I don’t really remember my mom; I was ripped away from her when I was young. My most vivid memory of her was when they were taking me away from her. Her desperate attempts to fend them away from her babies. I will never forget her yelps as they kicked her to keep her down. I never saw her or my siblings after that day. I never got the comfort of her tongue against my fur, or her nose nuzzled up against me when I was upset. Sometimes I dream of her, and it feels real. I can feel her warm presence against mine, and then I wake up. I wake up in my cage, no pillow or blanket.
I hate my cage; it is my prison. I lick the bars; the metallic taste stains my tongue. I feel the cold grids of metal against my bottom, providing no comfort or solace. Despite the cold that is my cage, it is my only comfort. My only time alone, when hands are not prying at me. When I am not pushed into the ring, forced to kill another dog.
I remember when I was put in my first fight. I was still a puppy. My opponent was an older dog. A retired champion. She had scars all over her body and was missing an eye. All her scars were medallions of all the fights she won. She didn’t hesitate to lunge at me. I cowered against the corner when she came after me. I could hear the screams and cheers of the crowd. My owner was screaming at me, calling me a ‘useless mutt’. I didn’t want to die; I wanted to see my mom again. I retaliated, bearing my teeth. I tore at her neck, gripping on and pulling. I took a chunk out of her neck, the first time I tasted blood. I instantly spat her flesh on the ground after I did, and I watched as she went stumbling back, crashing on the ground. She bled out there; no one bothered to try to help her. I wondered if she was like me, hoping to see her mom once again, or if those dreams were crushed and she had no hope left. I wonder if she was a mom, if she nurtured puppies. I wonder if she had puppies at home, and how those puppies felt when their mom didn’t return.
My owner gave me a cheeseburger when I won. That’s my celebration; every time I win, we go to McDonald's, and I get a cheeseburger. The workers fuss at me, calling me handsome, and say I am such a good boy. If only they knew how bad I was, how much of a killer I was. But I eat my cheeseburger with joy; I’ve started to look forward to it. Every time the taste hits my mouth, it gets rid of all the pain I felt. My mouth no longer tastes like blood. Whenever my owner takes me to the arena, I try not to think about my opponent; I try to picture them as a cheeseburger. It makes it easier if you don’t view them as another dog; if you view them as an object.
When I was younger, I used to feel a lot of guilt. I used to feel horrible after I fought and won. I would have nightmares at night of the dead dog lying on the ground, of their ghost coming to get me. Now, I don’t care so much. You get used to it. I don’t like it, but I don’t dread it how I used to. I’d prefer not to do it; I don’t like the fear of dying, but after a while it becomes routine.
Yesterday I was at the arena again. Instead of fighting another dog, they just put a small dog out as bait. People just like to watch me kill another being. It was a small dog, a little white one; it didn’t look like it belonged here. It looked like it belonged with a happy family. I wonder where they got it from. It went up to me, wagging its tail, sniffing at me, all excited to meet me. It wasn’t the smartest, obviously. Some dogs just lack any common sense. I opened my mouth big and wide, putting its whole head in my mouth, and closed it. I ripped its head off. That got the crowd really excited. Sometimes the crowd just wants to watch a big dog like me brutalize something weaker.
The more violent I am, the happier the crowd is, the happier my owner is. I am a big dog; I am muscular, and I think I weigh a lot. Most of my opponents don’t stand a chance against me, which makes it easy for me to be as violent as possible. The crueler I am, the more affection my owner shows towards me. When I first started fighting, I was really scared. My owner would scream at me from the side of the ring. I still got my cheeseburger, but my owner didn’t seem as happy to give it to me. A pity reward. I still feel a bit of fear when I step into the ring, but it’s not as consuming as it was before. Instead of me defending myself, I am the first dog to bite. I am the first dog to attack.
Sometimes my opponents are young, as young as me when I first started, sometimes even younger. Just like I was, they are scared. I wish I could show them pity; I wish I could tell them it’d be alright. When I come up to them, their eyes are begging me to let them live. I can’t. Sometimes they don’t even fight back; they just accept it. Other times, they try their best, but they are no match for a dog like me. My owner said he had no idea that he would get so lucky. I was the runt; I think I was bought as bait. I grew up to be a beast.
