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  1.  (10288.41)
    Haven't written for a while. Have some good ones left, but, like this one, they aren't easy to tell. Thank you to those who follow this, you keep me inspired to keep writing.
  2.  (10288.42)
    Thanks for the story. I also enjoy them.

    I'm sure you got some funny ones. I've got a friend who worked in the kitchen at maximum security prison. A couple of times he told this funny story. Among his duties was to deliver meals to guys who had misbehaved and weren't allowed to go to the cafeteria. With him was a guard. They go to the one inmates cell and open the slot. The inmate throws some piss out. Most of it missed my friend but some got on the guard. "Ha ha, you got piss on you!" he yells.

    So, no meal for him. They take it away. The guard then asks my friend if he has any apple juice. He does and gives it to the Guard. He pours it in a squirt bottle. Guard goes back down to the cell. The cell has two doors, a thick steel one and inside that another steel doors with bars on it. He opens up the first door and through the bars squirts the inmates cell full of Apple Juice. My friend is perplexed. The guard tells him to come back in a few hours to see why.

    So towards the end of his shift he goes down to the inmates cell. He see's the inmate screaming because it's full of fruit flies.
  3.  (10288.43)
    (DISCLAIMER: This story involves vomiting. I have some friends that can't even hear a story on this subject without getting ill themselves, so I put this warning here for a reason.)

    Most of the things that happened to me did not occur because I was skilled, or due to planning, or anything within my control. Most of the time, I was simply at the right place at the right time. On a few rare occasions, I have been at exactly the right time and place in which I was able to aid in saving a person's life. It's only happened a couple of times, nothing compared to what EMT's and other first-responders do, but it has had a very large impact on me each time.

    Once, while working as a security guard/supervisor in a high rise luxury apartment complex in downtown Chicago sometime around 2002, I responded to a resident who called and said they needed an ambulance. 911 was called, and I got keys to gain access to the apartment for the EMT's. When I got to the apartment, the young woman inside was screaming for help. I entered the apartment and saw a woman, curled up on the floor, vomiting. She had been doing that for some time, apparently, because her vomit had that bile-like yellowish-liquid looking color. She was doubled-up, and in extreme pain. I called 911 again, for advice.

    I had approached the woman to let her know help was coming, and asked her for all of her systems. (As this was 10 years ago or so, I don't remember them very well) I told the 911 operator the systems they warned me to keep her conscious no matter what. I told the girl that she had to stay awake, so I had her sit up, and helped her hold the bucket she was getting sick in. She was crying, and in a lot of pain, and yet, I could see her getting drowsy. I had to keep her awake. A few times she asked me to leave; to leave her alone, but I couldn't. I yelled at her, and a couple of times I shook her, just enough to keep her conscious. It wasn't easy, and I could see what bit of her was conscious was getting mad at me.

    Time goes so slowly in an emergency. I'm sure the 911 responders were fast, but it felt like forever. Eventually they showed up, and got her on a stretcher. I told them everything that the girl had told me, and what the 911 had said. The EMT's told me that if I had let her fall unconscious that she probably would have died. I still don't know what was wrong with her.

    Just as they were taking her out, she asked me to call her fiance. Then they were gone.

    It took me a little while, but I found an address book. Because not a lot of people list their boyfriends or fiancees down as such, I couldn't find him. But I did find her parents and I called them long distance to Germany on my cell phone to tell them their daughter was in the hospital. They explained her fiancee was out of town but that they could reach him. They thanked me, and I cleaned up the girl's vomit and I left.

    About a month later, I was at the security desk, and this girl walks up. I didn't really recognize her, but she handed me a card, and a box of candies. She didn't stay long, but she thanked me and walked off. I never really saw her after that. I shared the candies with my co-workers. It felt kind of odd. I don't quite know how to explain it. I was eating chocolate that someone gave me for helping to save their life.
    •  
      CommentAuthorCameron C.
    • CommentTimeJan 26th 2012
     (10288.44)
    I like vomiting in stories. I'd prefer a disclaimer for the ones that don't involve it.
  4.  (10288.45)
    Story from a friend of a friend.

