I decide I want a dog. I start paying attention to other people’s dogs, to their temperaments, to their habits, to their needs, their cost. I meet a pitbull named Grace 2000. Grace 2000 is short and heavily muscled, white with brown patches, she has deep brown sparkling eyes. She’s very excitable, runs in circles around my friend’s house, loves to play catch. Sometimes she bites the end of a spring attached to a thick branch of a tree and bounces from it. Sometimes she chases her tail. She never barks and she loves to give kisses. She’s a fifty pound ball of energy and love.
I decide that I want a dog like Grace. I buy a paper, look in the classifieds, see ad after ad after ad, pitbull pitbull pitbull. One of the ads says Sons of Cholo. I didn’t know what Cholo means or who Cholo is, but I like the sound of it, so I call the number and get an address. I start driving.
The address is in East Los Angeles, in a working-class Hispanic neighborhood. I park walk toward the house there are two men sitting on the front porch they’re drinking beer and smoking cigarettes their arms are covered with tattoos. I stop in front of them, they stare at me, I say hello they nod. I ask if they’re selling the dogs, they say no habla inglés. I don’t speak
Spanish so I hold up the paper, say Sons of Cholo, they smile, nod, one of them stands up and motions for me to follow him.
We walk around the house. In the backyard there is a small fenced area. Inside the fence is a small doghouse. The man whistles and a giant pit storms out of the doghouse and starts barking.
I’ve never seen a dog like him in my life. He’s short and gigantic, has layers and layers of rippling muscle, his coat is the color of milk chocolate and he has bright green eyes. His head is huge and thick, as if carved from a block of stone, and it’s covered with scars. He stands at the fence and snarles at me, his teeth are huge and a perfect white. I stare at him. He barks and snarls, looks like he wants to eat me, I am scared to death of him. The man taps me on the shoulder and points and smiles and says Cholo, undefeated campeón. He motions for me to follow him.
We walk to a garage. He lifts the door and puppies begin streaming out, adorable little chocolate puppies, small versions of Cholo, minus the scars, minus the snarling. They yip and tumble over each other, jump on my feet, bite at the bottom of my pants. The man points to the puppies and says Sons of Cholo.
I smile, sit down on the concrete. The puppies run into my lap, start jumping on my chest, licking my face. A hierarchy has been established among them and the larger puppies start muscling the smaller puppies away. The smallest of them falls off my lap and immediately starts climbing back. He gets pushed off again, starts climbing again. All he wants is to get close enough to lick my face.
I stand up, the puppies start nipping at my feet again, I look at the man and point to the smallest puppy. The man nods and holds up three fingers. The price had been listed in the advertisement, I brought cash with me. I take it out of my pocket and hand it to him he picks up the puppy and hands him to me. We shake hands he says gracias I say gracias.
I walk toward my car. The puppy starts whining. The further we get from the garage, the louder the whining. When I open the driver’s door, the puppy starts crying, looking toward the garage, where the other Sons of Cholo are still running around. I sit down in the driver’s seat. I brought some puppy toys and puppy treats with me, I hold the little fellow in my lap and try to get him interested in them, he just looks toward the garage and cries. I give up trying to make him stop and I start the car and I drive away.
He sits in my lap on the ride back to my house. He cries and he shakes. He pees on me, pees on the seat, pees on the floor. Son of Cholo is scared to death, and he pees all over me.