Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Gene Gregorits: Dog Days Volume 1, Chapter 5

warning: you may find the content offensive

the book is simply and lovingly dedicated to his cat, Hank.

Pole Cat + Pit Kill

I was with Pablo, ex-Special Ops, USMC, at Kitty’s on Greenmount Avenue. Kitty’s was like a hug and a kiss from your mother, if your mother is the state penitentiary. Kitty’s was the snakepit: blood stains. Kitty’s was the shithole: Packaged goods. Kitty’s was cops and ex-convicts all in a row, murmuring in the afternoon about Central Booking, or guns, or knives, or new drug enforcement policies, or dead people. Kitty’s was the same cops and cons at night, screaming about card games, or dope hustles, or women.

At 6’8” and 260 pounds, Pablo surely felt cramped in there. Kitty’s, on an average evening, could appear almost impenetrable. It was a bar which required strange variations on the typical hairpin turn or tiptoe slide, between a regular patron and the take out cooler, with new patrons arriving and blocking the checkout counter as you’re navigating your way though the crowd of poor blacks and the occasional weirdo white, always a cop. Pablo drank Budweiser and barked didactic Marine corps rebop, at tiresome lengths that would temporarily dissolve any personal fondness because he was in those moments a boorish blowhard drunk, a large one you didn’t dare interrupt or contradict and certainly never hush. In Pablo’s conversational death grip, one understood that this man did not concern himself with your comfort or lack thereof. One suspected that the more visible to him your twitches and squirms, the greater his determination to impress and to educate. I’d never understand the Marine corps experience. His passion was as close as I’d ever come, and I wanted to be close, but as he shifted his weight from one leg to another, clarifying one acronym or slang term after another, and all those Marine thug platitudes, my predominant ills drifted from me, along with my vagrant “freedom”, in all its fictitiousness. I’d lost my own war; Pablo shared his by force.

Pablo: “why you be killin the man’s dog? What the fuck he do to you? That’s some evil shit, brother.”

“I told you. This little scar-faced hippie cunt, it was her dog did the actual killing. There’s three dogs, altogether. The man, he’s the other neighbor, alright? His dogs tore around the place unchained for months before this happened. His girlfriend, she’s a lawyer, this lawyer bitch cunt came to the aid of the hippie cunt in court, after she’d made claims that my animal was rabid, which meant I had to provide a tissue sample, which meant I had to go back out to this fucking field where I didn’t want to leave him in the first place and I had to dig him up with a fucking pick axe- wait, man…it’s a long story. But I can’t have any fucking dignity in this fucking life until those fucking dogs are fucking dead do ya get that?”

“I’m with ya; it’s about respect, alright? I feel that. So, it’s two dogs.”

“There’s three of them, altogether. I wouldn’t kill dogs or anything else if I didn’t have to-”

“Yeah, I know you ain’t like that. But still…you be seein’ me out front there in the morning with that old hound? That my Froggy, and we go back a way. Up on ten years, must be. And I don’t see the love lost over no nasty cat, how you be sayin, but you say he important to you, and I can get with that. And you gettin punked here, look like, so… I’ll tell ya….best way…you gotta kill a dog…best way be anti-freeze…that show up in the blood as Parvo.”

“What’s Parvo?”

“Dog disease. Some kinda worm cause it. Parvo.”

“Well, I ain’t too worried about covering my tracks. They’re ignorant, these fuckers, but they ain’t stupid. I just want the shit to work.”

“Anti-freeze, Gene. Put it in…put it in some…beef chuck, burger meat, whatever. S’all it is. Real simple.

Okay? Show up in the blood as Parvo.”

“Anti-freeze. That’s cheap.”

“Yeah, ‘sright. At’sm nasty cold shit. Fuckin snake’s what you bein. Don’t come cryin when you kill them dogs and you feelin shameful. And man’s gotta come back on ya, you kill his dog. ”

I left Pablo there at the bar, and made my way across Greenmount to buy a case of Miller High Life, and a jug of anti-freeze.

Back at home, I found a crudely scrawled note: “GENE, YOU ARE OUT JAN 1. NO DISCUSION (sic).” I took my beer downstairs, and the anti-freeze, sat down on the bed with Sam and thought about the dogs. I thought about Harrisburg and the moving arrangements. My brother, the rugby champion, had secured an apartment for me. My father was footing the first, last, and security deposit. My favorite bartender was offering to drive the truck for me. And then there was Izabela. As all of normal society encroached then upon Christmas, in those final days of 2008, I continued hung and hooked like wet laundry, in my effortless drift toward Izabela, or rather hanging there in my slothful gazing out at this drift as it occurred, morbidly diverted, half-narcotized, trapped in this gaze which was perhaps not so unbreakable or even effortless, but with some premeditation, a passively cruel inaction on my part, opportunistic, at the very worst predatory.

But as I say, I was not, could not be, entirely certain of my motives or of the nature of my decision making, or of my own heart, as Izabela enjoyed doing all of the work: showing me around in the bars, buying and preparing meals, openly demanding to be wantonly sodomized. I left welts and bruises upon her chubby frame from neck to ankle, unable to consider it rape. Anything short of striking Izabela directly with a closed fist seemed to excite her sexually. She reveled in the public flaunting of our cartoonish affair; I would find myself in her car pondering it all, and as winter light sparkled through her semi-afro (a frazzled and befouled garden of auburn Eastern European hair, like so much chaparral), so too would shine inside me the notion of the two of us, as a legitimate and respectable young couple (if necessarily outside of Baltimore, where her jealous ex-suitors and my illegitimate offspring were omnipresent). I would insist upon the inherent superficial benefits of constant physical attention from a frisky young girl provided that I could assume of myself a certain responsible distance, and never come to seek or desire the worshipful kind of love (for me, the only love acceptable as “pure”) which she could not genuinely inspire nor I (as my recent past so gruesomely demonstrated) sustain. If so enabled and so inclined, with a compromised love by no means beautiful, but not unpleasant, maybe I could return to the business of writing, and of existing in the world as a complete being, moving about with purpose and awareness, making a last-ditch bid on health and on humanity.

