Dale peels the sleeve of his black T-shirt up to show two semicircles of jagged scar where a pit bull sank his teeth deep into the meat of his shoulder and back.

He’d been inspecting progress on the new bathroom he’s building on the old side porch of his southwest Baltimore home. It was quarter to seven in the evening, after dark in early March. He was working through the next steps in his mind, figuring out how to move heavy fixtures from the garage to the house.

Like many in the city, the house had one small bathroom. Baltimore was the last major city to install a sewer system, having open sewers until the rebuilding effort after the great fire of 1904. Homes built before then lacked indoor plumbing. In many Baltimore rowhouses bathrooms are an architectural afterthought, a small room in the rear of the house tacked onto a kitchen or bedroom.

While trying to attract as little attention as possible, Dale worked evenings and weekends to enclose and insulate the porch, install wiring and plumbing. The goodies were in the garage – a solid top double vanity with a backsplash, and a deep whirlpool tub large enough for a substantial man. “I like to swim in a tub,” he says, gesturing to where tiled steps will lead to his grand pleasure pool.

Getting the tub in the structure before the last wall is finished would be a trick. Flashlight in hand, Dale was eyeballing spaces and distances when one of two pit bulls next door worked his snout through a gap in the fence, chomped down on his shoulder and yanked hard, shoving Dale back against the fence.

The next-door yard, at a higher elevation, put the dogs almost at eye level. A few inches to the right, and the dog would have had a good grip around Dale’s neck.

“Hurt like a goddamned bitch, but I didn’ t move,” he says. “He had me good, holding me back against the fence. I just didn’t want him to shake his head.” Unable to reach his tools, he used the only thing in hand — the flashlight – to smack the dog’s snout as hard as he could. The dog let go.

Police were called. Dale has experience with cops. Invited to court eight times, with five dismissals and three convictions for petty offenses. Now a 42-year-old homeowner, those wild days are long gone. “I’m 20 years older than I was then,” he says. A little rough around the edges but good people, as they say, Dale is the sort of working class bedrock on which this city is built.

In court, the neighbor’s lawyer argued that Dale riled up the dogs with his flashlight, nevermind the missing plank in the fence that allowed the dog’s teeth to reach beyond the property line. There was no satisfaction. Worse, within days the building inspector knocked at Dale’s door, asking about permits.

“I want them dead,” Dale curses between drags of his cigarette. “I want the dogs dead. I want to burn the house down.”

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