Open Writing

Contrary to common folklore, the Boxer Rebellion had nothing whatsoever to do with Charlton Heston.

As is so often the case when scuttlebutt and the passage of time join forces to reshape history (the rumors linking Lizzie Borden and the dairy company come to mind), the genesis of the bizarre "connection" between the Academy Award-winning actor and the historical event is fuzzy at best. Like bad habits, however, and despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, myths have a way of persisting.

In fact, the incident involved a particularly disruptive strike in the summer of 1919 on the part of the canine residents of the world's largest Boxer breed kennel, located then as now in White Fang, Saskatchewan, Canada. At issue, reports of the day indicated, were "feeding hours, general sanitation, and other grievances."

The strike erupted quite unexpectedly on an otherwise normal Wednesday morning. Before the walk-out would finally be settled, six troublesome months would pass, during which time the community of Moose Jaw would become appallingly divided over issues that seemed to grow uglier with each passing day.

One side loudly claimed that outside agitators were responsible for the fuss, pointing to the "sudden influx of New York types" as evidence of their accusations. (In the less hysterical light of retrospection, it was discovered that only one New Yorker, a churn-maker from Oswego, had come to Moose Jaw during the entire episode; furthermore, that he was utterly dispassionate when it came to dogs).

The opposing side - technically, the canines themselves, although represented by a battery of SPCA lawyers (they were from New York!) - charged, among other things, that sanitation was "woefully inadequate," and that the daily gruel on which the dogs were expected to subsist was "not even of a quality fit for cats!" (The reader might accurately surmise that Saskatchewan is emphatically not cat country!).

After several months of back and forth bickering, arbitration seemed the only possible answer to the tenacious deadlock. Local Mounties, having declared a state of emergency, called upon the venerable Canadian Canine Board to mediate. Even this proved fruitless after several weeks, however, and tension in the small community continued to mount.

Threats of violence, virtually unheard of in the close-knit community up until that time, became commonplace, and a particularly naive view was taken by many concerning the altogether normal behavior of certain male Boxers accused of crossing imaginary "picket" lines to reach attractive females on the opposite side.

At the end of four full months, the situation had taken on an air of hopelessness. Neither side seemed willing to give an inch, and saturnine grumblings continued to spoil many an otherwise sunny day - not to mention friendships of long-standing. One local resident, a crop-duster named MacKenzie Furlong, summed up the feelings of the area's numerous unaffiliated, commenting simply: "Sad day, eh?" It was, in the vernacular of the region, a mouthful.

Also marring reality were dire predictions of possible future ramifications, including the cracker-brained rantings of one local eccentric who put forth the dotty notion that, "this sort of pervasive strike mentality is someday gonna spread to public servants and professional athletes, just wait and see." He, of course, was ignored by both sides.

Just when it seemed that things could not possibly get worse, the inevitable law of the mischievous Murphy descended like a quilted plague on Moose Jaw. First, the town reservoir, source of the area's entire water supply, was found to be contaminated with (of all things!) Blue Heron droppings. Moose Jaw, already fuming over the continuing Boxer Rebellion, suddenly found itself without drinking water.

It was at this precarious point that the local brewery, deserted for lack of potable water, caught fire, burning to a flat raven crisp quicker than the local volunteers could say "barley and hops."

To say that both sides were thoroughly disheartened would have been considerably understating the case at that sorry moment. Somehow, with decent water unavailable and the town brewery gone, the will to carry on the fight rather quickly evaporated. Predictably, the plight of a few recalcitrant dogs came into saner perspective, and an earlier-suggested possible solution, thought too radical by many at the time, was immediately implemented.

Within twenty-four hours, local officials, acting with an accord that more resembled impetuosity, had imported fifty male Pit Bull Terriers of exceptionally bad temperament from an illegal breeder in the Wisconsin dells. Within forty-five minutes of their sullen arrival in Moose Jaw, violence had subsided completely and the six-month nightmare was summarily quelled.

Within a week, the reservoir had been thoroughly disinfected, within a month the brewery rebuilt from scratch. The community had returned, bruised and only slightly bowed, to normal.

Such it was, subsequent fictional accounts notwithstanding, that the true chronicle of the Boxer Rebellion came to an end.

Pit Bulls, by the way, gain their name from the fact that their entire diet consists of cherry and peach pits, the resulting constipation from which makes their eyes squint.