    Back in Chicago, I knew a paramedic. I told him I was about to get hired at the Federal Prison downtown. He told me that he had to respond to a 911 call there once.

    The call was an inmate having a heart attack in the visitation room. He was escorted up the elevator to the visitation room, where he saw a 50-ish white man on the floor clutching his chest. Kneeling next to him was an obvious over-the-top mafia wife stereotype, holding him in her arms, crying.

    She was screaming, "King! Don't die on me King!! Oh, God, don't die on me..."

    The inmate looks up at the lady, and in an Al Pacino-type accent screamed back at her, "Shut Up You Fucking Bitch!! I'm Fuckin Dyin' Here! You Gave Me A Goddamn Heart Attack!"

    He said it was hard to try and work, because he had to try so hard to keep from laughing.
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeJan 31st 2012
     (10288.46)
    Yeah:i'm going to give all your stories a read because,well,i like 'em!!
  5.  (10288.47)
    Definitely keep them coming. I've bookmarked this thread and demand that it have new stories on the random times that I come here. DEMAND, I SAY!

    If at some point you do decide to do something formal with them, I'd be happy to read through with my red pen and give notes. I'm all good with words and stuff.
  6.  (10288.48)
    Why I couldn't ever hack being a new-age hippie OR, Why I'm not arachnophobic anymore

    Rockford, Illinois, 1999. I'm 19, and it's shortly after my pregnant girlfriend left for Texas. I'm living in my Dad's crackhouse, and Live Action Role Playing Vampire: The Masquerade downtown on Tuesday evenings. I'm off and on unemployed. One of the gamers, a mid-thirtiesh guy (now I can't remember his name, I'll call him David) invites me to read my tarot. Sure, whatever. What I don't know is the guy is drunk and basically he just throws tarot cards at me, and rambles about what each one means. I have no idea if anything was remotely close to accurate, but he impresses my 19-year-old brain when he tells me that he's a druid and he wants to train me.

    A week later, it's some famous huge meteor shower, and he invites me to do some ritual. The more I write this, the more homosexual it sounds. Not being a total idiot, I invite a friend to watch my back, but I'm too interested to NOT go. David also brings a friend. We drive somewhere way out in the woods, and then hike on a railroad track farther into the woods. At some point it is mentioned that we are in some farmer's property, and that farmer shoots trespassers. We keep hiking. The other friend plays the harmonica as we hike.

    We get to a railroad bridge over a small river or large creek. My buddy and the other guy sit down and David and I climb down under the bridge. David asks me to find some plant, and I gather a little over a half-dozen of it. We build a small fire, and David chants something, and asks me to repeat it three times, as I toss a piece of the plant in with each repetition. I stumble over part of the first part, and I keep going, pretending not to notice. It was supposed to be a three-part protection from earth, air and water.

    David tells me there's a path through the woods he's looking for, but he can't find it. He tells me to go in the woods, and find something that I'm looking for. He says since there isn't a path, to just go in anyways. He hands me a dagger, to help look at the brush and thorny bramble, cover my face, and jump into the brush. I come out on the other side, unscathed, not a mark on me. I walk around for a few minutes, completely confused as to what I'm doing. "Find something I'm looking for?" It's ridiculously yoda-like, yet makes far less sense. Exasperated, I look up at the sky. I can see the moon perfectly, with the end of some small branch hanging directly in my view of the moon. It looks to be in a Y-shape. I muse that it reminds me of a dowsing rod. I think for just a second, and decide that must be what I'm looking for.

    I climb the big tree without missing a beat, and when I get to the top, I see that my dowsing rod is actually a dead branch hanging right on the edge of another branch. I edge out on the branch and grab it. Then, I realize, I'm at the top of this tree, with some long dagger in one and and a dowsing rod in the other. I'm a good fifteen feet up in the air, and I can't climb down.