Izabela busied herself with school, where she attended “poetry workshops” and took a psychology class. For some time, she’d been employed as a social worker, assisting autistic, retarded, or otherwise disadvantaged persons with the carrying out of their daily chores. She would call me on her cellphone during these excursions, from a shopping center, or grocery store. Her “individual” (this was the only acceptable term for them) would sometimes be audible in the background, gibbering excitedly: a disruptive shriek of some unknowable ecstasy would explode from the lungs of the subnormal man, thus interrupting Izabela’s own mundane sing-song narrative or strenuously affectionate interrogation of my own day’s events (which I would always fabricate, very much in vain).

Her individual’s helpless unleashing of mucous-rich flailing and lashing about in retail stores did not embarrass Izabela in the slightest. Quite the contrary, she would become euphoric, barely able to contain her joy at the man’s involuntary self-immolation. Her voice on the phone was an unwaveringly petulant and self-conscious expression of a supreme self-fulfillment; which was in fact a lie, generated and driven by an inestimable and all-too-palpable viciousness, which a discerning and reasonably cognizant lover could experience only as something potentially Satanic. Izabela’s voice had a quality of insidious insincerity, and when she called me during an errand with an individual (each of whom she’d bestowed with an overtly disparaging moniker: “farter”, “diaper freak”, “boon boy”, and so on), the juxtaposition of her unnaturally exuberant social performance with the individual’s primal high notes would stir in me a vague fascination, as a writer (for material), as a student of human folly (for cheap thrills), or as a helpless victim (for signposts, as would be given over the phone to a potential rescuer).

“HI bay-beeeeeeeee! Oh my god, Farter just cleared out the checkout line at Safeway! You should see the looks I’m getting because of this fucking retard! Oh my god, Gene, it’s horrible! Oh bay-beeeeeeeee, I’m getting all of my Christmas shopping done today with Farter! Please, I want you to come with me tomorrow for Christmas Eve!”

“With your family? Oh, I don’t know, Bela.”

“Oh pleeeeeeese, baby! They’ll LOVE YOU! No, you have to wait until I’m off the phone! Remember what we just talked about at Burger King? Farter is fucking with my iPod, and he’s got snot on his fingers.
Oh BAY-BEEEEEE! I’m coming over after work! I want you to fuck me in my tight little asshole, fuck it really rough and make me come like that!”

“Can’t you get in trouble for talking like that in front of Fart-, I mean, your individual?”

“Anthony, do you want Gene to fuck my asshole?”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” said Anthony.

“See?,” said Izabela.

I didn’t see at all, but I shuddered and sighed affectionately. I said goodbye and hung up. I began to dismantle what was left of my basement room setup and carry the file cabinets full of my writing, published and unpublished both, all of it, up the withered pine staircase and out of the crude stone and cinderblock cellar. Sam escaped deftly between my feet as I grappled with a five foot, 200 pound metal behemoth fit only for a scrap yard somewhere. By the time I noticed the massive bobcat in a blur of his ultra-fine, long yellow hair, he’d zeroed in on Alyosha, my spun-out housemate’s male tabby. The beast had been slightly neglected by everyone, I believed, and he was as a result markedly withdrawn and timid in nature, so it must have been a peak negative experience for the diminutive fellow when Sam took him like a snow plow at top speed, and set upon him with such terrific violence that my heart skipped a beat, realizing then that each of Sam’s paws were the size of Alyosha’s head, and that Sam’s arms were throttling the small cat’s torso. He was raising the entirety of Alyosha’s small frame up and into the front door with a hateful and sickening point-of-impact “WHUMP”, and I heard the air explode from his Alyosha’s lungs. By this time, Sam’s claws and teeth were deeply entrenched in cat-hide, and the majesty of him, all three feet of top predator demon-fire (with another foot of epically plumed tail) worked away, his eyes having flushed in an instant from sick-piss yellow to a hard obsidian, barely seeing at all. Gore spattered, and surrounded by enough loose fur to stuff a parka, and maybe a few teddy bears, Sam retreated from the spent and bloodied tabby only with a hard kick from one of my size 13 motorcycle boots.

“YOU. Little. Mother. FUCKER!”

Before the scene was finally over, I too would be lacerated from fingertip to wrist, and I would have him beside me on my mattress there in that dank cellar, our heads together, staring each other down, me fairly awestruck by the prolonged street cruelty and violence which had molded Sam, his fear and his hate. It was dawning on me, piecemeal style, that I would have to learn to be patient with Sam, and that I must do everything in my power to love this great and terrible specimen whom I pitied with great sadness and the knowledge of multiple sicknesses that were bigger than the sum of me and all I knew.

author and cat

there's only one way to find out what happened to those pit bulls.
buy the book @ Monastrell Books.


Anonymous said...

Okay. That was offensive, on so many levels. You know, I come to this site because I am genuinely concerned about pit bull dogs and the carnage they cause and wish they would become extinct, but if this is the direction in which we are heading, I think I'll stick to and a few others that don't feel the need to stoop so low. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I still believe that the good guys should actually be GOOD guys.....the disgusting sexual references and the antifreeze references are too much for me. (Has anyone ever considered that placing antifreeze laced food in a dog's yard, aside from being illegal and immoral, can backfire? Suppose a resident or visiting child gets some instead? This is NOT an idea that needs to be published on the internet so as to give some sick person an idea that he or she may or may not have had in the first place.) Needless to say, I won't be buying the book.

Anonymous said...


Anonymous said...

This "author" is soliciting donations for a book about pit bulls. Think twice before donating.

Anonymous said...

Buying this book or donating to this guy's pit bull book project is the equivalent to giving money to drunken panhandlers. Thanks but no thanks.

Anonymous said...

i too , dont believe that anti freeze is a defensible solution , although the threat of such might make some people think twice about what they say and do. i know people with their own pets who have counseled the green solution for killer dogs or animals they just dont like and that seems really stupid and near-sighted to me . however , people who dont care about other peoples pets being killed perhaps need to know that what goes around can easily come around .

scurrilous amateur blogger said...

i adore christopher hitchens. here's my favorite youtube video of Hitch. you should watch it now. i will be back later to comment further.

scurrilous amateur blogger said...

"The unwillingness to give a hearing to contradictory viewpoints, or to imagine that one might not learn anything from an ideological or cultural opponent, represents a departure from the best side of American popular and elite cultural traditions." Susan Jacoby, The Age of American Unreason

anon 12:44, you have not been physically or emotionally damaged by reading the above chapter. in fact, it could be easily argued that you learned something. you learned that you would not want to buy a book that you might otherwise have purchased.

i have blogged many things over the years that people find offensive but i have been extremely vocal in my opposition to poisoning pit bulls. i do not endorse that behavior anymore than i endorse THIS behavior. yet, there it is. blogged under my name.

it's time to be an adult about the first amendment.

