A few weeks ago, while taking Sean on a walk, a drunk passing me by asked if he was a pit-bull and, before I could answer, told me not to get him fixed. As I gripped the leash a bit tighter, he went on to ask me if I’d like it if someone would “cut off my shit” before trying to buy him off me because he’d make a “good fighting dog.”
I told him “No thanks!” because I didn’t want a good fighting dog, I want—and have—a good dog, period. And even though I had put it off for as long as I absolutely could, I realized it was now time: Sean, my beloved adopted puppy, had to be neutered.