As a boy I read an autobiography written by an American or Canadian hunter. He kept an assorted pack of hunting dogs including a Great Dane. Frequently he would hunt bear. The dogs would keep the bear at bay allowing the mounted hunters to arrive and shoot their quarry. I am not in favour of hunting especially big game but I do admire courage. The dogs would close within five metres of a brown bear but would not go closer than ten metres of a cornered Grizzle. Among his retinue of dogs he had three bull terriers, a mother and two of her offspring. Being short legged they never accompanied the hunts except on one occasion.
The Bull Terriers went first class i.e. across the pommel of the riders saddles. As usual the hunters heard the baying of the hounds and the sound indicated a Grizzle. As they got closer the excitement became too much for the Bull Terriers. Leaping from their saddles they sped towards the quarry as fast as their short legs would carry them. The pack kept at their usual safe distance but the bull terriers did not know the rules. They hurled themselves against the awesome Grizzle. The mother took a grip under the throat, the other two each took hold of an ear. The enraged bear scraped off one of the dogs and as it sprung back to continue the attack, the bear caught it with a massive swipe, hurling the dog against a tree, which broke his back. He despatched the other dog in a similar manner but the mother was less assessable and she hung on until the hunters got close enough for a safe shot. A brutal anecdote but the hunter thereafter claimed, that the only dog that would tackle a Grizzle Bear was the Bull Terrier.
Reading about the character traits of the Bull Terrier, you find descriptions such as a loyal family pet, stubborn but not too bright. My experience differs; loyal absolutely, likewise stubborn but lacking in intelligence, certainly not and what about their terrific sense of humour?
I was sixteen at the time, living in Exmouth and decided I wanted a dog. It could be any dog as long as it was a Bull Terrier! From a canine magazine I found that a white male 3 month old pup was available. He was modestly priced being not show standard (he had black spots that became more visible when wet) Pups usually go to their new homes at seven or eight weeks. This was obviously the runt of the litter. Never mind he was a Bull Terrier. I bought him unseen and he arrived at Exmouth station in a wicker box. Maybe because I was the first person he saw in daylight after his journey, he decided that I was his master and he was overjoyed to see me. He seemed quite comical with a black patch around his eye and his tail wagging in a blur. In fact every morning I was to get a ritual welcome, not just a tail wag. He would scamper around the kitchen, going into ever decreasing circles until he was dizzy. You would think I had been away a month. But I digress.
We had a plumber working in the kitchen when I arrived home. Max, for I had already chosen his name, scrambled out of my arms, dashed across the kitchen and bit the plumber in the arse. Not a particular auspicious introduction to his new home but as I later realised, it was his terrific sense of humour; not that the plumber was amused.
Some might think he had the nature of a gangster but I must plead guilty for his training. He had no interest in fetching a ball but he did love tug of war with a stick; hanging on for dear life accompanied by ferocious growls. There was no risk that I might be bitten, it was just part of the game. In fact I could literally take a bone or the food out of his mouth; which is not something that many dogs would tolerate.
In our garage I had suspended a punch bag. I was right in thinking Max would like one to; so I suspended a car tire for him. He loved our workouts; me on the punch bag and him on the tyre. His enjoyment increased together with ferocity of his snarls whenever I would gently beat him between the ears with some rubber hose. In spite of these fighting games, he was not an aggressive dog. When we walked on the Mare parallel to Exmouth beach, he would greet other dogs with a waging tail. He was not looking for a fight until one day an Alsatian insisted in playing top dog, despite a warning growl. They started to scrap. Max was small for a Bull Terrier and it looked like he was getting the worse of it .The Alsatian’s owner was quite relaxed. “Let them sort it out he said.” His tune quickly changed when Max secured a hold on his adversary’ shoulder and started to shake as if on his rubber tyre. It was with some considerable effort that I got him off. The battered Alsatian limped away; he wanted no more of Max. My dog remained unaggressive but would never turn down a challenge, although he would ignore the posturing of smaller dogs. The pattern was always the same. As the fight began it would appear that he had met his match. But most dogs do not fight in earnest. They are willing to call it a day after a short scuffle. If there is a winner one of them will adopt the submissive posture. When Max fought, at the stage they wanted to stop, he was just getting started.