Meals on Wheels said...

Viva la freedom of speech, and thanks for sharing. Fiction can be as ugly as real life, so it seems.

I'm thinking of the effort to save that killer dog, Onion. Ugly.

I'm thinking of some of the videos I've watched here....real horrible attacks on innocent animals. Ugly.

Recalling the incidents of my own pets being mauled by an ugly dog. Real and ugly.

How it must of been for those school children to watch the police shoot weapons grade dogs that were guarding a drug stash. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

The only thing I have to say is, I sure think the author's cat is purty.

Anonymous said...

liberal use of the c -word is something a dingbat-hater , like me , has to like .

Anonymous said...

Anon at 12:44 pm here checking back to see how others have viewed the last blog,
and I can see that I am not the only one who had a problem with it. I didn't think
I would be.
This has nothing to do with the 1st amendment. No one said a word about censorship.
You have the right, and that author whose book you are promoting have the right to
print what you both have printed. No argument there. And no one is saying that being
exposed to a differing point of view is a bad thing, although I have been taught from early
childhood that if I find something nasty in the gutter, I am to leave it in the gutter and
not bring it home. Yes, my father used to say that, and he was not talking about
physical nasties.
It just happens to be my beliefs that if you lie down with dogs you will get up with fleas,
the enemy of my enemy is NOT necessarily my friend, and that along with rights, come
And, that is why I posted what I posted, which is, I will not buy the book and I no longer
believe that Craven Desires is the blog to follow in the fight to keep our neighborhoods
safe from fighting dogs. As previously stated, is the way to go. We have to
be careful when we fight monsters. We have to make sure we do not become like the
monster we are fighting. That is a real possibility and a real human frailty, very easy to fall into but very difficult to recognize. Bye Bye. It's too bad, really, because I did enjoy your site and tried to stick with it despite its recent downhill track.

scurrilous amateur blogger said...

"And no one is saying that being
exposed to a differing point of view is a bad thing"

you can lead a horse to water but you can't make them drink. you still don't get it. my point was, you learned something from reading that chapter. you KNOW that you would not like that book AND you would be upset if you shelled out money for it. instead of "thanks craven, i might have bought that book", you scold me. well that's a fine howdy do.

"And, that is why I posted what I posted, which is, I will not buy the book and I no longer
believe that Craven Desires is the blog to follow in the fight to keep our neighborhoods
safe from fighting dogs"

THAT'S a problem right there. apparently you've been in the wrong place all along. craven desires has never been about "keeping neighborhoods safe". that definitely falls under the domain of makes me wonder what you have been doing here and what exactly you've been getting from it. craven desires is primarily about exposing lies and liars and i guess that includes you, whoever you are. these words "...if you lie down with dogs you will get up with fleas" tell me that you do in fact feel injured from being exposed to offensive material or that you would become injured by continuing to read craven desires. how sad. but i suspect you will be back, of course, i will never know, seeing as how you are anonymous and contrary to popular nutter belief, i do not track IP addresses.

i'll end this with Jacoby's paragraph in it's entirety and i will say no more on the subject:

"The unwillingness to give a hearing to contradictory viewpoints, or to imagine that one might not learn anything from an ideological or cultural opponent, represents a departure from the best side of American popular and elite cultural traditions. Throughout the last quarter of the nineteenth century, millions of Americans - many of them devoutly religious - packed lecture halls around the country to hear Robert Green Ingersoll, known as the Great Agnostic, excoriate conventional religion and any involvement between church and state. When Thomas Henry Huxley, the British naturalist and preeminent popularizer of Darwin's theory of evolution, made his first trip to the Untied States in 1876, he spoke to standing room only crowds even though many members of his audiences were genuinely shocked by his views on the descent of man. Americans n the 1800's, regardless of their level of formal education, wanted to make up their own minds about what men like Ingersoll and Huxley had to say. That kind of curiosity, which demands first hand evidence of whether the devil really has horns, is essential to the intellectual and political health of society. In today's America, intellectuals and nonintellectuals alike, whether on the left or the right, tend to tune out any voice that is not an echo. This obduracy is both a manifestation of laziness and the essence of anti-intellectualism. " Susan Jacoby, The Age of American Unreason


orangedog said...

I'm pretty sure this blog was posted as a public service announcement.

Jake said...

@Dawn -

"it's time to be an adult about the first amendment"

Outstanding! So few seem to realize what that really means.

tropical storms said...

You have to wonder about anyone who wants to read any more of this drivel.

Jake said...

Well, it's not my thing, I think I'm more of a Murakami fan, but I wouldn't judge someone if they found this interesting. I'll just assume it's an acquired taste.

Alexandra said...

At first reading, I found it pretty revolting. Looking through it again, I have to say Gregorits does a pretty good job of describing the kind of people who are into pit bulls. The ones who are into saying it was never the pit bull's fault it killed your child or pet. The ones who'd make you exhume the body to prove the victim wasn't rabid, didn't started the 'fight', didn't simply *deserve* to be tortured to death by poor pittie-poo.

Love the portrayal of the social worker who insists on the politically correct language, but in reality lacks all thought or compassion. Love the way he shows her talking out of the other side of her mouth in private ('farter', 'diaper freak', 'boon boy') -- same as the pitbull politically correct do in private about how their therapy nanny dogs just love to fight and kill. I can just see this little social worker amusing herself when Gregorits can't (or won't) come by in the evenings by making erotic photos of herself with her neighbor's pit bull to proudly post on Facebook.

It looks like the author is pretty revolting too, but he openly admits that. He admits to being passive-aggressive, alcoholic, opportunistic, and predatory, as cynical about himself as he is about everyone else. This is probably another way of laughing in everyone's face -- telling people he's a user even as he uses them...and gets them to contribute to yet another book.

If he doesn't write the pit bull book, he'll be able to tell all contributors 'well, I warned you about who I am'. If he does write it, it just might be the thing that gets the general public to see what the pit bull crowd really is and really is all about.

And I mean all of that crowd, from the whoring scientists to the whoring dog gurus, from the lawyers and social workers to the gang bangers and Van Karnage types (who Izabel does remind me of).

