Don't Give Me Any Bull, But Give Me A Bulldog Anytime

I love bulldogs.

I don't even care what kind of bulldog.

When I was a toddler, and on into childhood, we had a Boxer Bulldog named Jinx. I have thought a lot about her in the last little while because of the book I am currently writing. She was fawn with a black  mask. My mother tells me when I was very small, they could let me play in the yard without watching me too closely, because Jinx babysat. If she thought I was getting too close to the street, she'd grab the back of my diaper and pull me back into the yard.

Up into my adult life, I thought Jinx was a boy. We were talking about Jinx at the super table one night, and I called Jinx a he. My daddy looked at me like I was crazy and informed me Jinx had been a girl. He shook his head at me, hardly believing I didn't know.

Well, I didn't.

Our neighbor, two doors down, had a male Boxer (for sure). I think his name was Winston. My parents used to love to tell the story of me slipping off from the watch care of one grandfather and going to the grocery store down the street, owned by my other grandfather. This of course, scared grandfather number one and made him angry. As he was marching me back to his house, holding me firmly by the hand, Winston trotted up to us and took my grandfather's hand in his mouth. I was crying, he was being stern, and I think the  Boxer just decided to be on the safe side he would supervise the whole thing. He didn't like the way my grandfather was handling me, but on the other hand, he knew him and didn't want to react too harshly. The dog wouldn't let go until my grandfather got us back to the house.

My daddy had Pit bulldogs off and on all his life. Most of them were gentle, intelligent animals. Only one in my memory became too territorial and Daddy had to get rid of  him because we lived in a rather congested area and he became fearful the dog was going to bite someone who came too close to the house.

I  have pictures of my daddy at different ages when he was a kid, and he's always  hanging on to some white Pit.

I have a picture taken sometime in the early 1900's or late 1800's. I don't know the people's names, but I know they belong to my daddy's side of the family. There's a white Pit in the picture.

The last car my daddy owned was one of those "land yachts" of a Cadillac. I was visiting them one day and parked behind his car. I noticed his white Pit, (notice a trend here?) Snowman (my brother's named the poor dog when they were little) was asleep, with his head snuggled up to the rear tire of Daddy's car.

Just as I started to get out of my car, Daddy came out the door and motioned me back in my car, saying he had to run to town. He got in the Caddy, cranked it up and his tail lights came on.

I freaked out, seeing what was about to happen, as the dog had never moved. I screamed, blew my horn frantically, but it happened anyway.

Daddy ran over Snowman's head. As Daddy rolled over the dog's head, he realized what had happened, stopped the car, and leaped out, white as a sheet.

I got out of my car, crying hysterically.

Snowman got up, shook his head, growled at my daddy and stalked off. Pouting over the incident, he would have nothing to do with  my daddy for over a week. But the dog finally forgave him.

Right after my  husband and I got married, we purchased a female Boxer, named Samantha. Of course we called her Sam. She was sharp, sweet and 'my dog' for sure. A few years later, Husband rescued a male Boxer from the dump, who was nearly starved to death. We named him Buster. He was dumb as a box of rocks, but lovable. Sam was the boss from the start. Buster died from cancer at age eleven, but Sam lived on till she was almost fifteen years old.

I remember when we brought our newborn daughter home, Sam became guard and nursemaid. She wouldn't let Buster near the baby for weeks. He stayed cowed behind a chair almost the whole time, trying to figure out what the heck was going on.

One day Sam came out of the woods with a wallet in her mouth and dropped it at Husband's feet. We called the owner and he came and got his wallet, fascinated that Sam had done the right thing, when a lot of people would not have.

The day she died I got home from work and noticed she was lying half under Husband's car. She never did that, and I found it odd. She looked so sweet from a distance, her cobby head resting between her paws. But as I got closer, I realized she had died.