I hate to see dogs fight but I did not want to restrict him to being permanently on a lead. I read somewhere that a quick dowsing with water would break up a dog fight; so I took to carrying a plastic 5lb sweet jar of water on our walks. This seemed to work a treat until one morning on the beach. He had been in and out of the sea when a dog approached with erect tail looking for trouble. Never mind, I had my handy deterrent. They set to and I emptied my jar over Max once he had secured his hold. All the effect it had was to dilute the sea water.
Max did not live for a fight, although it was soon apparent that fighting was one of the joys of life. After every conflict, his tongue would loll out in an expression of laughter. Over the years he got quite scarred up and had many precautionary injections at the vets. He never weighed more than 48lb and he probably did not realise how small he was. As the saying goes “It’s not the dog in the fight. It’s the fight in the dog. He was a great character but he did have a wicked sense of humour.
One example of his little jokes, was the morning ritual with the postman. He would lay silently on the floor beneath our letter box, awaiting his arrival. As soon as the letters appeared, he would leap up, grab them and attempt to thrust his snout through the letter box. We never received any mail not indented with tooth marks.
When I was at home the pecking order of the household would change. I became number one and Max was number two. I was living with my parents and my two brothers who resented Max while having a sneaking regard for him. If I made a “Grrer” sound, this was his signal to chase someone out of the room. My brothers would back to the door in anticipation of this little game, not taking their eyes off Max but as soon as they turned “Grrer” or no “Grrer”, he would dash to get them. On one occasion he nipped my youngest brother in a place that at his age was embarrassing to show the nurse. Graham had the nick name Butch before that had certain connotations. For quite awhile he had to put up with Buchina.
My father, the real head of the household also had to endure Max’s ascendency when I was home. He had to back out of doorways; normally with a “Keep that xxxxxxx dog away from me.” One day the old man decided to shoot him. He had acquired a German gas gun used for self protection. Having been an engineer during the war, he modified it to fire a pellet. Thus equipped, the big game hunter backed towards the door; an open invitation to be chased. He shot Max in the head. As I dug out the pellet, Max was clearly laughing, that was fun wasn’t!
Cynthia, my girl friend from Eastbourne (later to become my first, second and final wife) came to live with us and join the family firm. Max readily accepted his change in status. I was number one, Cyn became number two and he dropped down to number three. If number one Grrered at number two, he still felt it his duty to chase her out of the room. I decided that we needed to extend the dog’s vocabulary. He was very protective but I did not want Cyn to be approached by strangers should she take Max for a walk alone. Pointing at someone and saying “Grrer” seemed somewhat antisocial. The solution came about through our training sessions in the garage. Now when he hung from his tyre, as I gave him the ritual beating with the rubber hose, I would say “No Max.” The more I would say “No Max” the more ferocious he would appear. Perfect, now Cynthia could walk the dog; if anyone came close he would give a warning growl. The reprimand “No Max” would incite him into a torrent of rage. No one would get near her.
He had a gangster’s sense of humour. One Summer season, Cyn and I ran an Old Fashioned Humbugge Shop in Weston Super Mare. Our main stay was sticks of lettered rock which were delivered in boxes protected by strips of cellophane off cuts. During a slack period we would restock the shelves, casting the protective wrapping on the floor behind the counter. Max invented a new game. He would take a bone and bury it among the cellophane debris. Then he would walk away, waiting for one of us to approach the bone, before launching a mock attack. He never tired of this little jest, even when we tricked him with a two pronged attempt to get his bone. It was all a joke. He would never have bitten us. As mentioned before we could take the bone out of his mouth without the slightest risk.
Still, he did have a wicked streak. Somehow we adopted a stray kitten that came into the shop. We were not too sure how Max would react to this, until one afternoon in our backroom. The kitten was curled up in a little basket. Max approached very softly. He paused by the basket with one paw hovering in the air. “Look” said Cyn “See how gentle he is being.” No sooner had the words escaped her lips than Max pounced. It seemed certain that the kitten would be in the past tense. Incredibly, fast as Max was, the cat proved to be faster. It was out of the basket in the blink of an eye, leaving one of his 9 lives behind him.