I'm realizing that the revulsion I felt reading this excerpt is EXACTLY the same revulsion I feel every time I run into a pit nutter. Whether that be in text somewhere or out on the street, and whether it be one of those holier-than-thou middle class middle-aged people, the typical Porn Star dressing tatooed bimbo with her shaved-head slightly too fat boyfriend, or the chique-suited CEO of the local SPCA. Gregorits has captured it wonderfully well. Maybe that's one reason this text left so many people feeling so sick to their stomachs (including me).

I hope he write the pit bull book, that it's not just a scam to get donors.

Craven, thanks for the Hitchens reminder. Love that guy!

Anonymous said...

Revolting drivel. That works for me.

Here is Hitchens' entire speech.

DubV said...

I might try again, but I couldn't take the style in order to find the controversial content.

DubV said...

"I was with Pablo, ex-Special Ops, USMC, at Kitty’s on Greenmount Avenue."


"Pablo: “why you be killin the man’s dog? What the fuck he do to you? That’s some evil shit, brother.”"

Operatives in the US military are a select group. I don't think one would speak in the voice given here. You don't see many Navy SEALS talkin' jive.

Finnea said...

Thanks for the great video link, Dawn.

Sputnik2009, very well put.

Miss Margo said...

Sputnik's review is very good, but I think he is giving the author too much credit.

I was very underwhelmed by the quality of the writing. The content is gross, but that is really beside the point.

It's unpublished, so maybe an editor will whip it into shape?

scurrilous amateur blogger said...

thank you tropical storms for the suggestion to put up a warning.

Anonymous said...

Gene Gregorits is the greatest, truest writer you never heard of, unless you read the news right after he cut off his earlobe and ate it. Twice. How that hurricane of a man ever managed to sit still long enough to complete eight books, including the three-volume “disintegration comedy” Dog Days, is beyond my comprehension. I asked his haters, lovers, and family to describe him. Two themes stood out: an awed intimacy with the writing, and an acknowledgment of the wisdom in keeping a safe distance from the writer.

Gene's mom: Gene is eccentric. Intelligent. Uh... I'm trying to not let my negative thoughts out. He has a very good heart. He's just... volatile. Determined. Well-spoken. Extremely handsome, in spite of his best efforts not to be. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful from the day he was born. But full of anger.

Gene's dad: [Hangs up on me.]

John Kolchak: Gene is a pathologically narcissistic bloke with an ego from outer space who takes an unusual approach to self promotion: self-pity, extortion, and self-mutilation to sell books. Seems affable enough though.

Dennis C. Lee: Man-child, baby-man. Lost and found. He's a crazed shaman in search of a tribe that's no longer there. Never met him but I like him. Reminds me of many a fallen comrade.

Cliff Dellinger: A plane going down in flames while furiously writing and throwing.

Melissa Mescalero: The allegory of being a fiend, themes about possession, being seized. Gene's writing reminds me of the things I think about in my head that I have to process and rework so that they're acceptable enough in social settings when I tell stories. Also, I really like his word choice. Other people describe a "rip off" vibe of Bukowski/GG Allin/whatever, but when I’m reading Gene, I actually hear my own voice in it.

Maggie Wagner: Highly functioning lunatic.

Mr. Yuk: Don't trust him with your daughter. But the fucker can write!

Cynthia Santiglia: His writing meant enough for me to send him all my money, bring him home with me, feed him, clothe him, coddle him, suck him, fuck him, not to mention all manners of putting up with him. He is fond of me but he sees me as a sort of desperate older woman, and he thinks I'm taking care of him because I am in love with him, but I am not. I do care for him deeply, but it's really all about the writing. Dog Days spoke to me in a way nothing else has, ever. It was life changing for me, cliched as that may sound, and cathartic, literally an EVENT in my life, reading that little book. The connection. My hunger for his words, words that could easily be mine, had I the talent. I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. He lies constantly but I know it isn't only to protect the short term gravy train I provide, but also to protect my feelings. He makes me laugh every single day. We have fun together. Yup, that we do. That I don't think he would ever dispute. Everyone, including Gene, thinks he’s using me. I am the only one who knows he’s not.

Anonymous: Lydia [Lunch] emailed me last night, she said it's time for Gregorits to rid his worthless self from this planet. I've known her through many boyfriends and he was the worst. He makes fun of me in print. Gene's an asshole whose only claim to fame was the fact that Lydia likes young boys and he was one. Out of all the talent in the world why you are writing about him is beyond me.

Christine Boguslaski: He's not dead yet?


Gene Gregorits: We’re not doing it now, are we? I’m completely hungover, can I run out and get some beer first? Take me ten minutes.

tropical storms said...

Thanks Craven! I know that I don't want to purchase this book (of which I was happily unaware) at any price. It's poorly written, self serving and rather pointless (in addition to revolting on too many levels to list) and antithetical to my world view. He does have a cat and I can appreciate that bit of information. That being said I salute your posting it to your blog, you've said people money and time, not to mention visual imagery they might prefer to pass up.

Anonymous said...

This pretty much says it all.

Gene Gregorits · Top Commenter · Works at Monastrell Publishing

I am trying out "crowd funding" for my new novel, an epic crime/dope/beach memoir called INTRA-COASTAL.
Reply · Like · Follow Post · July 31 at 1:20pm

Dignitas said...

While I do like craven's blog, I do feel that this is sort of pushing the limits. We fight the monsters, and we shouldn't become them, nor should we encourage them. I will not be buying this book and I will warn others against it.

As Friedrich Nietzsche said (one of my favorite quotes), "He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

We're fighting monsters here and I hope we don't stoop to this guy's level.

Anonymous said...

Anon 12:52, those Vice quotes were hilarious.

The guy might be very crude and a bit nuts, but he's clearly intelligent as well. Don't think I could read an entire book written in his style, though..... my head hurts just from reading this excerpt, lol

Unknown said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Unknown said...

Dear BSL movement / anti-pit lobby, etc:

I have decided not to continue work on Rampage. There is another book that is eating up my time, a light comedy about gun running and heroin addiction in Florida. I have a rule about working on two books simultaneously, but I was willing to break that rule for Rampage. Talking with so many of you on a daily basis, and hearing your stories which were so like mine, it was impossible for me to NOT consider lending my abilities (which are exceptional, by the way; I find most refutation of this fact to be transparent and limp) when I began hearing through your newsfeeds one story after another, underlining the fact that not only has nothing been done to stem the violence and the abuse, but in fact, it's getting worse. But I am not listening anymore. It's affecting my quality of life, and with your outright dismissal of my proposed book based on hypocrisy and fear, well, I have no more reason to listen at all,do I?

