The silence in the house is deafening. It’s a silence I’ve grown to dread, far more unsettling than any firefight I ever found myself in. Out there, the noise meant something. It meant life, death, a mission, a brother. Here, the silence is a void, a stark reminder of a presence that once filled every corner of this home: Fred. My pit bull, my loyal, complex, and ultimately misunderstood companion.
Fred was more than just a dog; he was a mirror. He was the embodiment of the struggle I, Jarrod Toothman, have faced since trading my combat boots for civilian shoes, since the M4 was replaced by a coffee cup. Fred, in his existence, paralleled my own post-military, post-combat search for a place in a society that often doesn't understand the raw edges we carry. And now, Fred is gone, deemed a threat, euthanized for being "vicious." It’s a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that his fate, in some twisted way, could have so easily been mine.
We were both born, in a sense, into a world that demanded a certain ferocity. Fred, a pit bull, inherited a reputation long before he ever nipped a mailman. I, a combat infantryman, was molded into a weapon, trained to kill, to protect, to respond with decisive violence to any perceived threat. Society needs its protectors, its enforcers, but it often struggles with what to do with them once the immediate danger has passed.
Fred’s loyalty was absolute. To my family, he was a giant, slobbering teddy bear. He’d snuggle beside me in bed, a warm, heavy presence that chased away the nightmares faster than any prescription. He’d tolerate my kids pulling his ears, climb into their laps for a good belly rub, and stand guard over them with an unwavering gaze. He loved us with an intensity that only grew with each passing year. But outside that circle, the world was a labyrinth of potential threats. A stray cat, a delivery driver, another dog barking on a walk – these were all perceived aggressions, met with a swift, powerful response.
This is where Fred and I truly diverged in fate, yet converged in nature. For seven years, Fred attacked me, maybe twenty times. Not out of malice, I truly believe. Each time, it was a sudden flash, a growl, a bite that stung but never truly maimed. Just enough to hurt, to assert a boundary, and then, immediately, the remorse. The lowered head, the soft whimper, the lick that tasted of apology. He would then press against me, seeking comfort, as if he, too, was confused by his own outbursts. He was a creature of instinct, wired for protection, and sometimes that wiring misfired, even towards those he loved.
I understand that instinct. I’ve had flashes, moments where the civilian world felt wrong, where the perceived slights or inefficiencies triggered a surge of adrenaline, a primal urge to react with force. The difference, the crucial, life-saving difference, is that I have the capacity for rational thought, for self-control, for understanding societal norms. I have learned to compartmentalize, to bury those instincts deep, to channel them into other pursuits. Fred, however, was unable to make that leap. He lived by an older, more brutal code, one that society no longer tolerates.
When Fred was deemed "vicious," I fought for him. I argued, pleaded, explained his nuances, his complex loyalties, his inherent goodness despite his flaws. I tried to explain that his aggression was a response to perceived threats, not an inherent desire to harm indiscriminately. But the label, once applied, was indelible. "Vicious." It echoed in my mind, a chilling whisper of a label that could so easily have been applied to me, to any of us who have seen and done what we had to do in combat.
The combat infantryman is trained to be a predator, to identify and neutralize threats efficiently and without hesitation. We learn to read body language, to anticipate danger, to react with a speed and intensity that is unnatural to civilian life. We are taught that hesitation can mean death, that aggression is a survival mechanism. Then, we come home. And society expects us to simply switch it off, to reintegrate, to become docile pets when we were forged into wolves.
There’s a deep irony in my living a life of relative normalcy, despite the violent acts I performed in the name of my country, while Fred, who only lashed out when he felt truly threatened, had his life ended. I have memories, experiences, that most people would find horrific. I have done things that, if widely known and stripped of context, would make me "a threat," "vicious," someone to be feared. Yet, I walk free. I hug my children. I mourn my dog.
Fred was a pit bull, a breed often demonized, often judged by its cover. I am a combat veteran, often misunderstood, often carrying an invisible burden that others cannot see. We both carried a capacity for violence, a protective instinct that, when misdirected or misinterpreted, could be terrifying. But we also carried immense loyalty, a deep capacity for love, and a desire for belonging.
The day we took Fred to the vet for the last time was one of the hardest of my life. He licked my hand, his tail giving a weak thump against the cold surgical table, his eyes looked up at me and flashed with terror in his final moments he knew the grim purpose of our visit. He trusted me, utterly and completely, even as I led him to his end. It was a profound betrayal, one I will carry with me forever.
His death is a stark reminder that some adaptations, some instincts, are not easily shed or understood by the wider world. Fred's instinct was to protect his family at all costs, a primal drive. My instinct, honed in combat, was similar: to protect my brothers, to ensure the mission's success, even if it meant violence.
The difference is the lens through which society views these actions. My violence, in a uniform, on foreign soil, was sanctioned, even lauded. Fred's violence, in my backyard, protecting his perceived territory, was condemned. One is called heroism, the other, viciousness.
I’m left with an emptiness that echoes in every silent room. Fred taught me about unconditional love, about the complexity of instinct, and about the harsh realities of judgment. He deserved more understanding, more patience, more of a chance to exist in a world that he, in his own way, was trying to navigate.
So, I sit here, Jarrod Toothman, the combat veteran, alive and attempting to thrive, while my best friend, Fred, the "vicious" pit bull, is gone. And I can’t help but wonder, if the circumstances were just a little different, if society's judgment had fallen on me instead of him, would the silence in this house still be just as deafening, but for a different reason entirely? It's a question that haunts me, a constant reminder of the fine line between protector and threat, hero and monster, and the profound tragedy of a loyal heart that simply couldn't find its peaceful place in the world.
