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Friedman is the kind of guy who will, even though he has far too many chores to complete in any given day, stop in the lobby of Animal Care and Control to discuss, in detail, the condition of a wounded bird.
"You did the right thing," Friedman says to the boy who brought in the bird, cuffing him on the head, before going off to a meeting.
Last year, as Friedman stared into the eyes of three helpless pit pups on death row, something inside him snapped. For months, he had been increasingly uncomfortable whenever he tried to justify his agency's policy of pit bull genocide. Even though they had been owned by a family known for dogfighting, when those three pups came in, Friedman just couldn't do it anymore.
The old softie had a hell of a time convincing his staff that some pit bulls deserved to live.
His deputy, Feazell, is 110 percent cop. She's all about catching bad guys and making them pay. Bad guys fight pit bulls; making them pay includes seizing and then killing their dogs.
Friedman's investigative chief, Capt. Vicki Guldbech, holds the same beliefs. Guldbech likes few things better than staring down a pit-bull fighter, letting him know, in absolutely certain terms, that she is about to make his life hellish. Guldbech cusses and uses phrases like "a tall drink of water" to describe suspects.
Guldbech and Feazell had such strong objections to pit bull rehabilitation that Friedman -- whom they consider not just a boss, but a friend -- almost had to order them to comply with the rescue program.
The objections were not unreasonable: Pits are like no other dogs.
First, there is the matter of sheer physical power. It's not hyperbolic to think of pit bulls as sharks with paws. Once a pit attacks, the only useful response is overwhelming force. A pit bull attacked police horses last month in Golden Gate Park, and the officers had one choice: shoot to kill. If you don't have a break-stick when a pit bull latches on, you're most likely mauled. Or dead.
Then, there's the mental aspect. Deep in its mind, Feazell believes, every pit contains a trigger that no other dog possesses. If the trigger is pulled, the dog turns into a killer.
And no one at Animal Care and Control or anywhere else can change the hair-trigger nature of the dog.
Through its experimental form of temperament testing, Animal Care and Control is trying to change the dogs' environment -- that is, their owners. The new program takes pit bulls from the thugs and losers who slather over blood sport and turns the dogs over to honorable human beings. The agency isn't, therefore, trying to change the breed of dog; it's attempting to radically alter the breed of dog owners.
It's a somewhat heroic effort, and one you come to appreciate if you've ever cuddled with a pit pup who's all tongue and love. But there's an awful truth hanging over the program: If at any point one of the adopted pits falls into the wrong hands, if by hook or crook a gangbanger or dogfighter gets hold of one of the newly adopted pits, violence or death could occur. And, statistics suggest, the victim likely as not will be a child.
The responsibility for releasing a pit bull was so awesome that Friedman had to assure his officers and fellow administrators he would accept complete legal and moral responsibility if anything ever went wrong.
So far, all of the pits and pit mixes adopted through the Animal Care and Control program -- all 70 of them -- are in good homes and haven't hurt a soul.
So far.
Once a pit passes the Animal Control temperament test, it usually is sent to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, which places the vast majority of pits adopted in San Francisco. (Some are adopted directly through Animal Control, but limited space forces the agency to send most pits to the SPCA.)
Both the city agency and the nonprofit society put potential pit-bull "parents" through the ringer. The pit fancier has to ask permission from neighbors to own the breed. Current and former employers are called. Three references, minimum, are required. Criminal records are checked. Obedience classes are mandatory. An SPCA official or Animal Control officer visits the home and checks to see if fences are high enough to prevent escape or theft, if the house is clean enough, if there is evidence of interest in dogfighting. (No one said dogfighters were smart; recently, a home visit found dogfighting magazines strewn around one prospective pit-bull adopter's home.)
If an adopter passes his temperament test, he is fingerprinted and photographed with the new pit bull, into which a microchip is then inserted. The chip contains the owner's name, address, and phone number and is hot-wired to a national database on pit bulls and their owners.
The chances that a pit bull will reach the microchip-and-photo-session stage are not good. The overwhelming majority of pits don't even get to take the Animal Control temperament test.
If a dog has scars, it dies. If it's found at a fight, or with other dogs known to be fighters, it dies. The process is unforgiving. It has to be.
Each week, Animal Care and Control receives at least five new pit bulls. At any given time, at least half the dogs in Animal Control kennels, waiting for the needle or the test, are pit bulls. Several hundred American pit bull terriers are destroyed here each month.
The first question asked about a stray pit bull when it lands at Animal Control is, "Where was it picked up?" If the dog comes in from an area known for dogfighting -- if it comes from the Valencia Gardens housing projects at 15th and Valencia streets, for example -- there is a huge strike against it.
