Our dog before our dog Molly was Belle. She was a Bull Mastiff and the smartest dog we've ever had. If God had "unlocked her jaw" I believe her conversation would have been quite intelligent.
However; she was absolutely, stark raving terrified of thunder storms. She would run to the bathroom and get in the bathtub and hyperventilate. Of all the places to run, the bathtub, as you know, ain't the smartest place to be. I tried to tell her she was likely to get struck by lightning in there, but she wouldn't listen. ( And you try moving a 127 pound dog from where she wants to be.)
I thought logically as to why in the heck she'd choose the bathtub, and realized it was because it was a contained space.
So the minute she started getting antsy, we ran and closed the bathroom doors, and I opened the pantry door. She was fine with this. It was a small, contained space with no windows. I left the door cracked a little bit and there she stayed until all was clear.
I read a lot about this, trying to figure out how to help her. The theory is, that for most dogs, it's not the thunder and lightning that scares them, it has something to do with the barometric pressure changing.
I decided to see if this was true in Belle's case, so I purchased a CD that was a recording of a severe thunderstorm.
It was a great CD. You could hear the thunder in the distance as it built up strength, moving closer and closer until the storm was right on top of you, the rain heavy and pounding.
I put it on full volume in the presence of Belle, and she never batted an eye. Didn't bother her one bit.
I fell in love with this CD and played it once in a while, just for my own enjoyment. There's something really sweet about a thunderstorm, a good book, an old quilt, and a corner in which to cozy up and read.
Husband hated that CD. Daughter hated that CD. They said it confused them. They'd think there was a storm, and outside it was bright and sunny.
Oh, for Heaven's sake.
But one day I couldn't find that CD. Husband and Daughter looked at me with their four big old blue eyes and claimed they had no idea where it was.
Someone stole my thunder!
I also have bird CD's. They hate them too. They say they keep thinking there are birds in the house. Daughter says she keeps ducking, afraid she'll get pooped on from above.
This is a nervous condition caused by a visit to a hen house. We won't go into that today.
I've toyed with the idea of purchasing yet another Thunder CD and playing it in one part of the house, while playing the bird CD in another part of the house, both turned up to full volume.
Cause, you know, I'm just that kinda girl.
Showing posts with label Bull Mastiff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bull Mastiff. Show all posts
Friday, August 9, 2013
Monday, March 4, 2013
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)