Bull Terrier

The scent of blood again. Fear grips me. They’ve brought me back to the dogfights. No one cares if I want this or not. Every time, it’s the same: will I survive, or is this my last fight, my last day alive? My nerves are fraying. It’s frustrating. No, it’s more than that—I’m angry. Angry that I’m a bull terrier, angry at people’s stereotypes, and at my owner who seems to take joy in my pain and fear. After every fight, I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to understand—how do I reach them? How do I show that I’m just a dog who craves affection? I envy the little dogs. Why couldn’t I be a pug or a toy breed? I want to be carried around, dressed in bright clothes. I love life. I’m a kind dog. I don’t want to fight anymore. Please, take me home. Let’s play with a ball instead.
But it’s too late. They’re leading me to the ring—it’s time. My legs go limp, my owner drags me forward, and adrenaline makes it hard to breathe. My ears are ringing. Reality fades. No, I’m not going to fight today. I’ll close my eyes. Whatever happens, happens.
A vicious dog stands across from me. I can’t even tell its breed. Seconds tick by until the clash. That’s it. I close my eyes. The crowd’s roar fades into a whisper. I don’t want to die. Can you hear me, human? I don’t want to die.