The silence in the house is deafening. It’s a silence I’ve grown to dread, far more unsettling than any firefight I ever found myself in. Out there, the noise meant something. It meant life, death, a mission, a brother. Here, the silence is a void, a stark reminder of a presence that once filled every corner of this home: Fred. My pit bull, my loyal, complex, and ultimately misunderstood companion.
Fred was more than just a dog; he was a mirror. He was the embodiment of the struggle I, Jarrod Toothman, have faced since trading my combat boots for civilian shoes, since the M4 was replaced by a coffee cup. Fred, in his existence, paralleled my own post-military, post-combat search for a place in a society that often doesn't understand the raw edges we carry. And now, Fred is gone, deemed a threat, euthanized for being "vicious." It’s a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that his fate, in some twisted way, could have so easily been mine.
We were both born, in a sense, into a world that demanded a certain ferocity. Fred, a pit bull, inherited a reputation long before he ever nipped a mailman. I, a combat infantryman, was molded into a weapon, trained to kill, to protect, to respond with decisive violence to any perceived threat. Society needs its protectors, its enforcers, but it often struggles with what to do with them once the immediate danger has passed.
Fred’s loyalty was absolute. To my family, he was a giant, slobbering teddy bear. He’d snuggle beside me in bed, a warm, heavy presence that chased away the nightmares faster than any prescription. He’d tolerate my kids pulling his ears, climb into their laps for a good belly rub, and stand guard over them with an unwavering gaze. He loved us with an intensity that only grew with each passing year. But outside that circle, the world was a labyrinth of potential threats. A stray cat, a delivery driver, another dog barking on a walk – these were all perceived aggressions, met with a swift, powerful response.
This is where Fred and I truly diverged in fate, yet converged in nature. For seven years, Fred attacked me, maybe twenty times. Not out of malice, I truly believe. Each time, it was a sudden flash, a growl, a bite that stung but never truly maimed. Just enough to hurt, to assert a boundary, and then, immediately, the remorse. The lowered head, the soft whimper, the lick that tasted of apology. He would then press against me, seeking comfort, as if he, too, was confused by his own outbursts. He was a creature of instinct, wired for protection, and sometimes that wiring misfired, even towards those he loved.
I understand that instinct. I’ve had flashes, moments where the civilian world felt wrong, where the perceived slights or inefficiencies triggered a surge of adrenaline, a primal urge to react with force. The difference, the crucial, life-saving difference, is that I have the capacity for rational thought, for self-control, for understanding societal norms. I have learned to compartmentalize, to bury those instincts deep, to channel them into other pursuits. Fred, however, was unable to make that leap. He lived by an older, more brutal code, one that society no longer tolerates.
When Fred was deemed "vicious," I fought for him. I argued, pleaded, explained his nuances, his complex loyalties, his inherent goodness despite his flaws. I tried to explain that his aggression was a response to perceived threats, not an inherent desire to harm indiscriminately. But the label, once applied, was indelible. "Vicious." It echoed in my mind, a chilling whisper of a label that could so easily have been applied to me, to any of us who have seen and done what we had to do in combat.
The combat infantryman is trained to be a predator, to identify and neutralize threats efficiently and without hesitation. We learn to read body language, to anticipate danger, to react with a speed and intensity that is unnatural to civilian life. We are taught that hesitation can mean death, that aggression is a survival mechanism. Then, we come home. And society expects us to simply switch it off, to reintegrate, to become docile pets when we were forged into wolves.
There’s a deep irony in my living a life of relative normalcy, despite the violent acts I performed in the name of my country, while Fred, who only lashed out when he felt truly threatened, had his life ended. I have memories, experiences, that most people would find horrific. I have done things that, if widely known and stripped of context, would make me "a threat," "vicious," someone to be feared. Yet, I walk free. I hug my children. I mourn my dog.
Fred was a pit bull, a breed often demonized, often judged by its cover. I am a combat veteran, often misunderstood, often carrying an invisible burden that others cannot see. We both carried a capacity for violence, a protective instinct that, when misdirected or misinterpreted, could be terrifying. But we also carried immense loyalty, a deep capacity for love, and a desire for belonging.
The day we took Fred to the vet for the last time was one of the hardest of my life. He licked my hand, his tail giving a weak thump against the cold surgical table, his eyes looked up at me and flashed with terror in his final moments he knew the grim purpose of our visit. He trusted me, utterly and completely, even as I led him to his end. It was a profound betrayal, one I will carry with me forever.
His death is a stark reminder that some adaptations, some instincts, are not easily shed or understood by the wider world. Fred's instinct was to protect his family at all costs, a primal drive. My instinct, honed in combat, was similar: to protect my brothers, to ensure the mission's success, even if it meant violence.
The difference is the lens through which society views these actions. My violence, in a uniform, on foreign soil, was sanctioned, even lauded. Fred's violence, in my backyard, protecting his perceived territory, was condemned. One is called heroism, the other, viciousness.
I’m left with an emptiness that echoes in every silent room. Fred taught me about unconditional love, about the complexity of instinct, and about the harsh realities of judgment. He deserved more understanding, more patience, more of a chance to exist in a world that he, in his own way, was trying to navigate.
So, I sit here, Jarrod Toothman, the combat veteran, alive and attempting to thrive, while my best friend, Fred, the "vicious" pit bull, is gone. And I can’t help but wonder, if the circumstances were just a little different, if society's judgment had fallen on me instead of him, would the silence in this house still be just as deafening, but for a different reason entirely? It's a question that haunts me, a constant reminder of the fine line between protector and threat, hero and monster, and the profound tragedy of a loyal heart that simply couldn't find its peaceful place in the world.
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Strength and HonorThe Savage Beast..... and His Dog
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