Pit Bull Pulpit

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, April 12, 1998; Page F01 

In recent weeks I have been dealing exclusively with other people's
domestic affairs. On a spiritual level it has been rewarding for me to try to
heal the nation, but the time has come to move on.

I've got domestic problems of my own, gang.

One of them involves a pit bull -- and I don't mean Kenneth Starr. 

Last week the D.C. government began removing pit bulls from public
housing. I want this policy extended to private housing, too. A few weeks
ago I was shocked to discover, in my two-Volvo neighborhood, a
one-pit-bull home.

My sweet but hopelessly incorrigible Brittany, Maggie -- there have been
reports in this space about her eating freshly used tissues, sponges and
$120 in cash -- was attacked by a pit bull. The dog, which was not on a
leash, spied her and immediately thought, "buffet!" It fastened on Maggie's
back, terrifying her so that she wriggled out of her collar and bolted
hysterically to save her life. The pit bull chased Maggie all the way back to
our house, chomping on her like a chew toy, causing six puncture wounds.

As we chased helplessly after the dogs, I asked the pit bull's owner, "What
the heck kind of dog do you have there?"

"A Jack Russell terrier," he said.

"If that's a Jack Russell," I said, "then I'm Jackie Onassis."

We ran and ran, calling out for the dogs.

"Maggie!" I yelled.

"Lovey!" he yelled.

Lovey?

Fortunately we were able to separate the dogs, and I called the police to
report what had happened. The pit bull was taken away for evaluation. (I
suggested the dog be forced to write an essay: "Why I Shouldn't Eat My
Neighbor.") A couple of weeks later I was informed that the pit bull would
be allowed back into the neighborhood because an animal psychiatrist had
examined it and decided it was not aggressive.

"Great news, Maggie," I said. "The dog shrink says Lovey isn't aggressive.
So I guess it was all a misunderstanding. Oh, I'm sorry, Maggie, I forgot
you can't hear well anymore since half your ear was bitten off. Let me say
it louder: LOVEY ISN'T AGGRESSIVE!"

I wish you could have seen Maggie. The veterinarian shaved much of her
hair, inserted four drainage tubes into her back and fitted her with one of
those Elizabethan collars. She looked like a topiary lampshade doing a van
Gogh impression.

I'm sure pit bulls have helped buy a lot of new homes for plastic surgeons,
but I was unaware of the booming animal psychiatry speciality. Where
exactly would a person go to school to become a dog psychiatrist, the
University of Labrador? (Excuse me, doctor, what was your major before
you switched to animal psychiatry -- in-terrier design?)

Anyway, I'm out $200 for vet expenses and nervous about the impending
return of Lovey. But that isn't my only domestic problem. My lawn is a
nightmare. It is wildly out of control. It knows no bounds. It is a disgrace.

If my lawn were president, it would be impeached by now. Okay, maybe
not. (But wouldn't it be fun to see the special prosecutor in a Lawn Doctor
uniform?)

My grass grows a foot a day. There was a front-page story the other day
saying one out of every eight plant species on Earth is now threatened with
extinction. Not in my yard. I'm incubating a rain forest. I'm growing
anacondas. I'm waiting for some kid to come by and trade me a cow for
magic beans and a shot at climbing my rose bush.

Because I'm getting so old, I decided to get someone to take care of my
lawn. (My kids? Hahaha. You must have my children confused with some
other boy and girl who actually help their parents with household chores,
as opposed to barricading themselves in the TV room and turning the
volume up so loud that the only way you can get their attention is by hurling
tear gas in there.) So I signed up a fellow who offered to clean my yard,
fertilize it and mow it.

It's a sizable yard, so I asked him, "You think you'll be able to do this all
by yourself? Might you need some help?"

He said, and I'm quoting him exactly: "Sometimes when I need help, I get
outpatients from mental hospitals to work with me. Would that be a
problem for you?"

I stood there mute. I could have been a mime.

"Don't worry," he said, "they're on medication, they're fine."

He must have realized I was having difficulty processing the information,
because he said, "I always ask my customers about this first. And if they
mind, I understand."

"Please don't think me callous," I said. "But the idea of a mental patient
running around my back yard with a chain saw might take some getting
used to. I mean, it's a wooden house."

"They're fine," he assured me.

In the few minutes we were talking my grass grew another six inches. It
was now brushing my knees. By the morning it would cover Gheorghe
Muresan.

"I'll try it," I said. "But nobody in a hockey mask, okay?"

A few days later he brought over a huge supply of fertilizer and mulch --
hundreds of bags, enough to cover Montana. And they sat there. After a
week I began to get nervous because I knew that commercial fertilizer is a
key component in homemade bombs. Add some heating oil, and for all
intents and purposes, I was just a beaker or two away from blowing up
Chevy Chase.

Pretty soon I'd have myself a tidy little terrorist compound, complete with a
perimeter of FBI sharpshooters trained on me. Which seemed okay to me
-- at least Maggie would be safe from the pit bulls. 
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