Are Bull Terriers good with Children? (This is great!)
Someone posted this on dogster and I wanted to share it here.
******************************
Are Bull Terriers Good With Children?
The following story titled "Are Bull Terriers Good With Children?"
by Peggy Arnaud appeared in The Bull Terrier Club Of South Australia
magazine in February 1994
Here goes:-
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 fa ce 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 defense," 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 neighbour 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 ad mitting 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.
