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, and has me in stitches every time I read
it.
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.
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