Looking at these comments....jesus christ, you people aren't ready for any kind of serious change. Not even close.

Quite frankly, you don't deserve a book like Rampage. You are trying to change the world politely, quietly, legally, and without taking any risks whatsoever. I'm not that kind of person, never was. I do not change my course or betray my agendas when pressure is applied by bullies. Not police. Not pit nutters. Nobody.

I find cowardice to be a little more sickening than the human flaws I write so explicitly about. (And DOG DAYS is not a book for children. None of my books are. Perhaps Dawn should have made that clearer.)

You want justice, but not blood. You are trying to communicate basic tolerance and sweetness and kindness to a group of people who by DEFINITION are numb to the feelings of others, and indifferent to the suffering they cause...meanwhile, you cite a 5 page sample of my rough language and grim worldview as the work of the devil. Maybe you are desensitized from all those photos of bloody kids you keep posting on Facebook. Maybe you've never picked up a book that Oprah Winfrey didn't tell you to. No matter what your problem is, your movement is a mess.

The meek do not inspire change in the world. Neither do the lazy, the pious, the dogmatic, the staid, the emotionally cowardly, or the intellectually impotent. If you are afraid of being challenged, or unwilling to go outside of your comfort zone, you really are doing a disservice to this or any movement.

I was your best bet, and you just pissed all over me. The 160 dollars contributed to my campaign will be refunded.

Currently, I live out on the Gulf Coast, in a safe neighborhood with no pit bulls. They're you're problem, people. I can see you're all doing just fine without me, canceling events at the slightest show of intimidation, and being morally superior to writers like me. Dog Days told the ugly truth, about me AND the dogs. I wasn't here to be judged. I was here to write an honest book, about the killing machines who nearly ruined me, and cost me about 5 years of my life. It would have been useful, and I think we all would have learned something profound.

So we all lose.

Write to Nicholas Sparks, since that seems to be about on a par with your level of emotional intelligence. See if he'll give you six months of his life.


Unknown said...

Dawn, if nothing else, your post has sold me some books. Six, actually. Thank you. I'm curious as to how these pedestrian prudes would react to other sections of the book. There's a rape scene halfway through that even offends me.

I am reading from DOG DAYS on November 8th in Chicago. UK reading dates forthcoming.

Unknown said...

Anonymous said...

gene , i agree that pitnutters dont , wont and never will respect decency and civility . its the nature of the beast which is the dark side of humanity that makes pitbulls so fucking popular.

Unknown said...

Political correctness, narrow mindedness, and self righteousness are far more insidious qualities than the desire for a vicious animal as a pet.

Meals on Wheels said...

Ironic... the pit bull advocacy uses political correctness and self righteousness to advocate for their desire to own a vicious animal without any additional measures. So many simple minds fall for it, that's the problem in a nut shell.

Viva la freedom of speech....know that not everyone will like it or agree. Artists need to have the courage to take on the pit bulls known as critics.

Take care of that purrrty orange kitty. I have one just like it that survived a pit bull attack.

Unknown said...

Both the pro and anti pit groups are equally nauseating in their cowardice and ignorance.

Anonymous said...

This is far from the most obscene or poorly written thing I've ever read. I don't understand why the commenters are in such an uproar over it. At first glance, it seems out of place here but the last time I checked this was still a blog about the pit bull problem. This is not the kind of stuff I typically read but I will support the author. Gregorits' experience and voice is no less important than any other pit bull victim.

Unknown said...

I think DOG DAYS is the first novel ever written about the aftermath of a pit bull attack. The book has sold almost 6,000 copies in its first year.

Now why in the world would such a book POSSIBLY be relevant to the BSL crowd? I just can't figure it out.

Apparently they don't read anything more risque than Stephen King, which is sad..


scurrilous amateur blogger said...

"Political correctness, narrow mindedness, and self righteousness are far more insidious qualities than the desire for a vicious animal as a pet."

i think those qualities go hand in hand with owning vicious dogs.

scurrilous amateur blogger said...

Caress Garten wrote a book about her vicious pit bull attack, it is called On Behalf of Innocents. i have a copy but i still haven't read it. same with red zone, the story about the diane wipple murder. i am terrible about prioritizing my reading list. the writings of dog fighters and pit nutters always trump pro BSL writings. i live by the Susan Jacoby quote, i don't just preach it.

"The unwillingness to give a hearing to contradictory viewpoints, or to imagine that one might not learn anything from an ideological or cultural opponent, represents a departure from the best side of American popular and elite cultural traditions. Throughout the last quarter of the nineteenth century, millions of Americans - many of them devoutly religious - packed lecture halls around the country to hear Robert Green Ingersoll, known as the Great Agnostic, excoriate conventional religion and any involvement between church and state. When Thomas Henry Huxley, the British naturalist and preeminent popularizer of Darwin's theory of evolution, made his first trip to the Untied States in 1876, he spoke to standing room only crowds even though many members of his audiences were genuinely shocked by his views on the descent of man. Americans n the 1800's, regardless of their level of formal education, wanted to make up their own minds about what men like Ingersoll and Huxley had to say. That kind of curiosity, which demands first hand evidence of whether the devil really has horns, is essential to the intellectual and political health of society. In today's America, intellectuals and nonintellectuals alike, whether on the left or the right, tend to tune out any voice that is not an echo. This obduracy is both a manifestation of laziness and the essence of anti-intellectualism. " Susan Jacoby, The Age of American Unreason

btw, i didn't mean to imply that you were the devil.

Unknown said...

Dawn, those books are not novels. Dog Days is a novel.

Unknown said...

"Political correctness, narrow mindedness, and self righteousness are far more insidious qualities than the desire for a vicious animal as a pet."

>>>>>>i think those qualities go hand in hand with owning vicious dogs.

Dawn, apparently they go hand in hand with opposing vicious dogs as well. Ironic, huh?

Anonymous said...