    I put the dagger in my teeth and the rod in my belt loop, grabbed the branch and dropped down. When I spun over the side, I could feel the bark scraping my arm. When I landed, it felt like my whole arm was scraped up, but it was only a very small part. I pulled out the dowsing rod, held it in front of me, closed my eyes and started walking. I looked up a minute later, and I was walking through a path i hand't seen before; it led to the creek. I followed the creek back up to David and the campfire. I told him what had just happened.

    I led David back up the trail, and he showed me where a tree had fallen, and the branches had grown into the ground. There was just enough room for a person to crawl under and sit down. David explained that I should sit under the tree and wait. I asked him what I should wait for, and he told me that I'd know it when I saw it.

    As I sat there, waiting, I closed my eyes and my body felt like it was tingling all over. When I opened my eyes, I could see something ahead of me. It defies description, what I saw. There was a tree a few yards ahead of me, but the trunk had hollowed out, and then reformed above it, creating a small gap inside the tree. Inside was a roughly oval-shaped shining light of color, made up of all colors and none, made up of colors I had never seen before. It was luminous, and yet calm and peaceful.

    It was at that moment, while I sat watching what I can only guess was a spirit of nature, I then realized I was covered in insects. Centipedes, spiders, crickets, beetles, you name it. Instead of freaking out, I sat there calm. I don't know how long I sat there, but I heard a noise, and turned to see David coming towards me. I glanced back, and the light was gone.

    David motions for me to follow him, and to be quiet. He quickly explains that he thinks the farmer who owns the land is nearby. We head up to the tracks where the rest of the group are waiting. While we hiked to the car, I notice the three guys are itching. I ask what's the matter, and they say they got eaten up by mosquitoes. The ask if I had been eaten up. I hadn't. Not one bite.


    Oh yeah, I forgot to mention I was also really high during most of that. So take any parts of this story with a grain of salt, you know?
  7.  (10288.49)
    I was a high school stripper

    I was a senior in high school in 1996-97, and I hated most of my classmates. I had many more friends that were juniors though. During that year, it was announced that our school was to given mandatory uniform standards. Not for my class, but after my class graduated, they would begin the uniform rules. My friends were really pissed, and so was I. My graduating class could care less. I've always been the guy that roots for the underdog, so I decided to start some kind of protest. The idea was to wear the suggested uniforms, but I had made laminated bar-code name tags, with our names replaced with numbers, and instead of the school name as East High School, I wittily changed it to East High Security Prison (looking back on this from where I am today, that's hysterical).

    On the day of our protest, no one dressed up except me. A few people wore the bar-code name tags, but for the most part, I stood out as a kid in a black suit. Actually, a few girls were suddenly interested in me that normally didn't give me the time of day. But that wasn't the point! I was trying to make a statement!

    Later, at lunch, I realized I was broke. Someone suggested that I strip in my uniform to make lunch money. I laughed it off. Then some girl offered me $5. Then another girl offered money. Then there was $20 on the table. I started dancing.

    I climbed on top of the lunch table, in the middle of the cafeteria, in front of a couple hundred students, and danced wildly. I took off my tie, unbuttoned my collar button, and danced lewdly with the tie in a strategic move.

    From across the cafeteria, I see the Assistant Principal motion for me to get off the table and come talk to him. He asked me what I was doing, and I told him, honestly. He told me to come to the office. I explained I still had one class left for the day. He suggested that after class I report to the office. I agreed, and went to class.

    Upon arriving in class, the teacher received a phone call for me to report to the principal's office. After I explained to the teacher what happened, she made arrangements for me to go after class again. So I show up after class, and the Assistant Principal isn't there. Instead it's two different (and female) assistant principals. They ask me what happened; I explained, honestly. They told me I should dance on their table. We laughed. I told them I didn't dance for free, if they wanted me to dance, I would need cash up front. We laughed. They told me I could go.

