Just read this in my book

When Samuel looked like that, it meant he’d had a bad day. Someone had died or been crippled, and he hadn’t been able to fix it.  
He took his cooked pancakes and sat down at the table beside Adam. After dousing his meal in maple syrup, he stopped moving. Just looked at the pool of liquid sugar as if it held the secrets of the universe.  
He shook his head. “I guess my eyes were bigger than my appetite.” He dumped the food in the garbage disposal and ran it like he’d enjoy stuffing a person down it.  
“So what is it this time?” I asked. “‘Johnny fell down and broke his arm’ or ‘my wife ran into a door’?”  
“Baby Ally got bitten by their pit bull,” he growled, flipping the switch so the disposal quieted. In an artificially high-pitched voice, he said, “‘But Iggy’s so good. Sure he’s bitten me a couple of times. But he’s always adored Ally. He watches her while I shower.’ ” He walked off a little steam, then said, in his own voice, “You know, it’s not the pit bulls. It’s the people who own them. The kind of people who want a pit bull are the very last people who should have a dog. Or a child. Who leaves a two-year-old alone with a dog that’s already killed a puppy? So now the dog dies, the girl gets reconstructive surgery and will probably still have scars—and her idiot mother, who caused it all, goes unpunished.”  
“Her mom will probably feel bad for the rest of her life,” I ventured. “It’s not jail time, but she’ll be punished.”  
Samuel gave me a look under his brows. “She’s too busy making sure everyone knows it wasn’t her fault. By the time she’s through, people will be sympathizing with her.”  
“Same thing happened with German shepherds a couple of decades ago,” said Adam.  
“Then Dobermans and Rottweilers. And the ones who suffer are the kids and the dogs.  

Usually, Joel and I talked cars, but today he had other things on his mind.
“—so this guy comes by my house this morning, knocks on my door to see if we had any pit bulls for sale—and then he points at my wife’s prizewinning bitch, and says, ‘Like that one.’” Joel set the part he’d come to pick up on the nearest counter and leaned against it while he watched me work.
“That’s a problem?” I asked, because he was obviously pretty hot about it. I knew werewolves, not dogs, at least not at his level.
He nodded. “It told me right up front I was dealing with someone who didn’t know anything about dogs. Aruba—that is Arocha’s White Princess Aruba to you—is an American Staffordshire terrier. Amstaffs look a bit like the American pit bull, but any dog fancier can tell the difference. Someone had apparently told him we had pit bulls, and he needed one to guard his house and do some fighting for him—and he gives me a wink.” Joel grimaced. “A wink. Freaking dog fighters. They think it makes them macho to take their loyal dogs and get them all chewed up. To me, it just shows that they aren’t worthy of having a dog. I told him not right now and asked him for his number, in case something turned up.” Joel handed me an extension for my ratchet before I could reach for it.
“So he gives me the number”—he continued in the same aggravated tones—“the freaking moron. And then I ask him where he’s found fighting dogs, acted as though I might want to get in on the action. Damn fool was happy to tell me. As soon as he was gone, I called the police. Second dog-fighting outfit I’ve turned in since Christmas. If it were up to me, I’d shoot all those bastards, no trial, no nothing.”
“Or make them go fight it out in the pit with each other,” Tad offered from the next bay over.
“And shoot the last man standing,” I agreed. “Good for you, Joel.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You know what really chaps my hide, though? Someone told him to look at me for dogs. Someone, sometime got a dog from me and is involved in dog fighting. If I ever find out who it is, I’ll take my dog back and hope he objects.”