That's a brilliant essay. My Mother, a child of the Depression, remembers the fiery conversation when adults gathered at someone's home--these people were broken, hopeless about the future, under strain day and night-yet nobody was shouted down, insulted or threatened. The ugliest the language got was an occasional Hell or Damn.
This is tangental, but I've only been immersed in groupthink once--after 9/11, the flag mania really gave me the willies, Ive never seen an entire population all behave the same way, and try to outdo each other in ostentatious, frequently ludicrous, flag display. My nerves were so stretched I nearly snapped at a nice old lady who asked me where MY flag was. I answered "Its not required to HAVE one...yet"
She was outfitted in flags! Flag printed jacket, flag sweatshirt, flag earrings, one tennis shoe striped, the other starred, ubiquitous white billed granny hat, the hat stuck with stiff little flags on pins. The bill of the hat covered with... yes, holographic foil stars.
I'm not the brightest bulb, I'm just smart enough to ask questions, not intelligent enough arrive at any answers.
So, I said to my Mom, "what, purpose, outside of the military sphere, does patriotism serve? How's it manifested in civilian life other than with symbols? My very intelligent Mother had no answer, had never considered it.
Well, as we all know, the flag mania blew over rather suddenly, though its totemic power caused a permanent change in the next little town over--a restaurant chain has a grotesquely huge flag as its signature, atop a skyscraping pole- the flag reaches nearly the length.The city council rightly told them to replace it with a conventional size, the monster one was blocking traffic views. After 9/11 that restaurant immediately shoved through their giant flag. That flag remains today, has caused a couple of accidents and near-misses, but hey! Patriotism has its price!
I'm sorry to be rambling, I'm with my friend on foal watch, she ran home to get us coffee
(mOre cOffees!!!) and breakfast and we will soon have a new little life! Happy, happy happy!
Gene, this page was devoted to you, sorry I butted in. I think you're really a promising writer but now I'll really enrage you with unwanted advice. All art needs to balance it's focus between tension and contemplation, otherwise it's just loud, strident, undifferentiated stimuli-- not fair to say, based on that little bit available, but the strenuous effort to portray vileness was obtrusive. It veered into parody. You must always respect your readers intelligence when you create a world. But you'll be very significant one day OK!! The mare has gone down for good and is fully stretched out--its time!!

Unknown said...

That was all intentional on my part. The book is satire.

Meals on Wheels said...

Here it is folks, the Reader's Digest Version:

Fuck shit, slut cunt.
Kill the fucking dog with some fucking antifreeze.

I fucking love satire as much
as I do the freedom of speech and fluffy orange pussy cats, and pesto, and Chopin, and home grown tomatoes, and getting out my chain saw to prune be it bouganvilla, palm fronds or errant pit bulls. And that Tom T. Hall song called "I love". I fucking love that song.

Have I not noticed Sadfalada without him/her signing his/her name? I saw something evocative and familiar. I fucking love the poetic musings of Sadfalada too.

Fucking Kum by ya!

Unknown said...

Fuck shit, slut cunt.
Kill the fucking dog with some fucking antifreeze.

I'm hearing a song there. Possibly...a THEME song? I'm thinking TV SERIES. Maybe Christian Bale could play the woman beating, dog killing, self mutilating hero.

Anonymous said...

Meals, this is SadFalada--I can only post as anonymous because Google flips out when I try to sign in...why are you mad at old lady me? Merde!

Meals on Wheels said...

@ Sadfalada, I fuckin' miss you.
I'm not fuckin' mad, it's just that Chapter V of this novel must have tripped my inner potty mouth Tourette Syndrome tendencies, kind of like perfectly sweet pit bulls are tripped somehow, and go game on some kid, poodle, cute orange pussy cat, or little old lady.

And little old ladies, I fuckin' love 'em.

We must meet up and create silly poetry together sometime. I'll have to look for some inspiration. Actually, chapter V of this book inspires me, very much like the Dr. Dre CD some students gave me as a joke. I found it had some artistic merit, who knew! I always listen to it, and sing along when I have to drive through South Central, so I can really become one with my surroundings.

It seems we are so like the Isabella, who takes psychology and poetry classes. I wonder if we are as simple minded in the author's mind, who knows. Well, I should just speak for myself.

In my fantasy meeting with you, were we all meet in Chapter 6, she brings Farter with her at our next tea time pibble poetry fest. For fun and jollies we get him all wired with some Darjeeling. Curious, if he is only flatulent we find that some dainty cucumber sandwiches with watercress inspire belching the likes of a Stanley Steamer. For our final project, a curried chicken salad with lots of boiled eggs and dried fruits so he can release some real store clearing toots.


Fuck, fuck, firetruck.

I feel a Haiku coming on.

Farter at Walmart,
Curried Chicken sandwiches
Are clearing the aisles.

Simple minded as can be,
Somewhere in the
fucking land of the free,
Signs Meals on Wheels,

Peace to the Orange Kitty.

Anonymous said...

You bring the Sarsaparilla, I'll bring ye Writing Quill (not too dangerously sharp, mind you)
We shall have to rename Farter "Flatus" so as to get into the Better Walmarts. All other provisions should prove remarkably prudent and efficacious.
Stay Timid-- and Befouled!

Meals on Wheels said...

That was chapter six,
So here is Chapter 7,
It's what happens after the pit bull is sent to Anti-freeze Heaven...

In a dirty corner hovering, a puppy gives a cry.

And Izabella, although crass and loose, can't just let a puppy die.

Unknown to her, there's some Jeep in there, direct lines to Honeybunch,

And she give to Flatus a wiggling gift,
That in chapter 11, has a lunch,

Of a grown-up child, who for a short time, had a service dog,

Who could laughingly divert the blame of his ca-ca flavored fog.

And for a good 10 months, did Flatus, whose real name was "efghi",

Fart freely, yes he let them rip, Learned to point and blame to his service-pit, to any of those near-by.

It boosted his self-confidence, to have a canine scape-goat,

So boldly did Flatus and his doggie go, wearing an "official" service dog coat,

That Ize found on E-bay for about 85 dollars,

She picked up a false certificate, and one of those pinch collars.

Just six months later,there had been an incident at the "Laundermat",

When Baaaaa-Bee, the brindle bulldog killed a little sad stray cat.

Thank goodness, the only witnesses were too strung out on Meth to care,

That's the world of too many bastard kids, the man's in jail, and dirty underwear.

Although Flatus had screaming nightmares, and would tattle almost non-stop.