    When I got home, my parents were waiting for me. They were pissed! They wanted to know what I had done at school that day that got me suspended for a day. I looked shocked, and had no idea what they were talking about. They called me a liar, and wanted the truth. After a few minutes, I explained the only thing I had done that day, about how it was funny and everyone had laughed and it was no big deal. It took about an hour of explaining, that seriously, that was all I did that day that I could have gotten in trouble for. My mother set up an appointment with the assistant principals the next day to clarify things.

    At school the next day, we sat in a meeting with one of the assistant principals who had tried to make me dance for her. She was all serious today, with charges of (not kidding) indecent exposure, reckless behavior, and extortion.

    1. Indecent Exposure??? I was wearing a suit & tie, and I had taken off my jacket, my tie, and undid the button at my collar. I was still more dressed than most of my classmates. Unless I had the world's sexiest neck, how the fuck is that indecent exposure???

    2. Reckless Behavior: I was on a table, dancing. I could have injured myself or others. I couldn't really argue that. Schools typically don't want their students gyrating on top of cafeteria tables.

    3. Extortion?? Really? I guess they assumed I was so hideous, that I threatened to strip my clothes off unless people paid me their lunch money. My pale skin that had never seen the sun's rays would blind onlookers as if they had gazed into an eclipse, or seen Conan O'Brien naked.

    At the end of the meeting, they left me with reckless behavior, and I just got a minor slap on the wrist and a free day off of school. I met my buddies for lunch, and my parents actually apologized for thinking I had done something seriously wrong, when the principals had obviously over-reacted. They still thought I was high off of my ass though.
    •  
      CommentAuthorD.J.
    • CommentTimeFeb 6th 2012
     (10288.50)
    Second what sellmeyoursoul said.

    And pretty much everything everyone else said about the stories being good and publishable and junk.
  8.  (10288.51)
    What's your page count at so far?
  9.  (10288.52)
    Back when I was a security guard in Chicago, I started out working on the midnight shift. It was just after New Year's, January 2002, and I was doing my rounds in Presidential Towers. I've mentioned it before; a complex of four fifty-story towers, with up to 10,000 people living there at one time.

    One weeknight, I'm doing rounds and I'm headed towards the lobby of Tower 3, and through the glare of the lobby entrance way, I see movement. It's dark, and hard to see, but I think I see a woman waving at me. She was 30-ish, African-American, and waving at me. Behind her, I see an African-American male grab her from behind and drag her backwards towards the elevator bay.

    I stop in my tracks and do a double-take, because I don't believe what I'm seeing. I step closer and look carefully, and the man sees me and lets the woman go. She dashes out of the lobby, arms flailing over her head, screaming in something that sounded like a Jamaican accent, "HE'S TRYING TO RAPE ME!!!" and she runs towards Tower 4, which is a dead-end.

    So then the man comes out of the lobby door, and he also talks in a Caribbean-type accent, "Hey! Why you interrupt me? I was bein ro-man-tic with my wo-man!"

    I kind of cock an eyebrow at the guy, and say in my best Chicago accent ever, "Look buddy, I don't know where you're from, but that ain't romantic where I come from." We start arguing, and then slowly, I can can hear the woman screaming, growing louder as she approaches from down by the dead-end.

    "..........aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!"


    "HOW DO I GET OUT OF HERE???" as she runs past, arms still over her head, flailing as she runs. The man turns and follows her, running and yelling for her to come back. I turn and run, and we begin approaching the security station. My supervisor, a former Sargent from a prison in Puerto Rico is calmly leaning on the desk, his chin propped in his hand as he watches the odd pair run past and down the escalator.

    I try to explain what is happening and that we should call the police. He tells me no, and explains the woman is a hooker, and the same guy pays her to come up to his apartment almost every week. And every week, after he gives her money, she balks at getting on the elevator, they argue and she leaves. Sometimes he chases her. I still suggest calling the police, and he points to the big picture window on the other side of the hallway. Looking out over Jackson Street, we can see the couple chasing each other up and down the block. He said we used to call the cops on them, but nobody spends more than a night in jail, and then he still offers her money for sex every week, she still takes his money every week, and she still balks at going upstairs every week, and on and on. So we just stay out of it.