I wonder if my mom would still love me, if she knew her baby boy turned out to be a killer. I wonder if she’d still lick me like she used to. I wonder if she’d let me cuddle up with her, or if she’d turn me away, if she could smell the death on my breath.
I have this one toy; it's my only toy. I don’t really play with it, but I like to pretend it’s my friend. It’s a green ball. I curl up with it at night. I just want something to lie with me at night. I want something to keep me safe; my ball is too small to keep me safe. My cage is in my owner’s bedroom, and I stare at his bed a lot. I wish I could climb up with him and cuddle with him at night. I want him to keep me safe at night, so the monsters don’t get me.
As badly as I want him to keep me safe, I know he won’t. Every time he puts me in that ring, he is betting on my life. He is putting me in jeopardy. I still have hope, though. I hope that one day, he will let me sleep in his bed. I hope that one day, he’ll change his mind, and I won’t have to fight anymore.
Sometimes when we are driving to the arena, I stare out the window. I see other dogs with their owners walking. I’ve never been on a walk; it looks fun. I wonder if their owners make them fight too, and if instead of a cheeseburger, a walk is their reward. But those dogs have no scars. I don’t think they fight. I wonder what their purpose is? Is their purpose just to be a dog? We share some things in common; we both are there to make our owners happy, but in completely different ways. I wonder if I can be like them someday or if I am too violent.
On the car ride to the arena, my owner always gives me a pep talk. He always says the same thing: ‘Fuzzy, don’t let me down’. I never let him down. I always make him proud; well, now I do.
Fuzzy seems like a dumb name for a dog like me. I don’t look like a fuzzy. I look like my name should be something terrifying. But my tag reads ‘FUZZY’ in bright bold lettering. My owner says the name makes me memorable. A big, savage dog like me, named something so silly. It gives me a reputation. It makes me deceiving. My owner tells me that when people hear the name ‘Fuzzy,’ they expect some submissive, weak dog. But when I enter the ring, they are shocked.
People try to buy me off my owner, or try to get my owner to breed me. My owner tried to breed me once; it didn’t go well. Whenever I get close to another dog, the instinct to kill takes over. I attacked the dog he tried to breed me with. My owner wasn’t happy and said I cost him a lot of money. But this is what he wanted me to do. So I don’t get why he was so mad. I was and still am extremely puzzled about why he was so mad. He wanted me to fight, and that’s exactly what I did. I think if anything, it just showed how devoted I am to him.
Despite everything, my owner is still my best friend. I can’t imagine life without him. Every time he puts me in my cage and leaves, I am worried he will never come back. I get into my head that when he leaves, my mind takes me to dark places. He always comes back, though, and I am overjoyed. He lets me out of my cage, and I jump on him. I try to lick him, but he pushes me away and says it’s gross.
My owner isn’t abusive towards me. I mean, he screams at me sometimes, but he doesn’t hit me. I think he knows if he hit me, I’d kill him. I think he’s slightly afraid of me. A lot of my opponents' owners are really mean to them, and I think me killing them is merciful.
Some of my opponents want to die; I can see it in their eyes. You’d think by now I’d given up as they did. But I haven’t. I think that one day I will see my mom again. I think one day I won’t have to fight anymore, and I get to be like those dogs I see out the window. I think I have to earn it, though. I am confused about how I get there. I hope that if I keep doing what my owner says, if I keep killing, he will decide that I have proved myself to him. A part of me worries that I can never be a normal dog. But I know deep down inside I am a normal dog. I am a good boy. I know I still have it in me; I am just waiting for the day when I can revert to being a baby. I am waiting for the day I can cuddle with my mom again. I am waiting for the day my owner lets me sleep in the bed with him.
Until then.
A/N: Dogs give me a lot of inspiration. I think what happened with Batman and being attacked by the Corso really impacted me lol. All my articles are named after songs! This one is named after a Nicole Dollganger song. I hope you like this story!
so now im actually crying
🥹💜