I'm a hero, but nothing like the pure breed type that graduate from prestigious schools. Those upper crusted canines had three square meals, daily teeth brushing and discipline mixed with affection to prime them. I'm not ashamed to admit I received my training on the streets of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens. Learned life's lessons on concrete, hard times, and tough luck. Yet, I do not hold any resentment about it, and am a firm believer in destiny. The good and the bad, just roll with the paw punches, I always say.

I come from a long line of Boxers, Dobermans and Bull Mastiffs. I once heard someone say there was Husky in me, especially around the eyes and hair. Maybe that's why all those Park Avenue bitches love to nuzzle my chest, saying "My fur is so sexy and warm." Woof.

My mother gave me away when I was a runt. We meant nothing to her. Being fifty six, her third litter by rape, and from Hell's Kitchen, she had her own demons to contend with. If I close my eyes and sniff, I can still remember her scent and curling against her legs with my brothers. Over the years I understood she was a victim of animal cruelty as well, and I forgave her.

By the time I was six months old I was full grown and black as charcoal. I scared the shit out of any one who laid eyes one me. Yet, no-one took the time to see I was gentle as a lamb, never bit or growled, just wanted to play fetch like any other pup.

Still, they beat me when I barked, needed to be walked, or went for days without food. In my first year I was dumped from shelter to shelter,until I ran away for good. The street is where I could take care of myself, had control, was free to live life my way. Yet I never imagined I'd become a local hero. That was ten years ago, almost to the day.

I could feel the heat filter through the top of the cardboard box I'd slept in. It was early morning, and I figured I'd head over to my local hang out, Battery park. Usually a passed out drunk, or two left a bit of beer in a can for me to knock over and lap up. Stretching my hind legs, on the dry grass I smiled, funny because six months ago I was sliding on ice and eating frozen food behind Ming Garden.

My ears shot up when I heard the faint whimper of a canine and menacing laughter. Now who could that be so early in the morning? It didn't sound like the regular dog walkers.

I turned and saw a teacup Maltese tied with rope to a tree. He was around twenty-one immaculately puffed groomed and wearing a diamond collar. Making him appear more toy than he already was. Christ, his toe nails were even painted. I never understood why grown women would demasculinize their male dogs in such a way. Wasn't castration bad enough? Luckily, I'd never been cut down there, and at seventy was proud to say I was still considered a bitches man.

Three teenage boys were circled around him. From where I was, I noticed one had a B.B. gun, the other a taser and the short kid held a video camera. By the looks on their pimpled faces, they had been having a great time torturing that poor pooch. I wouldn't be surprised if this pet was one of their own. With video games, the Internet, and hyperactivity disorders, the young generation is heading straight down the toilet. Anything goes for a thrill these days.

The defenseless Maltese bared it's tiny teeth in a meager attempt to scare them. The boy with the gun aimed it, and let out a shot. The pooch howled, and collapsed on the grass. As if shot myself, I felt that pain. It resurrected the physical, psychological and verbal abuse I struggled to keep buried with the bones I find. Immediately springing into action, I tore across the lawn like a banshee, and took a defiant stance in front of the perpetrators.

The punks eyes became the size of golf balls. The one with the B.B. gun fired several rounds at me. I rose on my hind legs and let the pimple size pellets bounce off me like rubber. I growled and barked like a rabid animal as they inched back terrified. Their blood drained faces almost made me burst with laughter. Even though they deserved to have their rotten asses ripped open, I wouldn't harm the fleas that bit me.

I bore my grey Husky eyes into them, dug my meaty paws into the grass and crouched as if ready to leap. And leap I did, so quick for my age, it surprised me. I landed on the kid with the video camera. Snapping my jaws and letting thick spittle hang in a three inch line directly above his parted lips. He stammered, "Niiccee doogggy." The other two froze, then tore off running into the park.

It was pathetic, challenge a bully, and they cower where they stand. I snarled and breathed in his face. His scrawny body tighten and his eyes roll back. I figured he fainted, or was intelligent enough to play dead.

Sniffing his body I realized I hadn't relieved myself this morning, I rose my hind leg and proceeded to mark my territory on his face, hair and head. My idea of canine justice in this dog eat dog world. I turned, and saw the Maltese had a lopsided grin on his busted lip. Hold on little fellow. Catching a glint of gold, I went over and inspected his name tag. In script it read, Rufus V. Kennedy the First, residing on the Upper East Side, Manhattan. His vaccinations were all up to date.

This was one spoiled pet, probably served table food on a satin pillow and bottled water every night. I know the upper class spare no expense when it comes to their pets. I envisioned his pack now, sobbing, filling out a missing persons report, posting flyers, and holding vigils for a safe return.

Taking his tiny body gently in my teeth, I lifted him and secured Rufus in my mouth. Knowing it was damn dangerous, I galloped like a war horse down the street. There was a twenty-four hour vet center up ahead. I know the place well, they give out bacon treats during Christmas time.

I wasn't surprised to see the usual traffic jam ahead. A gypsy cab driver was blocking the lane as a woman slowly loaded packages in the cab. Cars were honking, people were hanging out of their car windows cursing up a storm. Fully aware of the danger, I took a chance and leapt on top of the cab, scaring both them into hopping into the car and screeching off off. I'll bet they never moved so fast in their life. The rest was easy, people stepped aside like the parting of the red sea when they saw me coming.

Upon arriving at the center, I set Rufas down, and barked like mad. Before I knew it, the kind faced employees, burst threw the front door. They picked up Rufus, then stared at me with sympathetic eyes. Probably wondering how those burns and scars on my back came to be. No-one ever looked at me that way. I wanted to melt in their arms, let them love me the way things were meant to be. This was the feeling I sought every day. After all, I was born to be man's best friend.

Still I kept my distance, about to bolt. Not because of mistrust, but I knew damn well if they got their paws on me, they'd be poking and prodding and in places I only let the bitches sniff. Rufus was carried in, and I thought I saw his tiny leg wave at me. I shook it off, maybe I was seeing things. It was no use getting soft in my old age, plus my eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be.

With the rescue task completed, I turned and headed back to Battery park. By the position of the sun, I guessed it to be about eleven. Hoping the Rastafarians were out, I quickened my pace. I considered them my pack. They played the best music, and I loved inhaling what they smoked. It had a tranqilizing effect on me, made me stretch my hind limbs, relax and reflect on, why bad things happen to good dogs. Maybe one day I'll write my memiors, sell them to the Paws Press, make a million. Then again, who'd believe it.

I ain't getting any younger. Sooner or later I'll die, and meet my Maker. Finally get all of the answers to this miserable life I'd been destined to, because the say all doggies go to heaven. For now I'll have to be content with picking up scraps from the street and sniffing all the bitches in designer outfits as they go by. Knowing damn well their snootie Mommies will never let them associate with the likes of a dog with a mug like mine.

I watched the sun climb the orange haze. Another unbearable scorcher. I was sweating and smelled like a beast. Couldn't even remember the last time I had a decent bath. Hopefully some kid will open a hydrant, cool all of us animals off... Until then I'll chalk this up to another Dog Day Afternoon.