Waiting Over the Rainbow Bridge: For Nietzsche

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

Yeah, me too. It’s hard for me, even in the best of times, to read that piece without getting a lump in my throat. This is not the best of times. See, I’ve recently lost a true friend.

Like many people, I’ll wager that I have more than one former furred companion waiting for me by that bridge. This, however, isn’t about them; it’s about one who has no one to wait for, as no one’s coming for him. That might be sad enough, but there’s more.

Hell, it’s always sad and wrenching to lose a pet or beloved animal, but when that loss is directly due to senseless, wanton human cruelty and ignorant rottenness, it is particularly grueling. Often, I wonder if our species still deserves the unfettered, pure loyalty and love that the species Canis Familiaris favors us with. In the worst cases, they still will do anything up to and including dying for us. This is one such case.

Among the vermin known as dogfighters, there exists the concept of a “bait dog”…an animal which is insufficiently aggressive, fast, or strong to be a good pit fighter. It could be an older, sick dog, or a pup; or it could just be one that the owner got mad at in a meth-fueled rage. What’s important is, the dog is used as a “sparring partner” for the real fighters; a living, breathing chew toy. They face short, horrifying lives of violence, pain, neglect, and abuse.

Nietzsche was one such. At about one year old, he was found bleeding and severely injured in a parking lot in Pensacola. There is no way to know how he came to be there; whether he was abandoned by his former owners, or escaped from them by some Herculean courage, will never be known. His injuries, however, indicated that he had been mauled, and by more than one dog. He was also malnourished and neglected.

He was cared for by good veterinarians and caring people, and eventually nursed back to health and strength, although his mangled face bore the scars and damage of his trauma. His ears were torn to stumps, and his tongue was frayed and perforated. His ripped mouth was contorted into an artificial scowl. Still, he was otherwise an outstanding example of the Pit-bull breed, with a strong, solid body and a massive, powerful head. Although dotted with scars, his coat was a lovely fawn color with splashes of white. When he was well enough, he went to live at the Humane Society of Pensacola, the wonderful, no-kill shelter I volunteer at. http://www.humanesocietyofpensacola.org/

I met “Neets” when I began working there. He had just turned two years old, by our reckoning. I found that, once one got past his fearsome appearance, he was a gentle, loving, and people-friendly dog. He loved long walks in the sun, followed by a rest under a shady tree. He relished romps in empty fields, and naps in warm blankets. He jumped for a bit of roughhousing play with various toys.

He and I got to be great friends. After a while, he jumped up when I arrived for my weekly volunteer work, eager to go out and play with his buddy. We’d go running for long distances along the railroad tracks, glorying in the sunshine and fresh air. We’d kick the dust up all over the play area as he’d tear the toys to shreds in those mighty jaws, and then relax under the shady trees, with him curling up in my lap like an 80-pound puppy, big head resting in my hand. He was a dog that loved to be loved.

Neets, sadly, wasn’t perfect. He had many demons, nightmares let loose in his brain from his horrible upbringing. He couldn’t ever be left alone with another dog. His mind would sometimes “snap”, flashing back to those old terrifying times like a war vet with PTSD, and in that state, he would attack any dog he was near. He had more than enough power and speed to do severe damage. Many times, after careful work, the staff at HSOP would introduce him to another dog to play with, and be overjoyed as Neets seemed to have a great time with a new friend; only to have hope dashed as he eventually “slipped”. After he’d “come back”, he’d slink off to his kennel and hide, seemingly ashamed of himself. It must be said now that never, not once, was a human the target of any of his outbursts, and to my knowledge, he never inflicted any injury on any person.

Still, his dog-aggressiveness left him pretty much unable to be adopted. Lucky for him that HSOP is a no-kill shelter, so he could live out his days there. I longed to adopt him myself; to give him a home, but his tendency to “snap” made that impossible. My family consisted of two small children and two cats, and some things simply cannot be risked. So, I relished caring for him and making his life a bit better for over a year. Still, the staff and I held out hope. In the meantime, he wriggled his way into all our hearts, becoming sort of a “mascot” for the shelter, with his picture prominently displayed on its newsletter. He was popular with everyone. I even, under the strictest care imaginable, introduced him to my six-year-old son, whom he charmed and won over instantly.

The demons, however, never went away, and never gave up. Finally, they won. On a recent weekend, someone left a gate unlocked in the play areas. Sweet, loving, loyal Nietzsche attacked TooBee, an old, blind, diabetic terrier, and by the time he was pulled off, he had inflicted injuries we still are unsure if she’ll survive. It was decided that he’d be put down.

The staff and I were devastated. Okay, we knew, sort of, that this could happen, that it was always a strong possibility. He wasn’t going to be adopted, regardless of how many people loved him; and he wasn’t going to get better. At best, he’d have only been able to live out his days in peace if he were to never again attack another animal. That didn’t make it any easier, nor did the knowledge that, had he not been used in such a foul and evil manner as a young dog, he’d still be alive and happy.

I let my 42-year-old, tough old Sailor’s eyes cry when I heard. Later, when my son found out (he always asked me how Neets was doing when I went to the shelter), those eyes poured out sorrow again, joining with his precious sobs. My mind swung between grief for my buddy and hatred for his abusers. I told my boy about the Rainbow Bridge.

After all the tears were shed, and the sobs ended, I sat with my wife. I recalled the Rainbow Bridge, and mentioned to her how sad it was that Neets would make it there, but never have anyone come for him, as he was never adopted. She took my hand, and with tears misting in her own eyes, said, “Someone will. He’s waiting for you, Honey.” Tears came again.

I will not watch NFL football anymore. I cannot bear to support any organization that so eagerly took one of the sub-animal parasites that force animals to fight back into its gold-plated club. Michael Vick fought dogs, tortured them, and abused them just like the backwoods trailer-trash that caused Neets, and so many other dogs just like him, so much horror. While the intense grief subsides, the anger and rage do not. It is long past time that this evil, senseless terror stops, and past time that any decent people cease tolerating those who engage in, or support this rotten practice. Those who do engage in dogfighting are unfit to be accepted into normal society, and are unfit to ever be lauded and placed in positions in which they will become role models to young people. They should be sent to prison for long terms, and when released, shunned by all decent, right-thinking people as the perverted psychopaths they are.

Goodbye, Nietzsche. Goodbye, my friend. Wait patiently at the Rainbow Bridge…find all my other pets that have gotten there first. Find Sniffles, Minx, Nasha, Blue, and any others who arrive. Be with them, with your demons finally gone forever. I’ll be seeing you someday.

Peter A. Jockimo