Dirty Socks Escapes Operation Kindness
Any fool can criticize, condemn and complain – and most fools do.
Due to the trickle-down effects of our healthcare system, American pets live long healthy lives. Much like NASA and the military, American technology safeguards the animal kingdom. If properly cared for, pet owners may enjoy years of memories with their furry companions.
This is only true in white world. Not long ago, I lived in a ghetto apartment complex. Most of my neighbors were generational welfare families, intentionally kept poor by Democrats. Black males skulked through the complex going nowhere. Few worked. They tripped over their pants and scared people to death. Illegal aliens also lived among us in great numbers. Unlike the blacks, most Mexican parents worked, leaving early and returning after dark. But like Mexico, many Latin families allowed their dogs to run free.
Mexican mamas opened their doors and dogs ran wild. Most were yappy Chihuahuas without collars. They’d dart into the parking lot and spread in every direction. They left presents for people to step in. Some came to my door and I’d feed them dog treats. All were sweethearts, even the ones who growled. They’d play with my dog and I’d later take them home. The owners smiled and thanked me in broken English.
Pit bulls were common but thankfully didn’t run free. I never witnessed dog fighting but knew it occurred. The females existed in perpetual pregnancy, their teats overflowing with milk. A neighbor from New Orleans walked his pit with a giant chain. It was thick enough to pull a tractor. He eventually stopped because it was stupid.
Every race owned pit bulls. Blacks, Mexicans and whites paraded them with a father’s pride. Only Asians refused to partake. After my complex initiated a $99.00 move-in special, we were overwhelmed by Pit Nation. Black ones, gray ones, spotted ones and red ones each claimed their corner of the complex. Pit bulls have a terrible reputation but are truly good dogs. One in particular would exit a second story window and sit perched atop the overhang. He’d watch the world go by with his small eyes. His owners were white.
Enter the law
Yet this canine circus attracted the dog catcher. Our officer had broad shoulders and a round muscular stomach. He sported a beard and had alert, all-seeing eyes. A white trash girl moved near me and owned a hound mix named Socks. The girl immediately put Socks on the back patio and closed the blinds. Socks remained there through the Texas heat and sub-zero cold.
The patio became a cesspool of dog waste that reeked like an open sewer. I contacted management repeatedly but was always brushed aside. I yelled and screamed to no avail. I was on my own. Socks became my problem.
Eventually animal control made its rounds through the complex. I waited as the officer (AC in my area were also police officers) spoke to a Mexican woman outside her door. Several children circled her feet. I grew impatient as he handed me his card. I continued to wait. When he approached I said, “It’s like Mexico City around here, isn’t it?” He understood. Dogs and cats ran wild, as if residents wanted to keep the old country alive. But Socks never ran wild; she was trapped and went nowhere.
I explained Socks’ situation and the officer nodded. He promised to look into it. I left feeling anxious, as if Socks’ owners had overheard our conversation. Still the weight on my heart lifted. Socks was on his radar.
Animal control in my town didn’t kennel stray dogs. The pound worked with Operation Kindness, a no-kill shelter. At least that’s what they said. I had to believe them. Socks grew worse by the day. Her ribs protruded in sickly fashion and her concrete slab remained caked in urine and feces. Her owner, a skinny white girl with tattoos wore heavy eyeliner like a raccoon. She was in her twenties. We’d never spoken. Consumed by these images and disgusted with humanity, something had to be done.
A starving dog similar to Socks
A city truck arrived the next day and parked outside Socks’ apartment. Socks yelped and jumped along the fence, her big claws scraping against the wood. The officer reached over and patted her head. I prayed that the girl was home, that he’d excoriate her and make her cry. I went inside and waited.
Everything went quiet; Socks no longer cried from within her prison. Her dry nose no longer peeked through the fence. The truck disappeared and she’d been taken away. The officer slapped a blue envelope onto the owner’s door. Panic quickly overcame my relief. Who’d adopt Socks? I’d already taken in three strays. I could afford no more.
That afternoon I contacted animal control. The same officer answered. Where was Socks? Had Operation Kindness been notified? The officer took a deep breath. According to him, Socks was a victim of egregious animal cruelty. Considering that she was emaciated and lacked adequate provisions, he’d pulled her to safety. She’d be taken to Operation Kindness and adopted into a family on Maple Drive. She’d be safe as this kind officer was now her advocate.
The next day Socks was back on her patio. The July sun scorched the concrete beneath her paws. The owner’s blinds were closed, shielding the woman from her sins. I stumbled and leaned against the wall. That witch had retrieved her dog. She’d shamelessly taken her blue envelope, presented it to animal control and with raccoon eyes, brought Socks home like a runaway slave. Precious hope in the ghetto had died.
As I stared at Socks from my front porch, a murder of thugs shuffled by going nowhere. I gave Socks food and water but it did little. She always managed to knock over her bowls.
The following week I was at the town’s athletic center. As I dressed in the locker room, the same officer walked in. I asked what had happened. The girl actually came for her dog? He stated that Socks would be taken to a safe place. The girl’s brother had a yard with rolling hills and green, green grass. But I knew he was mistaken. There’s no such thing as green grass in the ghetto. He’d followed regulations and had no other recourse. The owner had rights. The dog did not.
Days passed and Socks went nowhere. Myself and another neighbor fed her whenever possible but it was never enough. In a sick twist, the girl owned lush plants that were always in bloom. She obviously loved plant life – animals were a different story. By now Socks declined into a miserable state. Her cries became white noise, a constant moan that haunted my corner of the world. I had to try again.
Rather than calling the officer, I drove to animal control located at the police station. I was now hounding a policeman, a man who could arrest me. I remained calm. I reiterated that Socks was being tortured. That the mysterious brother never came to her rescue. The officer bit his lower lip. What could he say? He was a police officer, not a dog catcher. I knew Socks was on her own. The fabled trip to Operation Kindness had always been a fantasy.
After months of misery, Socks suddenly vanished. The girl’s apartment stood empty. She’d left Socks’ patio as is: a thick stucco of dried animal misery. I learned that the girl skipped out and didn’t pay her rent. In the end, no one won. No one except the officer. He’d accepted that nothing could be done about the poor and their animals. He should’ve warned me from the onset. The golden rule should be “Mind your own business.” “Do unto others” is a fairy tale contrived by those living peaceful lives.
I’ve since moved and am now surrounded by white liberals. Their pets are treated as princes of the earth, but there are very few children to play with them. If liberals only knew the folly of their childless existences. A few blocks from my apartment, a public school stands as a testament to the changing demographics. The same Chihuahuas roam nearby streets – pit bulls occupy every backyard. Somewhere in the mix is another Socks. All a bleeding heart can do is watch and worry.
Hope springs eternal