Women I talked to were passionate about their pit bulls. (Google “pit bull nanny dog” and you’ll find countless black-and-white images of babies, toddlers and their pits.) Though over the past 20 years we’ve seen all sorts of awful news stories about pits - just recently, a pit bull was shot and left for dead on an Arizona mountaintop until a female hiker found him, carried him down the mountain for an hour and then adopted him - pits were known as “nanny dogs” in the late 1800s. I use big in quotes because compared to a 140-pound mastiff, pits, which can range from 25 to 80 pounds, fall under the category of “big dog” purely by reputation. The other popular “big” dog among women I spoke to is pit bulls. I have had strangers knock on the door and are hesitant to come inside because of my dogs and I never correct them by telling them how sweet they really are.” I often run at night and usually take at least one of them with me. (Labernese is part Labrador Retriever, part Bernese Mountain Dog.) “I specifically chose big dogs because I wanted them to be robust for the kids' sake and also offer the illusion of safety for me. Same goes for Marci O’Connor, a Canadian writer who told me about her two 80-pound Labernese dogs. “ is very easy-going and friendly so we don't hesitate to take her to the hardware store or the park,” says Rachel Berry of Boulder, Colo. But most women chose their big dogs based on their relaxed nature - not for protection. Sure, most women said their big dog made them feel more safe (though my friend said her 40-pound Brittany has intimidated people as well) when running outside or walking. He was a big, sturdy, muscular boy, which only made his sweet, inquisitive and gentle demeanor more amplified.” My friend Eliza, a writer, says of her now deceased 110-pound German Shepherd-Great Dane mix, Maudsley, that she loved him in part because he was massive. Their big dogs were “gentle giants,” or “gentle and kind” or described as sweet family dogs who were lazy around the house, or who took up most of the bed. Yet I spoke to a dozen or more women who agreed that their big dogs had nothing to do with a power trip. One of them, Chunk, even has a Twitter handle.Ī woman owning a big dog or a dog considered to be “aggressive” by the public was once thought of as a statement of dominance. Chelsea Handler owns two large-breed rescues. Jennifer Aniston had a terrier, Norman, and inked his name on her foot after he died at 15. A few famous women have managed to shake that image. Dogs that represent our feminine, delicate flower sides. In pop culture, we’re bombarded by images of women with small dogs - Yorkshires, Pomeranians, Maltese - dogs that can fit into a carry-on bag or a purse. Little did they know my nickname for her was "The make-out dog." This dog only wanted to kiss. When Daisy ran to the door - even in her old age when she was basically deaf, her eyes were stricken by cataracts and she limped from arthritis - delivery men, the UPS guy, the plumber, moving truck dudes, all the strange men still wanted to know if my dog would bite. At 56 pounds, she was my protector, my alarm system, my Brienne of Tarth. Daisy died just last month at 15.ĭaisy followed me through two marriages, one divorce, two children, two houses, graduate school and a major home renovation. But as I gazed at the line of dogs tied up to the fence outside of Borough Hall, I dreamt about this puppy looking for a home - and all I knew was that I wanted to give her one. It was 1998, a time when pit bulls were all over the news for being street fighters. In the past, I had owned Golden Retrievers and English Springer Spaniels, both breeds known for their passivity. A true mix of power and honey, her muscles contracted below her puppy ribs. Her tiny snout was white and angelic, her brow was wide and dark. “She’s the kind of dog you want to run away with,” she said. When I pointed to Daisy she cooed, practically lovesick. That day she had 14 dogs in her tiny apartment. Police officers and friends dropped off stray dogs to her in the middle of the night - mostly pits. A woman, whose name I cannot remember, deemed herself the neighborhood adoption center. She slept in the sunshine, the warmth of the sidewalk cradling her. She had a softer head, not as broad and chiseled as those of the other pits. When I saw my dog, Daisy, for the first time on the street in Brooklyn, she was tied up to a fence with a number of other pit bull mixes.
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