Over the past week, Michael Vick has been condemned for his participation in sickening, cruel, and barbaric treatment of dogs. His establishment of “Bad Newz Kennels,” an apparent “dog-fighting” forum, need not be described here to turn the stomachs of our readers. Perhaps other, less civilized countries would tolerate torture in remote geographical regions, but here, in America, we would never commit such atrocities.
Or would we?
I decided to look more closely at America’s smelly underbelly. Using my consummate skills as an investigative reporter, I was determined to grab it…by the proverbial nards.
me (upper left); proverbial nards (lower right)
First, I set my sites on the elusive ring of bookies who had financed Vick from the very beginning. Most of them, I discovered, operated in–or around–Surrey County, Virginia, huddled around this quarterback tighter than Pacman Jones in a bar brawl.
On the surface, Surrey resembles the typical, quaint Tidewater town: rolling hills, church steeples, pawn shops. But as I strolled through its cobblestone streets, observing its colorful inhabitants, I noticed that they shared one common feature: none of them had dogs. Where were the canine denizens of this homely little hamlet?
Concluding that their owners had locked them up indoors, I decided to go under-cover to bust this secret network of dog-taunters wide open. I assumed a modest, inconspicuous disguise.
“Nigel,” inconspicuous bookie
Over the course of one weekend, I managed to coax some forty lonely widows into letting me inside (their homes, that is). Typically, old Southern widows disturb me; they clip coupons and smell like sour milk. But as Nigel (the Bookie), I enjoyed watching them wither under my charm. All bets were on.
At first, each of these widows denied any connection to Vick’s “Bad Newz Kennels”…but as I pried them with tea and scones, I discovered that these crones were, in fact, some hard-core gangsta-a** bit***s. It soon became crystal clear that they were at the outer limits of a dog-hazing ring.
I didn’t need to look any farther than their dogs, victims of their owners’ sadistic tricks and pranks…
Barney was deliberately taught to confuse “sit” with “speak.” He now suffers from Post-Traumatic Trick Syndrome. He also thinks that he is a Labrador retriever.
Brodie (left) and Bailey (right) have endured long hours as park mascots…with limited potty breaks. Bailey was unavailable for comment.
Oberon awakes daily to find a large pat of peanut butter spread across his nose.
Franklin can not get a date to save his life…but he might make a good bookie.
Heidi: man’s best friend by day, dog’s best friend by night
Hubert Peppard lives in New York City with his well-adapted cat, Norman. After a fatal mud-wrestling competition that he officiated (at a local nursing home), he was fired by Doubletake.
