They didn’t bark first. They calculated. Two rescue Pit Bulls, usually clumsy cuddle-seekers, suddenly moved with terrifying precision. One blocked the doorway, shoulders squared, teeth bared in a silent warning. The other stood over me, chest pressed to my side, vibrating with a growl that said everything words never could.
The intruders’ bravado evaporated in an instant. Their eyes went wide, their steps faltered, and panic replaced power. One tripped over a box in his rush to escape, scrambling and cursing as all four fled the house they thought was defenseless. I never gave up my keys. I never even stood up until the door slammed behind them.
That night didn’t just change how I sleep; it changed how I speak about Pit Bulls. They are not the monsters in the headlines. In my home, they were the reason I lived to tell the story.