    @Lamp I'm at 43,232 word count, so roughly doing the math you gave me earlier, I'm just under 150 pages.
  10.  (10288.53)
    Shitty Job Story

    I'm just barely 20, just moved into Austin. My baby mama was still pregnant with my daughter, and I had just gotten off a bus from Chicago. Baby mama and her mom were staying with her mom's cousin, and the cousin's son Jeff let me stay on his couch for $50 a month. Before I got a job, I could catch a bus to the plasma center and sell off liters of plasma twice a week for $20 a pop, and a little extra if you got tetanus shots added to it. They hook you up to a machine which drains your blood, sucks the plasma from it, and pumps the ice cold blood back into your body. Then they give you a cookie.

    Later on, I walked around the neighborhood and found a job at a Texaco. I made crap for pay, but I could pay my rent without feeling woozy all of the time.

    So we're broke, and the kid's born, and I'm useless. One night, I'm working at the store, and I'm cleaning up. Down next to the safe, I found a safe drop envelope. I kept cleaning, and bent down to sweep dust into the dustpan and slipped the envelope into my pocket. I went in the back to empty the dustpan and took the envelope into the bathroom. I counted the money. $2000. We were dirt broke with a baby girl. I counted it again. I called my girlfriend, but got no answer. I decided that was a sign, and quickly walked over to the safe and dropped the envelope inside, removing the source of temptation.

    Later, the boss called, and I mentioned finding the money. He just kind of shrugged it off, saying something to the effect of "Oh yeah, I was wondering where that went," and didn't even thank me. A month later, the manager offered to let me go home early and close my register for me. My register turned up short about $80 and I got fired.
  11.  (10288.54)
    I'm 18, still living at Dad's crackhouse. My babymama isn't my babymama yet, she's 17, and had just recently quit snorting speed. I basically nagged her til she quit (at least for the next few months).

    I'm at home, and she calls me and tells me she's on her way. I wait a half-hour, then an hour. Whenever she stopped snorting for any amount of time, her reaction time slows down and she forgets things. Makes her a bad driver. I started worrying.

    So I'm in the living room, watching TV, and just outside, I hear tires screech and then a loud BAM!!! Right outside the door. I just know it's her, it has to be her, shit why did I make her quit speed oh shit she's fucking dead, and then I'm flying out the door, barefoot, to see a minivan has plowed right through the side of a sedan. Ok, it isn't her, but now I'm standing at the driver's side, my feet in broken glass, and I can see the driver. His head kind of rolls back, and he looks at me and weakly says "help." I look inside the ruined sedan, and there's a lot of blood. Too much. I tell him I'll call 911 and that I'll be back.

    I run back to the house, call 911 and they already know about the accident. I slip on my boots and as I'm going out the front door again, another car drives up right onto the front lawn. I see two punk kids, older than me, two guys from the local rival faction of punks in town. We hate each other, and always get into fights whenever we see each other. One looks at me, and says "What happened?" and I tell him the driver's dying; I just called 911. They ask if they can do anything and I say I doubt it and there's like this weird moment where we just kinda nod at each other and they take off.

    I get back to the driver and now there's a crowd. A few minutes later an ambulance pulls up. I kind of fade farther back, and eventually I watch them take the driver out on a stretcher with a sheet over him. They put him in an ambulance and drive off. A couple wreckers show up and tow away the vehicles. An hour maybe after the wreck, and there's just broken glass and bits of metal on the street in front of my house. (in case you're wondering, I have no idea what happened to the other driver. They weren't in the van when I looked, I never saw them, and don't know what happened with them. *shrug*)

    I'm kind of shell-shocked, and I wait inside. The TV's on, but I'm not really watching it. The girl calls and says she's at the hospital. There's been some kind of small accident, and her friend is in the ER getting stitches. She's vague about details but says she'll come pick me up.