Baaaa-Beee and Flatus were quite the team, sometimes posing for photo-ops.

Now being simple minded, I find it hard to find an end,

Sadfalada to the rescue...finish chapter 8, my friend.

Unknown said...

Flattered. But seriously, I hope someone takes my book and runs with it. I can't believe that after so many hundreds of human fatalities, and pet attacks in the millions, that no one's had the heart or the backbone to create something like RAMPAGE on their own. It's shameful, and quite frankly, embarrassing for this "movement". It still throws me for a loop that such an offer would be discarded because of a FICTIONAL story and some 4 or 12 letter words. Dawn, I think some alternative recruitment methods might be in order. These people you have here are clearly not committed to anything real.

If I was independently wealthy, I'd have published the book last year, exactly as I saw fit.

Anyway, best of luck to you all.

Anonymous said...

I sigh, I tremble, my rattling teacup
Is victim, of course, of a rampaging Pup
Whose presence is heralded by trumpeting blast
And effulgence sanctifies an ignoble past
For affliction is known every Hero to groom
So long as the Hero fits a Service-Dog costume

And as I dip my perfumed and Enchanted ink
To chronicle Flatus and Pit in Compatible stink
And we become enlightened by Pup's reeling desire
To safely steer Flatus from sources of fire
For methane to flame, even Pits find distracting
And where Bela smokes fags is not too exacting

But, no, Stupified Reader, no need to cringe
The treasures of Walmart are cheaper when singed
By Associates Bela was swarmed--and ejected
Though each she called Bay-beeee, her pleas were rejected
Abandoning Flatus, whose notice was quite brief
His Service-Dog Pit helped him expel his great grief..

And then Flatus stood tall, on his own cloud Ascending
Like a Gaslamp guiding, his goal now was befriending
The Defenders of Pit bulls, pinnacle of Humanity
And not for hope of Snacks, medals, romance or Vanity
His bouyant thoughts enveloped his Pit bull so Stodgy
Theorems, he invented, and Syllogisms; (nothing dodgy)

And by Pup he was towed through heaped Merchandise
As Accolades he imagined, and Disciples to Surprise
As in Two Voices He Spoke, one raw, deep and primal
The other less reasoned, as words are no rival
When in Advocacy of Pit bull, words are the Pitfall
But in Flatus is found fuel for continuing brawl

Miss Margo said...

"These people you have here are clearly not committed to anything real."

Oh, the irony!

Am I the only one who hears Cartman's voice saying "Screw you guys, I'm going home!"?

Miss Margo said...

Meals, you're killing me! You are so fucking hilarious, you fucking fuck.

Unknown said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Unknown said...

It's an epidemic of dead kids and dead pets, Miss Margo. Comparing the situation which you have done ultimately NOTHING to solve to a brain dead cartoon for apathetic potheads is a little less respect than victims deserve.

I've spoken to many SIGNIFICANT members of the anti-pit effort and they are ashamed by the response Dawn's post got here. As for me, ashamed ain't even the word.

But as I pointed out: this is why nothing gets done, EVER. It's still high school for most of you, and that's quite sad. Try getting out of your own way. Try seeing the bigger picture, or get used to being mocked and victimized by pit nutters forever.

Miss Margo said...

""Political correctness, narrow mindedness, and self righteousness are far more insidious qualities than the desire for a vicious animal as a pet."

>>>>>>i think those qualities go hand in hand with owning vicious dogs.

Dawn, apparently they go hand in hand with opposing vicious dogs as well. Ironic, huh?"

Oh please. Have you read any of this blog, or some of the hairier comments threads? Craven Desires is not exactly penned by Mr. Rogers.

I also find it puzzling that a professional writer whose stock in trade is being deliberately provocative takes it personally when his work is negatively critiqued. I myself have been lambasted in reviews and letters to the editor for my political journalism, and I have never complained. It's part of the job.

Finally, if this is the cheap fabric your loyalty is made of, then the movement, and the rest of us, are better off without you. If you can abandon a political cause because some total strangers on the internet insulted your artistic work, then you never really believed in that cause in the first place.

Miss Margo said...

I wasn't comparing "the situation" to Cartman, Mr. Gregorits. I was comparing you.

Unknown said...

Oh Jesus. Unbelievable. Would someone explain things to her, please?

It's YOU people jumping ship (see: Cancelled Walf For Dog Victims event) at the first sign of opposition.

I am, have always been, non-partisan. I had no interest in being part of the movement. I was intending to spend six months on a book -being a pit bull victim, of course- that could have potentially made a serious difference in YOUR cause, and what I found here was a group of pious, intellectually lazy pundits. I felt like I was on the Morton Downey show.

You can not see that this is slightly troubling to any objective viewer?

Unknown said...

Yes, Margo DEAR. I get your sad analogy. And you don't seem to understand this: as a writer who dedicates himself 100% to his current work, me and the book, about "the situation", are one in the same. You didn't really dismiss ME, because I'm not really a part of this group. What you dismissed was the possibility of a long form piece of journalism. And as I said before, it seems your cause is doing amazingly well, and I am sure that a BLISTERINGLY passionate and factually DEFINITIVE history of the pit bull problem is right around the corner, and I applaud you and your bright future in anti-pit activism. I wasn't aware that you had this important book underway already.

Unknown said...

"One AND the same," rather. Pardon me.

Anonymous said...

And now, because I'm unable to get on First Church of Pit Bulls (highly recommended!)
Here is my teary reverence for Daddy the Cheese head Pit bull.