Because Bull Terriers are sometimes labelled as being stupid, it’s worth my mentioning an incident of extreme canine intelligence. Opening doors presented Max with no problem at all. As you would expect from a gangster dog. I am not talking of long handled doors, rather the round variety that have to be turned. I dislike drafts, so I taught him to close the door after him. This was something that every dog should be taught. It makes environmental sense to keep your living room warm and save energy. I simply placed a tit bit on top of the door. When it was slammed shut, the treat would fall to the floor. Admitted this can be taught to any dog but Max was exceptionally quick on the up take. I only had to slam him head first into the door twice, with the command “Shut the door,” before he got the message. After a while he would shut the door having forgotten there should have been a treat. This apparent consideration would amaze any newcomer to our household.
One exceptional thing that he worked out for himself, was opening car windows. Some of you may remember the small triangular back windows that we used to have. To open them entailed pressing in a catch and pulling up the small lever. This self taught achievement was not only very clever, it was another example of his sense of humour. (In that department, as I write, I realise how much we had in common.) Obviously he could not get out of the car by opening the window but he could have a good joke which never ceased to amuse him. In those days, there were no self service petrol stations. Your tank would be filled by an attendant and the tank was just beneath the triangular window. Max would release the catch as I drove into a garage. He would sit innocently on the back seat looking forward until the nozzle was being inserted, whereupon he would attempt to ram his head through the window. The reaction he got would produce his evil, tongue extended laugh. Compare this with your neurotic pooch who mock attacks anyone approaching their owners car – gutless wonders.
The Bull Terrier has a justly deserved reputation for being stubborn. They are also inclined towards deafness an apparent trait in albinos (white dogs.) I am not so sure of the latter. I think they are inclined to hear what they want to hear. My dog could hear perfectly but he once demonstrated extreme patience and extended my reputation for forgetfulness.
We were on the move from Exmouth to Torbay. A pal provided a lorry for our furniture. Everything was ready to go. I called Max. He was nowhere to be seen. An extensive search was fruitless. The day was wearing on and the removal had to continue. I rang the police to report a missing dog and off we went. I returned to Exmouth three days running, trying to find Max. Finally I thought of looking in our second garage. This was being used to store a friend’s vintage Jaguar car. As I opened the door, I saw a pair of white ears behind the steering wheel. Was Max relieved to see me and in more ways than one, for he had not peed or pooed for three days. Nor were there any destructive signs in the car. Extraordinary when I consider that in his younger days, he literally ate my car’s steering wheel out of sheer boredom.
Sadly my gangster dog came to a gangsters end. By this time Cynthia and I were married and within a year or so, expecting our first child, Sharon. My father was concerned that Max would be jealous of the baby. I was running our Exmouth business and my parents were living in the flat over our Paignton shop. Although Max accepted the baby without reservation, I gave in to my father for his peace of mind. Max was to stay in Paignton for a while. He had the freedom of the yard together with the rear of the shop. My mother would spoil him. She would snack on coconut ice or fudge as if they were a meal and Max was well over indulged. One afternoon some children were teasing an Alsatian in a car parked outside the shop. The aggressive barking caught Max’x attention and he came out of the yard to investigate. Our sales lady attempted to stop him getting out but he did not recognise her authority. He bit her and she screamed. Then he totally lost the plot, gripping her arm and dragging her across the floor. My mother had the presence of mind to dowse him with a pint of milk and he let go. He seemed apologetic as he returned to the yard but the damage had been done. He had bitten through her corset and also broke her arm.
Inevitably Max had to be put down. The thought of it still saddens me. The vet was not going to take any chances. He had given Max injections before, which were received without flinching but somehow this was different. I had to give Max a huge sleeping pill, which was probably enough to kill him anyway. He was given a last meal of his favourite food, together with the pill. As he got drowsy, he laid on my lap. I petted him as he drifted into unconscious and the vet administered the final injection.
They say there are no problem dogs just problem owners. Max should have been handled better. I should have known better. In my defence I can only say that he was most unusual and I was young. I have had other dogs since, many of them Bull Terriers, some even named Max but none have compared with the original. One’s perspective of life changes once you have children. Pets lose their importance. So now when I walk the dog, it is Cynthia’s Standard Poodle. She is intelligent and I am told , a good companion. She does not have the fancy Poodle clip, not that I would be bothered. In fact she looks a bit like a dog (I mean the Poodle not my wife) But every year one of my daughters buys me a pictorial wall calendar. Can you guess? Yes a Bull Terrier for every month of the year.