    A half hour goes by and I start walking towards the hospital. It's a bit of a walk, maybe 45 minutes later, I walk up to the hospital, and she's walking out with two friends. One of them has his hand bandaged. I know the kid, he's an idiot. I ask what happened. Apparently, she had borrowed a fighting knife from a friend. The idiot kid wanted to see it. She said no. He put his hand on the blade to grab it (I told you he was an idiot) and she pulled back and cut his hand open.

    I ask to see the knife. I take it from her. I start walking away. She's yelling at me. I set the knife on the curb, and I step on it, breaking the knife. I calmly tell her she doesn't get to have knives anymore (this is not the first stupid incident with her and knives). This became part of the reason for the NO SHARP THINGS Rule. I go home.
  12.  (10288.55)
    Haven't written anything in a little while. Wondering if there's a reason.

    Almost 6 months since the fiancee quit drinking, about almost 4 weeks since I proposed marriage.

    Am I slowing down? Maturing? Not getting into ridiculous incidents because I'm actually trying to live a somewhat respectable normal life? Somehow that seems a little depressing. Like I'm not as exciting as I used to be. Not as interesting.

    Now, this doesn't mean I want to go running outside setting things on fire, getting kicked out of clubs or bars and getting into fights in the streets with drunks and cops or anything...

    It just makes me look at the way things are and wonder what has changed. Is it me? Have I changed so much? Has my environment changed, or the friends around me? I think it's a mix of everything, and of just plain getting older.
    • CommentAuthoricelandbob
    • CommentTimeMar 25th 2012
     (10288.56)
    I have spent all afternoon reading these stories.

    Holy shit......
  13.  (10288.57)
    @govspy: Come on, man, who wants to be a shithead forever?

    I love your stories and how you seem to be a genuinely warm, normal and nice person in spite of everything that's happened, but some of those stories sound like people I know who either change, or end up dead or in jail. It shouldn't be a bad thing that you don't do the stuff you did when you were younger. I no longer drink two forties a night while eating fried chicken and playing NES like I did in college, but I can't say that that's not a very good thing.
  14.  (10288.58)
    ... thanks? No, seriously I get what you're saying.

    At the moment I'm half-remembering being at a warehouse/loft party, and later smuggling a bunch of beer into some bar to see some girl I half knew play punk rock DJ, and getting me and at least another girl kicked out, also somewhere that night involves practice kendo swords.
  15.  (10288.59)
    1998ish. Living in Dad's basement. Hanging out at THAT ONE PLACE, the local coffee shop. Saw some crappy punk band, and I get roped into letting them crash in my basement. I have a spare single bed, a couch, a futon, and some sleeping bags. There's me, my girlfriend, and four band members. They ask me if I can buy them booze, which is funny, because they're all older than me (but we're all underage), but I look older than any of them. So I say as long as they're willing to pay for whatever me and my girlfriend anything we want, I'll deal with the cashier.

    So they grab a bunch of Mickey's 40s, and I buy myself some hard cider malt liquor. Yeah, I know.

    So we get back to my place and THE DRINKING COMMENCES. A couple hours in, the oldest of the group, by his own description, a very hard drinker, finishes at least one 40, and wants to try one of my ciders. I'm always a good host, and I give him one. They guy is drunk, fast. After pretty much hitting on my girlfriend all night (which she thought was "cute", but ultimately harmless) all of a sudden he comes out of the closet and wants to suck his bandmates dicks. As he was supposed to be crashing on the futon with one of them, now none of the guys will sit anywhere near him. He ends up stumbling up the back stairs and puking in the yard, and eventually passing out on my futon. The other guys slept, huddled on the other side of the room (for mutual protection, I assume) in sleeping bags.

