I’m writing this with a 71-pound pit bull pressed against my side on the sofa. Full velcro-dog mode. He’s dreaming, twitching, and making those adorable snorting sounds that pit bulls do. His name is Remy, and he is categorically the least threatening creature on the planet.
How We Got Remy
We adopted Remy on February 29, 2024 — a leap day — which means his official adoption anniversary only comes around every four years. He gets one real anniversary for every four years of being a very good boy. This feels cosmically appropriate for a dog who does everything on his own timeline.
He was barely three years old and a lean 52 pounds when we brought him home. He’s now five and a solid 71 pounds of pure muscle and cuddles. That extra weight is all good food, regular exercise, and the comfort of knowing he has a forever home.
We don’t know much about his life before us. He and his brother were found as strays, he spent far too long at the Fulton County shelter (where Atlanta Lifeline Animal Advocates partners to foster and adopt dogs out), and when we met him he was a few months into a foster situation and experiencing love and a soft bed and his own chew toys for the first time in his life.
Two years in? He’s a completely different dog. Confident (mostly). Happy (definitely). And absolutely convinced that his primary purpose in life is to be as close to his people as physically possible at all times.
The Reality of Living with a Pit Bull
Here’s what they don’t tell you about pit bulls in all those scary news stories.
They’re afraid of the dumbest things. Remy is terrified of turtles. Not dogs three times his size. Not thunderstorms. Not the vacuum cleaner. Turtles. We discovered this on a walk when he spotted a box turtle on the creek path and immediately tried to climb into Zach’s arms like a cartoon character. This 71-pound muscular dog was convinced that a 4-inch turtle was a mortal threat.
He’s also afraid of falling leaves. Autumn is a nightmare for him. Every gust of wind that sends leaves skittering across the yard triggers a dramatic retreat to the safety of the deck, where he watches the leaves with deep suspicion until they stop moving.
They’re giant cuddle bugs. The velcro-dog reputation is real. Remy doesn’t just want to be near you. He wants to be ON you. Against you. Touching you at all times. Personal space is not a concept he understands or respects. If you sit down, you have acquired a 71-pound lap dog. This is non-negotiable.
They have surprising relationships with other animals. Remy has what I can only describe as a “bro relationship” with Finn, our orange tabby cat. They chase each other. They nap near each other. They touch noses in passing. It’s very “hey man, we’re cool.”
His relationship with Callie, our opinionated torbie cat, is entirely different. He treats her with the utmost respect due her station. When Callie wants the spot on the couch that Remy is occupying, Remy moves. When Callie gives him The Look, he backs off. He understands the hierarchy, and Callie is absolutely at the top of it.
Pitties want to be friends with everyone. Remy’s favorite activity is meeting new people. His tail wags so hard his entire back end wiggles. He does this thing where he gets so excited he can’t figure out what to do with all the excitement, so he just vibrates and makes weird snorting happy noises. It’s simultaneously adorable and slightly concerning if you don’t know him.
He goes to doggy daycare once a week and he knows that Tuesday is the day. Every Tuesday morning, he waits by the door, vibrating with anticipation until it’s time to leave. When we pick him up, the staff always tells us what a good boy he was, how well he played with the other dogs, how much they love having him. He comes home exhausted and happy, which is exactly the point. (And shoutout to Barker Lounge in Alpharetta for being an awesome doggie daycare and taking great care of Remy!)
Remy’s Quirks and Habits
Beyond the fears and the cuddling, Remy has some very specific preferences and behaviors.
He’s a world-class chewer. Shoes must be carefully guarded at all times. I’ve gone through three pairs of slippers and one pair of UGGs (RIP) since we’ve had him. Every single time, I thought I’d put them somewhere safe. I was wrong. He’s methodical about it; he doesn’t destroy them in a frenzy, he just systematically removes pieces until they’re unwearable. It’s almost impressive. He always eats the left slipper. If he’d just eat one left and one right, I could live with mismatched slippers. But it’s always the left one.
Paper towels are his second favorite thing to destroy. Never, ever leave a roll of paper towels anywhere he can reach them. He will unroll the entire thing, shred it into confetti, and distribute it throughout the house like the world’s messiest parade. We’ve learned this lesson multiple times. We’re slow learners.
He has a bizarre relationship with his food bowl. When he eats, he pushes the entire bowl around the house while he’s eating from it. Sometimes we find it under the dining table. Sometimes it’s migrated into the kitchen. One day I found it at the foot of the stairs. I have no idea why he can’t eat out of the bowl where it’s supposed to be, in the spot we put it every single day. This is just how Remy eats now. We’ve accepted it.
Creek walks are full of contradictions. When we walk along the creek, Remy chases every deer and squirrel he sees. Every single one. With great enthusiasm and zero success. I’m pretty sure the wildlife knows he’s not actually a threat; they barely bother moving out of his way anymore. He loves to drink the creek water (which, gross, but try stopping a determined pit bull). But he hates getting his feet wet. So there’s this whole complicated dance where he has to set up to reach the water without actually stepping in it.
Weather is a whole production. If it’s raining? Forget it. He will hold it for hours rather than go outside in the rain. There’s a meme that perfectly captures this: “I have a pit bull and as soon as he has his Benadryl, and puts on his pajamas, and assuming it’s not cold or raining outside … you’re doomed.” Remy does take Benadryl and Apoquel for his allergies and eats a chicken-free diet, so the meme is pretty accurate. If you break into our house on a warm, dry evening before medication time, you might encounter a dog who barks once and then wants to show you his toys. Terrifying.
But cold weather? That’s different. Cold weather energizes him. The colder it gets, the faster the zoomies. When it’s below freezing, Remy transforms into a speed demon tearing around the yard at full tilt, bouncing off trees, doing victory laps, absolutely delighted with life. Winter is his season.
He has a very specific doorbell routine. When someone comes to the door, Remy announces their arrival with a couple of loud, deep “boof” sounds that probably scare the delivery person. Then he immediately wants pets and a treat. That’s the deal. Someone knocked, he alerted the household, he’s owed snacks. It’s only fair.
His morning Greenie is non-negotiable. If he doesn’t get his morning dental chew, it’s a tragedy of epic proportions. He will stare at the cabinet where they’re kept. He will huff. He does the tippy-tap dance. He will give you the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen. The entire household routine cannot proceed until Remy gets his Greenie. We’ve learned not to fight this battle.
Why a Pit Bull
We didn’t specifically choose a pit bull. We chose Remy. He happened to be a pit bull. But knowing what we know now, we’d do it again in a heartbeat – the stigma and the insurance complications and the people crossing the street and all of it. Because the pit bulls I’ve known have been some of the sweetest, silliest, most loving dogs I’ve ever encountered. Remy has taught us that reputation and reality are two very different things, which is a lesson I apparently needed a 71-pound dog to really drive home.
They’re strong dogs who need training and exercise and owners willing to advocate for them. But if you’re up for that? You will never, ever lack for company on the couch again.
Just don’t leave your slippers out.
P.S. As I finish writing this, Remy has shifted position so he’s now shoved his big block head into my lap, making typing difficult. He’s still twitching and dreaming, probably about butterflies or that one time he saw a turtle. He weighs a thousand pounds and I can’t feel my legs.
P.P.S. His birthday was April 8 and he turned 5. He absolutely expected a fuss to be made, and we made one.
P.P.P.S. The left slipper. Every time. I don’t understand it either.
