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I Don't Understand I joined your family when I was still a baby. Still small, still cute, still huggable. Your grandkids loved me. They took me everywhere, they showed me off to the world. Me. I wasn't just a dog, I was their dog. They were my kids. I devoted my life to them, vowing that I would protect them with every fiber of my being, until my very last breath. Why? I didn't understand then.
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It didn't take long for me to get bigger, stronger more powerful. I was no longer small, I was no longer cute, I was no longer huggable. The rest of your family didn't like me. But I didn't hold it against them, and when they visited I even tried to lick their faces. They never let me. I heard the words "pitbull" and "dangerous" far too often, though I didn't understand what they meant. Their kids weren't like my kids. They didn't want to play, or wrestle. They didn't want to pet me, or hug me. They were scared of me, and I didn't know why...