    The following morning was extremely funny for me as Mr. Drunky didn't remember much but his bandmates wouldn't look him in the eye or talk to him. Funny for me, really akward for them.
  16.  (10288.60)
    When I was little, around 6 or 7, my uncle got a golden retriever and named her Miami. Good dog, fairly smart, and he kept her at my grandparents' house. I remember hearing something about she was a purebred, but I'm not sure. Severl months later, I woke up, and walked into the kitchen. I looked up at my Mom and said that I had "a dream that Miama dug a hole under grandma and grandpa's house and had a bunch of puppies.

    The phone rang.

    My mom answered it and talked for a minute. Her jaw dropped and she looked very surprised. I asked her what happened.

    She said, "That was your Dad. He said that Miami dug a hole under grandma and grandpa's house and had a bunch of puppies!" When I got older, she explained, not only did my dad say what happened, but he had used the exact same words as I did, the exact same way. It was pretty much a given that one of those puppies was to be mine.

    So we go see the puppies. Miami was a pure golden color, that light yellow gold. Every single puppy in that litter was a fluffy black and white. Except for one. The smallest one, the runt. He was tan, with black ears and snout, somewhat german shephard markings. Mine. I named him Shep.

    I read a lot of books as I grew up with Shep, and I learned to raise him as if I were his pack alpha. Some tough love, but he responded very well to it.

    One day, a neighborhood kid was throwing rocks & firecrackers at Shep. He had run to the edge of his chain, at the end of the driveway, and was inches from this kid, who kept throwing stuff at the dog. He was just getting more and more furious. I was coming home from school, and could see this from down the street, but couldn't get there in time. The chain broke free of its base, and Shep mauled the kid. He got bit a few times, nothing life threatening, but I'm sure it hurt like Hell. We were threatened with having him put down, but eventually we just had to lock him up for 10 days. Kids tended to stay away from him for a while.

    In the middle of the night, one night, I woke up hearing barking. Same kid, with a group of other kids, running down the street carrying a pitbull in their arms. My parents had Shep by the chain, and were hosing him off under the driveway light. There was blood all over the side of the house, almost up to the second story. Shep was covered in blood. His tan/blonde hair looked a deep red. I heard them saying things like "Where's it coming from? Where is he hurt?" and they couldn't find where he was bit. I pointed at his ear, which was partially torn off, and just hung by little more than a thread. They found one bite on him, the pitbull only got his ear.

    We figured out the rest later. Pitbulls go for the throat. Shep had this giant almost lion's mane around his neck, that must have made it impossible for the pit to bite his neck. We found big tufts of hair missing from his mane. As Shep massacred this pitbull, it couldn't find anywhere to attack, and eventually out of desperation went for the ear. We later learned that pitbull didn't make it through the night. It's sad when owners use their animal for something like that, and then want to blame their animal's injuries on someone else. Shep was chained to the garage, and they sicked their loose pitbull on him. I feel bad for the animal, but not the owner. My problem was I was starting to worry about Shep being so violent.

    Problem was solved when we moved, and got Shep a big backyard. He could run around to his heart's content, without fear of other dogs or kids teasing him. It was great, except he was a barker, and a howler.

    One year, our favorite neighbor couple moves out, and this jackass moves in. He hates our dog. Yeah, he barks and howls a lot. But he stops people from breaking into the garages in the alley. More than once, neighbors and ourselves were alerted to people trying to rob our garages because of Shep's barking. But this other neighbor, he won't stop complaining.

    I come home from school one day, there's about a foot of snow on the ground. Normally Shep meets me at the gate, but I can see him running circles around the backyard, over by the pine tree. I can see blood. Fresh. I get closer, and there is a heart laying in the snow. Shep, famous for eating anything, and I mean anything, from his own fur to cat poop, won't touch this heart. He's running around it, and barking at it.

    I call the police, and they get rid of it but don't care if there's poison.

    A few weeks later, I find more meat in the yard, but this time I catch Shep eating it.

    Shortly after that, he has a stroke, and can't move. We have to put him down.