillness. Calling to her outside of the gate raised no response. I walked to the corner calling and whistling, but to no avail. Aja was ‘gone’…Two teenage girls near the corner told me that they had seen a guy with a black dog on a rope, and pointed in the direction they saw him go.

Back in the house, I tucked my little pea-shooter in my waistband, a piece of gas pipe in my back pocket and set out in search of the thieving culprit…

A few blocks away, I stumbled upon a small group of ‘Hoodies’ hanging out doing their deeds of the night. Asking if they had seen a black dog running around, or a guy with one on a rope, the response I got was, “What’chu doin’ down here in da Hood…? White folk don’t come round here.”

With that, he eyeballed my opened shirt with something peeking out at him. I told him, “I ain’t white, I’m Italian” and moved on…For some reason, in some Ghettos, Italians got a pass from Black and Hispanic gangster types…especially the Northeastern cities.

When I returned to my block, the head honcho of the drug den next door to me was hanging out on the stoop. He kind of reeled when I told him what happened, and said that he thinks he knew who took my dog; not to worry, he’d get the dog back for me.

The next morning, I heard one of my neighbors yelling for me from his window across the way. He had my dog upstairs…"some crack-head guy came around and dropped her off". The punk had said that he “found” my dog running loose, and knew it was mine, so he brought her back.

Aja was happy to see me, and I was happy to see her too. We were together for a long time after that, but in life, we are faced with having to saying goodbye to loved ones; Aja was one of those 'loved ones'.