So, you think you want a Bull Terrier?
I think that Bull Terriers are the greatest dogs in the world, but they are not for everyone! If you are looking for a low-maintenance dog that is going to lie down in the corner until you are ready to pay attention to him, don't even think about getting a Bully. Here are two stories, "Are Bull Terriers Good With Children?" and "My Worst Bully Nightmare" , written by long-time Bull Terrier lovers. If, after you read them, you run from the room screaming, with your hair on fire, you are probably like most people and should look for a more "normal" breed of dog. If, on the other hand, you can read them, and you are still smiling, you either need your medication adjusted, or you are a good candidate for Bull Terrier ownership.
Are Bull Terriers Good With Children?
The following story titled "Are Bull Terriers Good With Children?" By Peggy Amaud appeared in the Bull Terrier Club of South Australia magazine in February 1994
Haven't we all been asked this question many times? Yes, if raised with children, a bull terrier is a perfect companion; gentle and aware of the child's fragility. Haven't we all watched a great lump of dog play quietly on the floor with babies, then without warning hurl itself upon an unsuspecting adult with sufficient force to practically land him in the intensive care unit? So I would like to ask this question - Are Bull Terriers Good With Adults? Not one of my dogs has ever laid a tooth on me, but the damage to my person has, over the years been considerable.
One rainy morning I was standing in the driveway watching my husband back out the car when Muffin came flat out around the corner of the house carrying a length of 2 x 4. What she was intending to do with this piece of lumber has never been determined - it is possible that she was becoming bored with the demolition trade and was about to enter the construction business. Turning at her approach, I received the full impact of the wood on my shinbone and was knocked to the ground by the force where I lay screaming with pain and fury. Muff observed this odd behaviour for a moment, then deciding that she had heard all those words before (usually directed at her anyway), she retrieved her wooden weapon, and spinning it around with the grace and agility of a baton twirler, connected neatly with the back of my head as I was attempting to get to my feet. The impact returned me to my previous horizontal position, this time face down. My husband, who witnessed the entire performance informed me later that the timing was superb - worthy of the best Keystone Cops or Marx Brothers. But he delayed his departure, herded the menace into her kennel and inquired through his merriment if I was hurt. Stating I thought I might live long enough to murder the wretched bitch, I was helped to my feet but found I could not put any weight on the injured leg and my scalp was cut and bleeding - so a trip to the accident room of the local hospital was thought advisable.
Being my first visit for emergency treatment, I was not prepared for the volume of information required. Name, address, occupation are routine - but how, when and why!....(I am an obstetrical nurse and our patients are admitted onto the floor with a minimum of questions. We know why they are there, and we know how it happened and we assume the patient knows too, although sometimes one wonders)!
The admitting nurse was efficient and thorough. Vital statistics dealt with came unexpected questions. "Now, how did this accident happen?" "Well," I said, "You see my dog had this big piece of wood in her mouth and she hit me with it."
"Your dog?" "Yes." "I see, - and the head wound?" "Well my dog did that too." "With a piece of wood?" "Yes, - it was the same piece of wood actually." "I see."
"Well," I said, coming quickly to Muffin's defence," of course she didn't mean to, she sort of spun around and she had this piece of wood in her mouth, you see - and, well-she hit me with it - I was sitting in the driveway at the time..."
Our local hospital does not have a psychiatric floor but I could see by the expression on the nurse's face that she was aware of the desperate need for one.
I was X-Rayed, treated amid controlled giggles from the staff, and released.
The next major incident followed swiftly. (Minor ones occur almost daily.) The paddock gate is, of necessity, sturdily built of oak and heavy. It opens inward. Every day I collect each dog after his play period.
I call them from whatever act of mayhem they may be committing, push open the gate and bend down ready to snap on the lead. For three hundred and sixty four days of the year Bloody Mary had galloped to the gate, come around it, and been leashed in the usual fashion. On this particular day, whether due to a whim, or perhaps because the moon was in Aquarius she chose to project herself at approximately the speed of light from the far corner of the paddock, and instead of coming around the gate, she leapt at it with all the force of her fifty pounds of muscle, slamming it shut on my head. I went down like a pole-axed ox, and remained down and out long enough for the murderous beast to remove and eat the bait-biscuits from my pocket - she also removed and apparently ate the pocket. A small hairpiece I was wearing has never been seen again - presumably it was quickly killed and buried. Staggering into a lawn chair I sat holding my head and considering an early retirement from dog breeding, while Mary amused herself by eating the geraniums.
This pastoral scene continued for awhile until my neighbor drove up, took one look at me, and insisted - yes, you guessed it - on a trip to the Emergency Room.
The last thing I wished to do on this earth was return to the hospital where, after the Muffin episode, there exists some doubt as to my sanity - I am known locally as "that kook who lives up on the hill with those funny looking white things she says are dogs". But feeling too sick to argue or resist I was firmly placed in the car and hurried off to my fate.
And so it came to pass that once again I presented myself at the local Emergency Room. Of course, the admitting nurse was the same as before, the staff also. Approaching the desk in embarrassed misery - torn clothing, wild hair, a great lump on my forehead and eyes blackening fast, I am greeted by an obviously wary nurse - "Goodness, Mrs. Arnaud, sit down. Whatever happened to you now?" I take a deep breath, (Oh God will get you for this Bloody Mary) and with visions of padded cells looming large in my future, "Well," I said "you see - my dog..."
