Witness the arrests last weekend of 12 men at a filthy, makeshift dog-fighting arena in West Dade. Metro-Dade police say the fellows were festively gathered to watch pit bull terriers tear each other to shreds.
"One of the most disgusting things I've seen in my life," said Sgt. Gary Shimminger of the Crime Suppression Team. "Despicable, really horrible.You're looking at these poor helpless dogs, and one of them had no face. Just gums and teeth."
In case you're not aware of how dogfighting is conducted: The animals are turned loose against each other until one is either dead or so mangled it can no longer bite back, at which point the fun apparently goes out of the match.
Bets are placed on the pit bulls before and during the battle, which customarily is accompanied by rousing shouts, heavy alcohol consumption and uncontrolled drooling (by both man and beast).
The longer the fight continues—and the bloodier it becomes—the more cash changes hands. Thus it becomes profitable to prolong the carnage, and the suffering of the dogs.
Although quite illegal, pit-bull fighting remains a popular pastime in certain circles of beetle-browed mutants and mouth-breathers. It's also a markedly masculine affair, torrents of testosterone being needed to get drunk and watch two simple-minded creatures maim each other.
When police raided the dog pit last Friday, they found n injured terriers, which had been bred specifically for viciousness and biting tenacity. The animal whose face had been chewed off was euthanized right away. The same sad end awaits the others.
As for the "sportsmen" apprehended at the scene, most face misdemeanor charges. Two of the defendants, allegedly caught holding bloodied dogs in the ring, are accused of baiting or fighting animals, a felony that carries a top fine of $5,000 and five years in the slammer.
Should these fellows be found guilty, let me suggest that our prisons are too crowded with ruthless criminals to accommodate a couple of lowlife dog abusers. Let me also suggest that prison is far too good a place for them.
I propose alternative sentencing—one that would make dogfighting less of a spectator sport and more of a true macho test. As a bonus, very little in the way of taxpayer resources would be required:
1. Upon conviction, immediately put the two defendants in a squad car and return them to the dog pit.
2. On the way, make a brief detour to Pet Warehouse and purchase approximately three dozen cans of Alpo. Either beef or chicken will do fine.
3. Once the sportsmen are back at the pit, tether them to short leashes. Stake the leashes firmly into the ground.
4. Open cans of Alpo.
5. Smear chunks of Alpo on the sportsmen. Baste generously.
6. Now reunite sportsmen with their surviving pets.
7. Leave them in privacy for, say, eight or nine minutes.
8. Return with Hefty bags and a WetVac to clean up.
Oh, I almost forgot: No betting would be permitted on the terriers. However, modest wagers would be accepted on whether or not the defendants will ever again be eager to attend a dogfight.
Dead shark nothing but a sound bite
January 9, 1997
Nothing chums up the media like a big, dead shark.
It happened again this week when a commercial fishing boat hauled in a rare great white in the waters off Key Largo. For nearly two days, Miami TV stations went wild with the story. Some news programs even provided "team coverage."
Team coverage of a dead fish.
Depending on which channel you watched or which newspaper you read, the shark's length was either 16 feet, 17 feet, 18 feet or 20 feet. Its weight was reported variously between 1,000 and 2,000 pounds.
The only facts of which you could be certain were:
1. It was huge.
2. It was deceased.
3. It was a shark.
It's easy to blame Steven Spielberg for the inane frenzy that accompanies the killing of a great white, but it's the media that have turned a fright movie fad into a dockside ritual.
The phenomenon is exaggerated in tropical locales such as Florida, where (with the recent decline of tourist homicides), we're always on the lookout for new things to terrorize winter visitors. I'm all in favor of this, but not at the expense of the beleaguered shark.
There was nothing mythic or Hemingwayesque about the capture of the great white near Pickles Reef. Longline fishermen laid out miles of hooks in deep water. The shark glomped one of the baits and became entangled.
No epic battle occurred between man and beast. The fish was already stuck when the fishermen checked their rigs. A mechanical winch cranked up the line.
The whole episode was no more heroic than a tow truck dragging an Oldsmobile out of a rock pit. Incredibly, the shark still was alive after being pulled back to the mainland, where it soon died. The swarms of gawkers were thicker than the flies.
Traffic snarled. Cameras clicked. The media was alerted.
A giant shark is a spectacular thing, without a doubt. A great white is one of those creatures that stirs in humans the most primitive of fears, even though we are statistically far more likely to die from a lightning bolt, a bee sting or a bowl of bad oysters.
Still, nothing livens a sluggish news day like one of those razor-toothed leviathans, hanging by its tail in a marina. (Photographers adroitly avoided showing the regurgitated stomach.)
Around the dead-shark shrine in Key Largo, the standard media question to wide-eyed onlookers was: "Does this make you afraid to go in the water?"
Correct answer: "No, but I'll think twice about slathering myself in squid blood and dangling off a size 9/0 hook overnight in the Gulf Stream."
As breathtaking as the sight of a dead i6-foot shark might be, the live ones are infinitely more awe-inspiring. They do not, however, hold quite so still for pictures.
Even in the "team coverage" it was seldom mentioned that sharks, an essential marine predator, are disappearing from our oceans. They're being slaughtered disgracefully for their fins, which are sold for big money to Asian markets.
The great white killed off of Key Largo was hoisted into the bed of a truck and hacked into pieces. Its dorsal and pectorals will someday season an expensive bowl of soup, consumed by a wealthy businessman hoping to bolster his sexual stamina.
An even less noble end awaits the remainder of the fish. Its jaws were sold to a collector, and a few hunks of flesh went to bystanders. The carcass had been lying around for so long, without ice, that a seafood house in Tavernier didn't want any part it.
Much of the great shark probably will turn up as chum, or as bait in crab traps.
But you won't see that part of the story on the news. Dead meat doesn't rate, without the jaws.
Corruption: Our growth industry
May 3, 1998
Miami civic leaders seem shellshocked by the announcement that Knight Ridder, parent company of the Herald, is moving its headquarters to Northern California.
I say: Adios, corporate weasels. Who needs you?
Oh, we really don't want to go—but we need to be in Silicon Valley with all that nifty, cutting-edge Internet technology.
Yeah, right. The truth is, Knight Ridder's gone soft. Thrown in the towel. Turned yellow. It isn't tough enough to handle Miami anymore.
So good riddance, cyberweenies. Enjoy your vineyards and your "majestic" redwoods and your scenic Pacific Coast Highway. We'll be just fine down here in the oppressive heat and the gunfire.
For too long South Florida has done back flips to impress major firms, only to have them desert the place or go bankrupt (sometimes more than once). It's time to focus more positively on a steady, dependable, homegrown enterprise.