The next dog we were blessed with was a Bull Mastiff. At a 127 pounds, she was a giant of a dog and her heart was about as big. She was the smartest dog I've ever had, and I do believe if God had "loosened her jaw" she could have carried on quite a conversation. Belle was a good girl. She terrified people, even if she was asleep on the porch. I have several funny stories of grown men practically weeping at the sight of her.

Then, for a brief five months, we had a giant Boxer named Sampson. He weighed in at 95 pounds, which is huge for a Boxer. He was absolutely stunning. He'd never been socialized or house trained and he was already seven years old. But he took to all that like a duck takes to water. He was a real clown, and kept us laughing. He loved to hear Clay Aiken sing "Solitaire" in the car. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP: After the long note that Clay sings in the middle of the song, Sampson would press the re-wind button and listen to it again. I have witnesses to this, people.

Sampson was stolen from our front yard, being left alone less than five minutes.

Probably by Clay Aiken.

Next came Molly. She was an American Bulldog. Half white face, half black face (except the black side gradually whitened with age). She was white with black spots, sort of Dalmatian like. She weighed about 110 pounds, was low slung and broad, and loved the cats.But she hated dogs.

When Molly passed away last year, I fully planned on another Bull Mastiff. But I was caught off guard by Husband who found a free nine month old American Bulldog named Bonnie. For the first three months she drove me crazy. She was almost a feral dog, having known nothing but a ten by ten pen with an aggressive brother.

After those few months of agony, she has settled. She weighs around 85 pounds and is still growing.

Who knows what will be in our future? I want a Dogue de Bordeaux but they cost. A lot.

If you don't care for dogs, you are now in a zombie like trance, never to be resuscitated.

But if you are like me, I hope you have a smile on your face.

There's a Saint Bernard Behind Every Bush

Okay, first of all, we had power failure just before noon yesterday. My husband got the generator up and running for about two hours then it just....stopped.

He couldn't figure out what was wrong, plus it was getting dark, and with hope in our hearts (ha!), we just used poor battery fed lighting, "caught up water" and knew we had a flush in each toilet. We went to bed EARLY, and I was thankful our house wasn't cold... yet.

We also got up EARLY. The sun was trying to rise, the dog was risen and yearning to go out - she went to bed early too, ya know.

My husband broke a rule. The one that starts "I'll never, ever do that again."

He did it again.

He let our American Bulldog, Molly, out the door, unleashed. He said, and I quote, "I looked both ways twice and as soon as I let her in the yard the neighbor lady and her Saint Bernard appeared from behind the bush by our fence."

We ain't got a bush that big.

I  heard the commotion from upstairs WITHOUT my hearing aids. I didn't see anything, and my husband wanted me to wait until we sat down with our coffee to share the story.

We got a fire started in the fireplace first, because we had no other heat, and I heated up yesterday's coffee in a pan on our gas stove.

It was better than nothing.

Apparently, the rest of the story goes like this: Molly, in her bulldog way, barked and growled herself right up to the Saint Bernard, who only outweighs her by, say, 140 pounds. For some odd reason, the Saint Bernard didn't take kindly to this, and they began to scuffle.

Unfortunately, the Saint Bernard was on a leash ( with the wife not the husband, of course). The Saint Bernard outweighs the woman by, say, 140 pounds.

Since all this took place to the left of our house in the road, and my husband said he was hollering at Molly, it took him a moment to realize our neighbor was "laying on the ground".

Now, my husband, being the empathetic counselor he has always been, became concerned. He was concerned he was going to jail, to quote the man.

After asking about her welfare (finally), probably in a Don Knots voice, he found out she hadn't fallen, she had decided that if she laid down she might be able to stop her dog easier.

You seen, her Saint Bernard has the same level of obedience as our dog. That is to say, none.

When the dust cleared, no one was hurt. The dogs postured and snapped a little. Molly got a scratch on her belly from the grappling contest.

My husband says he has learned his lesson and he "will never, ever do that again."

I refer you back to paragraph four.