Are Bull Terriers Good With Children?
Oh yes. They are lovely.
Are Bull Terriers Good With Adults?
Well I am an adult and they are not good with me, and I have the scars - my body, my furniture, and my psyche - to prove it.
Acknowledgement COLKET - 1976
My Worst Bully Nightmare
By Robert Bollong
WARNING: Contains profanity
I am finally going to write this saga, but only after the naggings of my B.T. Mentoress Linda Lethin. When she heard this story she insisted I tell all you guys on the list. But first..... I must warn you..... It's graphic, .......It's Ugly.......But, It's also True... No names have been changed to protect the innocent.
I have had Bullies for nearly twelve years. I had had no major incidents prior to this. I attribute this to my professional training. I have been a police officer for 17 years. During my jail tours I developed skills in the handling the unhandlable; such as serial killers; Randy Kraft, Charles Bonin, and even Richard Ramirez ( The Night Stalker ) So with the experience I gained in keeping these guys under control, I have always done the same with my Bullies. Never an escape nor a major destruction of property.
Then came the new dog... Kingsmere Casanova... AKA Cosmo. He is a maniac. The wildest, most hucklebutting dog I've ever owned.
It happened a few months ago when Cosmo was about 6 months old. I woke up that morning feeling down, but being the dedicated employee I am, I went to work anyway. (I hate using my sick time when I'm sick!) When I got home I was looking forward to going straight to bed, as by now I had a fever and body aches. But, to my dismay I had forgotten my daughter's Softball practice. I could not press my wife Laurie into taking her because she was already taking my son to ice hockey practice.
So I left home with my daughter and returned some two and a half hours later. The first clue something was wrong appeared when I opened the garage door. The garage was flooded. "WHERE DID THAT WATER COME FROM?" I asked my daughter.
I walked to door leading to the house from and garage and opened it. I heard the sound of running water coming from my daughter's room. WHAT IN THE HELL, I thought. I lurched into my daughter's room, and was met by the sound of water squishing in the rug under my feet. I peered around the corner, to her 85 gallon aquarium which houses rare and exotic Rift Valley African Cichlids from Lake Tangayika, (and Yes - of course...expensive) the tank was nearly empty. The water had all escaped, wet the rug and seeped out through the drywall into the garage. MY GOD, MY GOD, I yelled, MY FISH! My daughter followed me as I went to open the equipment cabinet under the aquarium to see what kind of mechanical defect caused this tragedy. I OPENED THE CABINET DOOR, AND TO MY DISBELIEF THERE WAS COSMO INSIDE THE CABINET, he had the aquarium water out-flow hose in his mouth, the last few ounces of water drinking from it, as he shook it like a madman. He looked up at me, with a look of surreal satisfaction. His little, black, beady eyes glinting in the dark cabinet. He had a strange look, almost a smile on his face. A million thoughts ran through my head...... How did a dog get inside a closed aquarium equipment cabinet, how did he get inside the house... It did not take me long to place the blame.... ON MY WIFE! She had forgotten to put Cosmo away when she left for hockey.
I picked Cosmo up, and walked him to his crate. My feet squishing in the soaked carpet. As I walked I surveyed the destruction. He had been in the house over two hours, by himself.
He had systematically clipped all the electrical cords from their plugs, leaving the plugs sticking out of their outlets with little piggie tails. Why he didn't get electrocuted, I don't know.
Cosmo also chewed up my son's brand new hockey helmet, and in an attempt to get a toy out from under our couch, he ripped most of the fabric off the lower portion of the sofa.
He emptied the kitchen trashcan and had strewn the trash throughout the house.
But the Coup De Grace, The Piece de Resistance, That little touch that only the evil mind of a pigdog could think of, hit me last, and sent me over the edge.
As I walked through my bedroom I began to smell something, and notice stains on my walls, leading from my bathroom to my bedroom, through the hallway and into the kitchen. I entered the bathroom and the full realization sank in....... One of my children, one of my precious, lovely children, whom I love... But who have the bad habit of not flushing the toilet, had gone "NUMBER TWO" (defecated / had a bowel movement - for our international fans not familiar with American colloquialisms) and did not finish the job by flushing, nor were they troubled by closing the lid.
Cosmo had found this interesting object floating in the John, and plucked it out. He then ran hucklebutt through the house, throwing it in the air as he did, as evidenced by the streaks on the wall.
That was it, I lost it..... Just as my wife came home. I began to cus and couldn't stop. I never yell and was now doing so at the top of my lungs. My neighbors came out in dismay...... I finally calmed down, nearly cried, mentally and physically wrecked, and spent the next four hours cleaning the mess up. A professional rug cleaner was called (Extra $$$ for late night emergency), and my children forced to clean the "art work" off the walls.
Late that night after I had fallen asleep, I awoke with a start, I had a sudden realization of what that mysterious look on Cosmo's face was when he was in the aquarium cabinet...............
IT WAS A SHIT EATING GRIN.
But, I still love my Bullies.......