In all the Walt Disney movies, dogs and kids go happily into the sunset together, and we the audience feel good. This is as it should be; all is right with the world.

Yet, how many of us drive by and watch a dog laden with chains leashed to a bike and a boy, the boy pedaling, and the dog dragging, the temperature hitting 85 and the dog's tongue hitting the pavement. Dogs do not sweat. The only thing keeping them cool is their panting; that's why when they get overheated, they stop short wherever they are and sit. They need to cool down or die.

Have any of you ever tried to explain this to a pit bull owner? "He's OK," "Toughen him up a little." Of course they're swigging it down out of a bottle, but that don't make no never mind. They got the dog to be tough for them. So as it happens, this blog is dedicated to a young dog (under a year) who's fallen on hard times.

"Dear Fire, I remember you as the most beautiful of beautiful animals. Even though you were but a week old and your eyes were not yet open. You practically glowed in the dark. Your coat was the color of flame and your small self was absolutely perfect. People carried you around in their pocketbooks and fed you with a special puppy bottle. We all chipped in for food and shots. And then we settled back and watched the milestones. Eyes opening up, solid food, paper training, a lot of love given and received.

But the first home didn't work out ("too much mess") and so with much trepidation, the original owner took the dog to his mom's house. And that was good. Two teenage boys, good food. Again lots of love. "We never hit him once," said one of the teens. But then the mother there didn't want him anymore and Fire was back on the road.

This time, he wound up at a single female's apartment who had just lost her own dog.

But, this was not a good scenario. Last week, I stopped by and Fire ran to the car. You have to understand, this dog has a face that is as expressive as any human's. And his brow got all wrinkly and he cocked his head to one side and then the other. He sniffed the air, his funny tail started thwacking and whoa, he was joy personified as he came to the car. I should have opened the door and let him in. I did not think quickly enough. All the children were calling, "Fire, Fire," and one of the teenage boys was holding his breath as he saw what was going to happen. The woman in question didn't feel the dog came as quickly as she would like him to. I remind you, he was in no danger, he never left the sidewalk. She grabbed him and struck him such blows with her fist and kicked him in the rib cage, then picked him up by his front paw, hauled him up the stairs and threw him in the house.

We all sat there stunned. I mean, it was as if we had been the ones who had been beaten.

And then, the teen said in the saddest voice in the world, "He was only coming to see me; we never hit him not once." And then, "I miss him."

And it's like Fire is a euphemism for our kids. They see soft, fuzzy loving creatures misused and hurt and there was never a reason to abuse these sweet, loving creatures. And they see these animals gradually change and become confused and frightened and then vicious. And the children learn to run away from instead of toward these same creatures they used to love so much. And when a dog gets off his leash and runs toward QUEST, they all scream and run and hide.

And one day, the children grow up and get a puppy and there they are training it to be a fighting animal. A robot dog who lives in fear and fury, and the young men think that they know what makes a man: master and control, and taking no dissing from anybody. And so, they beat their dog, and get high and trash the apartment, and hit their wives and use the respect word against the kids when they take the belt to them.

"The only way to make 'em listen is to beat the bejeezus out of them."

And I remember again what Dr. Portia Jones said. "When you hit your kids they learn that someone who loves them can hurt them."

You see hitting people you love is OK. All right. Part of the plan to make them a man. Or a real woman, for that matter.

I remember just last week a 3-year-old boy running the other way when his dad was calling him. And then stopping as his father was coming after him with his fist raised. This child put his hands in front of his face and he looked for a minute just like Fire when his new owner kicked him.

Life is, after all, just a circle game and what goes around, comes around; yes it does, in all actuality, come around. We must remember we do not own anyone, human or animal. We are just lucky to have their presence in our life for such a little while.

Bless the beasts and children!