``[But then my companion said,] ``But what about those punks and dope
dealers who come up to you with pit bulls on chains?''

So I thought I'd better find out about people who come up to you
with their pit bulls on chains.  A few days later I found myself
a poor urban neighborhood, and I walked about, waiting to be accosted.
I stayed in the vicinity of one corner in particular, because it was
a hot day and the woman at the small market was kind to me when I
held the door of her cold box open for five minutes, trying to decide
which soda to buy, unlike the man in the store further down, where there
was a deli bar and a great deal of scowling efficiency.  Nothing happened
except that my feet, which are flat, began to hurt from walking on
pavement.

I did see a young man with a short-haired, muscular male dog on
a chain lead.  The dog weighed about fifty pounds, was a
pleasing brindle color with a white blaze, and had ears that
looked like ailerons.  The chain was probably mandated by local
ordinance.  For some reason, chains feature prominently in vicious-dog
legislation, even though it is hazardous to try to control any
dog that weighs more than five pounds with a chain, because when
the dog jumps against the chain, the sudden pain is likely to cause
the handler to let go, and the dog gets out into traffic and gets
run over.  If the chain is of any substance, a small dog can't
drag it around, so either way chains are useless for walking dogs.

Fido was taking the young man for a walk, in the manner of
conscientious dogs everywhere.  The young man said, ``Sit, sit
sit,'' and ``Heel, heel heel,'' and ``Come!'' a lot, all of which
the dog ignored as he dragged his owner from one leg-lifting station
to another.  Owners often object to the speed and vigor of their
daily walks with their dogs, not realizing the health benefits.
Eventually Fido was done with his exercise tour and dragged the
rather slight young man, whose hands were evidently bruised from
trying to hold on to the chain, back home, tail wagging in
satisfaction.

The owner ignored me, which was fortunate.  If he had wanted to
mug me, he would have had to get rid of the dog first, because
it took both hands to hang on to the lead, which meant it would
be impossible to handle the dog and a weapon at once.  Also, his
chances of getting the dog pointed in my direction without a
fire hydrant behind me to motivate him were nil.

He reached a doorway that I took to be his, and sat down on
the steps, panting.  This was evidently a routine with him and
Fido, who plumped down beside him and joined him in gazing
on passersby while the man fondled him, murmuring the standard
sweet nothings in his ear from time to time.

Fido had a wide leather collar around his neck, so that he could
pull comfortably on the leash.  He would have been even more
comfortable in a harness, but well-fitting harnesses are hard
to come by, even if you live in a ghetto.  (The word ``ghetto''
comes from the Italian word ``borghetto,'' which is a diminutive
of the word ``borgo,'' or ``settlement outside the city wall.''
You are more likely to find a good harness maker outside the
city wall, in the borghetto.)

It may be that you are one day approached by a Ghetto Dweller,
or some other sort of Inhabitant, and a pit bull.  If this
happens, the thing to do is to ask the Dweller the dog's name.
The Dweller will promptly say ``Fido,'' because it takes a seasoned
professional handler to resist the opportunity to say a dog's
beloved Name.  When the Dweller says his dog's name proudly,
Fido will as likely as not look up at him and wiggle, releasing
the pressure on the leash.  This will give the Dweller a chance
to straighten up and relieve his aching back.  It will be a kindness.

And kindness - dear reader!  Kindness these days is everything.''

Vicki Hearne _Bandit: Dossier of a Dangerous Dog_ p.231-232