Dios Mìo, Daddy
I have encoffined you like wealthy Familia
Ignore rude comments about Necrophilia
It's a work of Love, a Valentine
To see my Daddy safely Confined
It took 38lbs of health-hazard
Formed by psychotics in therapy play
Cracked and scuffed marbles for the eyes were implanted
Those eyes are my Dio, and wishes are granted
And granted they are, my Daddy's forever
Made into a model muy expensive, but clever
And sealed inside a glass case hermetic
Cause no Pit bull ought to wander peripatetic
And there is Daddy pretty as a Glass Slipper
Looking like a Fairy Tale, my glaring mud Gripper
And he's colored like treasure,
The Color if Gold
Or Sulfur, or Cadmium, applied to prevent mold
I kneel to gaze into his Sanctum Sanctorum
Our images meld, we both look so bummed
No longer will you lumber, stupidly yet stoically
Staring most impassively while I ill-advise Heroically
Oh, Daddy! I wish now I had ordered a whole you
Would you be half-jealous if I had Daddy × Two?
One to Worship and One to Trundle on Wheels
You'd be as popular as Lenin, and maybe, book deals!
And, no Daddy, nothing like that movie "Psycho"
A Pit bull in a Granny dress? Not even in Slo Mo!
But I'll dress you up a little, Infierno! Let's invent!
A rocking chair, a shattered bulb, a motel low of rent...
Oh! Tssssccht! Listen to me Whispering to Dad like a fool
Tell me, Oh Tell me, Huge Slumping Head
My Mastery's done, from your cube You Must Rule
And if you , Dear Daddy, feel ever constrained
That the Wigglebutt Feature is Elsewhere Contained
I won't hide my annoyance, "Tsssscccht!" will be the refrain
For an ungrateful Idol with a Damned Pit bull brain
And in case you think it's common to envitrify one's pets
I should remind you, dear Daddy, who controls the Windex

Anonymous said...

Gene, Gene..why so angry? You'll catch as many flies with chloroform as you will with a machete. I think you have important gifts, I intend to read the book, but insulting people whose intelligence and insight I admire, we admire, is destroying your position. Maybe mom never told you that the world is brimming with unique talent--so stuffed, in fact, that its nearly impossible to single them all out. That is not to diminish you, but EVERYONE needs friends to advance.
Your writing is difficult to read. It's enervating, exhausting, relentless--I have to wonder if applying the style to a subject as highly charged as the Pit bull issue would only result in caricature.
The (really quite few) negative comments here
may bruise your ego, but, they represent intelligent opinion.. could they not offer value instead of outrage? Go take a look at the opinions directed at are what now iconic works of art, music, literature.
Another old trope is that closing off input is the death of creative value. Don't be so angry!
The world is so full of nearly invisible subtlety, complexity and unforseen, inexplicable occurances, and I'm afraid you'll just tank over them.
I genuinely wish you good fortune-and many,
many well-recieved books

Anonymous said...

Oh, and P.S.
You describe events as folding due to "opposition"
No.. its due to having family, friends, permanent housing, vulnerable pets, consistent workplaces. Myself, I live alone. You don't seem to indulge in any of the above. The threats are issued from patently unhinged people, many of them irresponsible or actually criminal. My part is to talk reasonably with people . Many people already loathe pit bulls, others become appalled and fascinated by the endless sea of destruction they've engendered. Those ripples, too, have their effect.

Unknown said...

1. DOG DAYS is a novel. RAMPAGE is journalism. Instead of asusming that both books would be in the same style, you could make the limp effort to ask me, since I'm right here. "Gene, would RAMPAGE be written as a first person novel from the point of view of a dog killing psychopath?"

"Why...thank you for asking, Anonymous. No."

2. It was pointed out to me that a thread was happening here. I came here and found that I was being attacked by people who do not understand my work. I responded. You may choose not to stand up for yourself in YOUR life. but that is why you are you and I am me. Intelligent opinion and "fuck that guy, he's an idiot" are two different things. Thanks for forcing me to waste valuable time pointing that out.

3. Thank you for your encouragement. But I am, left wondering if you actually read the comments here. My ego is not bruised. Read DOG DAYS in its entirety and you'll understand why. However, I really thought that, as victims of the same ignorance, that...ah, nevermind. There's no point. You can't fight City Hall. There's no point in opposing a greater evil if you're only going to mirror the same vile pettiness and ignorance on a microcosmic level. Get your shit together.

My work is available at

I have nothing more to say. Thank you.

Unknown said...

One more difference between me and certain others: I don't back down to threats. No threat would sway me from completing RAMPAGE.

Fortunately, I have been spared the trouble. Good luck with the next person who tries to do something meaningful for your cause. That will have to be a tolerant and forgiving soul, indeed.

Anonymous said...

You bilious boob, do you wonder who I am? A highly placed editor? A publisher? An executor of cultural grants? How lucky for you that you are you. Goodbye.

Unknown said...

I'm sure your mother is very proud of you, sir.

Meals on Wheels said...

When compared to Sadfalada, I'm trite,
But I do enjoy to simply write,

About the dogs who rage, and tear and bite,

I agree there, Gene I think you're right:
There doesn't seem an end in sight.

And while I got lost in your confusing fashion,

I never want to discourage you from your passion.

Write as you do, some will get it.

Others will read it, and call it pure shit.

And while waiting for a chapter 8,
Another poem to celebrate,
Thank you friend for that little jewel,
I added it P.P.L, I hope that's cool.

The poem is indeed a better shrine,
Than the Hunk of Kitch depicting "Daddy Divine".

So now we enter chapter nine,
The Flatus fellow a concubine,
Of the wretched, evil pit bull clan.
He appears with Ba-BEEEEEE with Cesar Milan.

See, it's all how you raise 'em, isn't that right?

"Except that at the Laundrymat, where he took a bite"

Of that little cat. And I can't forget.

What DO you mean...Cesar Regrets

Not doing an entire back ground check.

Then he finds out about Izze, and say's "What the HECK"!

This good story is becoming a wreck!

And Izze vanishes when presented a fat check

From the N.C.R.C.. Hush! Hush!
But it's all in vain,

They find the survelience video,
and there by the drain

although out of focus and gritty...

Sure enough, there's Izzy and Flatus and Ba-beeeee ripping up that kitty!

I think we should play tribute, when it's due,
And before chapter 11 is over and through

Allude to the tome that inspired it all.
What on ever did the plight of "Dog Days" befall?

There were 1,000 copies that languished and waited,
For rare was there a reader to be captivated.
And to pay for expenses, and cat food, and rent,
You can buy a book for a buck at the store "99 Cents".

Unknown said...

I'm being flown across the country next week to read from DOG DAYS, which has sold nearly 6,000 copies.

All are invited to come. I will be reading from DOG DAYS, the book which confuses functionally illiterate people, as well as from the upcoming novel, INTRA-COASTAL.

Thank you.

Meals on Wheels said...

I'm sure your mother is very proud of you, sir.

Unknown said...

"Justin honey, why do you have to use the 'F' word? James Patterson doesn't use the 'F' word."

- my mother, who is very proud of me, as a matter of fact! She doesn't care much for my self-promotional stunts, of course...but yes, proud.