Disclaimer: G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc. and IDW comics. I'm just one of a large family of fans who likes telling family stories – no profit needed, no profit earned.
Continuity: IDW G.I. Joe reboot, AKA the Dixonverse; Max Brooks' Hearts and Minds
Dogs are better people than people are. That's not idealist, it's not personifying, it's not anthropomorphizing. It's a fact.
Dogs are honest, and people aren't. Dogs play you straight. You know where you stand. With people... not so much. No matter how much you trust someone, no matter how much you like someone... there's still the chance that they'll lie to your face for the best of reasons, or withhold info for reasons only they know.
Not dogs.
I was born in Jersey, but when I was three and my parents split, my mom packed us up and headed back to Chicago to live with her folks. You want tough? You try being a white kid growing up on the streets of Chicago's south side. I was good with dogs even then, and that's what kept me alive and in one piece – and helped me put food on the table. Dogs.
Working them. Training them. And, yeah, fighting them. You grow up fast on the streets – but nothin' makes you grow up faster than watching the dog who sleeps on the foot of your bed at night get her throat torn open because you didn't teach her right.
Then watching your mama's boyfriend put a bullet in her head instead of taking her to a vet because she lost him five hundred bucks.
It's a mistake you don't let happen twice.
I taught my dogs well. Taught them when to press and when to fall back. When to hold and when to release. Taught them every dirty move I saw, hiding in the shadows while the older fighters worked their dogs. Taught them how to rip an intact male's balls clean off, how to maim a paw down to a single digit, how to lacerate ears and noses because it give you an edge in a fight that's going south.
And I hated every minute of it.
Hated watching those trusting eyes and wagging tails looking up at you, tongues and teeth stained red with the blood of someone's little curly white dog that the other guys tossed in as bait, waiting for that GOOD DOG praise that tells them they did right by you. Watching a floppy-eared pup's ears cut off with a Swiss Army knife so that they won't get in the way in a fight, won't let another dog use them as distraction. Tails, too, the same way. Watching the pup your new daddy said you could keep "just as a pet" tied out for bait, so his other dogs could get trained.
But the dogs were honest. The dogs were true. You asked them to fight, they fought. They fought and came out wagging and wiggling at you because they did just what the Boss said to do. They don't care if they fight or not. They just want to please you. Want to get that squeaky toy you only give them after a fight, want that good beef rib you've been saving, want the pets and scratches that tells them GOOD DOG, GOOD DOG, GOOD DOG.
The people are worse. The other fighters who dope their dogs so they don't feel the pain, so they keep fighting even when they should fall back. The guys who steal your best fighter and lacerate his paws, cut open his belly, and toss him in with three other fighters just to teach you a lesson – that you don't win too much. The people on the street who see you with an old, scarred vet of the pits, the one who's too tired to fight any more and lives to sleep in the sun and get his belly scratched, and sic the police on you because you walked past their house near the park instead of staying in your ghetto where you belong. The cops who have a seize-and-impound order for any dog who looks like it even might be a fighter – even if it isn't – and they take your kid sister's lab-mix puppy right out of her arms and you can't bail him out of the pound in time, so he gets the lethal injection.
I ran away from home when I was sixteen with my best pup – kissed my mom, hugged my sister and grandmother, then took off, because I didn't want to see one more dog I loved get beaten, shot, or fought to death. And because I didn't want to set my last dog on the sorry excuse that was my stepdad – and if I stayed, I know I would've done it.
I learned a lot, living on the streets.
Learned that a floppy-eared dog could be just as vicious as any cropped-and-docked fighter, but if he flops and wags, folks are more likely to smile and toss you some change.
Learned that if you teach that dog to make nice – sit up and beg, jump through a hoop, jump up and stand on your shoulders – that folks will figure you're a street performer, not a street kid, and start asking you to help train their little fluffy yappers.
Learned that there's good money in dogs, because most people who get themselves a dog are too dumb-butt-stupid to know how to take care of that dog properly.
Learned that you can train people the way you train dogs, and get paid for it.
Learned that you can't rely on people much, but your dog will always be there for you.
Always.
I am Mutt.
I am G.I. Joe.
Author's Note: This is far more violent than most fiction I write... but I wanted Mutt to be something other than the goofy dog handler who likes dogs better than people. There's nothing strange about that – heck, I like my dogs better than I like some people. But a dog handler for the military must have good people skills – this is a requirement for the job. An interesting side fact: military dogs have rank, and that rank is ALWAYS one step above their handler. Why? Because abusing or tormenting your superior officer is an offense that can get you court-martialed. Coolest thing I ever heard. If you're into MWDs – military working dogs – check out Dogs of War: the Courage, Love and Loyalty of Military Working Dogs by Lisa Rogak. Darned good read.