Dog Fighting (Serious)

Ok, this is my serious face now. I was watching BBC Breakfast with my mom and dad the other day, and one of their stories had to do with Dog Fighting in the UK. At first, I sat up to listen, thinking they were talking about the dog wrestling I do with Dad, but I was mistaken. In fact, they actually make dogs mean to each other and try to kill each other!

 

I think I briefly heard the whole Michael Vick thing- that guy was a jerk, and I don't know if that was even handled properly- but things are much, much wierder here in the UK. In the U.S., and rightly so, Vick was blamed for his behaviour concerning those dogs- the dogs that were still healthy were rescued, even if some of them had to be put down because they were too mean or too sick (but they were put down humanely) the dogs and puppies that could be rehabilitated, were. Does that happen in the UK? No.

 

In the UK- they blame the dogs! In fact, as it turns out, pitbulls are illegal in this country. Now, I am a well bread dog, and dogs of my breed have won Crufts, so I am not worried about me, but the fact remains- I am a Staffordshire Bull Terrier (and proud of it), and the Bull part is still there. Apperently, Irish Bull Terriers, American Pitbulls, and many other types of Bull and Bull Terrier can just be hauled off and executed in this country- talk about big brother!

 

First- dogs are naturally instinctive, we used to run in packs, and we have the alpha male sense, which means we want to be the alpha male in our pack. We also hunt for food, and eat meat. It makes sense that we are tough. However- the dog breeds in question are also domesticated- meaning that our pack now consists of humans, and the alpha male (at least here in leckford road) is dad. We eat dog food out of a bowl and human food off the table- we don't hunt, and we certianly aren't savage.

 

In fact, we are what our humans want us to be. I sit, go couch, stay in a kennel, and do my business outside because that is what my alpha and mom taught me to do. Sure I am a little bull-like- I pull on the lead, and I am nippy; but my parents have taught me to be friendly and to heel when they want me to heel. I love people and other dogs, and I am just overexicited in my exuberence of being friendly like my parents taught me.

 

If overexuberience is one of our genetic personality traits, then dog owners like those in the news article I linked the title to, are just using that enthusiasm for a poor end- trust me, you have to train a dog to be mean- you have to hit it, not feed it, and make it hate other dogs- all things that since it didn't happen to me, mean I don't attack other dogs.

 

Anyway, this law against pitbulls has made sort of a dog racism in this country. Even though I am a superior breed and am one of the most beautfully showed dogs in the world, whenever I meet other dogs on the meadow, chances are the owner of that dog is not happy to let me near the dog, thinking I am a big mean pittbull- and that simply isn't the case. (A little backwards, here aren't we people?)

 

MR. BROWN- PUNISH THE HUMANS INVOLVED IN DOG-FIGHTING SO SEVERELY THAT YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT ANY DOGS HURTING LITTLE GIRLS (because they won't want to do it anymore).

Winston Wants Chicken!!!

I think I am finally getting the art of begging down- I mean, why eat dog food when you can eat human food, right? Plus the only way dad gets to make and eat meat is if he shares it with me! I have discovered that being ultra cute is not the way to go. When I started my begging career, I would try to be real sweet- I would put my head up on dad's lap, and look at him, I would go under the table and try to jump on his lap, I would nibble at his pants legs to show that I was hungry. Oddly enough, that just got me yelled at, and I was so badorable. (Badorable- adj. my dad works for a dictionary so he can make words up I guess- this is a verbal conjunction of bad and adorable, badorable).

Finally I started to just stand there and throw tantrums. My parents thought this was funny. I would whine and bark and then stamp my feet. It is really hard to stamp your feet when you are a dog, it takes a little bit of coordination. I had to stamp my left front foot, right back foot, left back foot to get that stomp stomp stomp sound without falling over.

If I sit on the hard, cold, wood floor, I usually get a treat- but my butt is all slidey, and I don't want to sit there.

Anyway, after they eat, I usually get food, but seriously, I deserve to be fed don't I? I mean, they are suppossed to take care of me, why don't they give me there food? I only get bits, not a whole meal like them! (A few days ago, mom found out that I was barely eating half of what I was supossed to be eating, so they have been focused on getting me to eat mounds of my dog food... but I don't like it)

Well, off to beg some more, it is almost breakfast time, and that means... TOAST!

Woof!

Blinky Toy!

I got a new toy yesterday! And it... BLINKS! wahahaha! It is amazing, a blinky toy. (The picture is all red because it is dark to prove that the blinky toy actually blinks... I have never been so happy about a new toy in my life. I played with it all day yesterday, it was amazing- and more importantly, it hasn't been destroyed yet! Well... all the way destroyed at least.

 

Squeaky toy was nothing compared to this thing...

 

Anyway the story goes that Mom and Dad discovered a pet shop in the Covered Market in Oxford, one that they never knew existed. They started exploring for tough toys that I wouldn't chew up or eat (my record for a 25 cm rawhide cigar is just under 3 minutes, completely eaten, although it takes almost 1920 times that to digest (in dog minutes... still a long time). The discovered some big, thick rawhides and the blinky toy which was made for tough chewers. They gave it a shot.

 

I managed to rip one of the three balls off in an hour, but the rest of the toy is still mostly intact... so far so good! I love it so much. Dad took it away after the first ball ripped off because he didn't know of the safety of the toy after it, and put it on a bookshelf. I spent the whole time it was up there sitting and being so good to get it back! Finally they did... I am still playing with it!

 

So much fun... blinky woof!

A Broken Spirit doth a Sad Dog make

So, picture this, folks. It was Thursday, and my Mom was taking me for a walk along the canal. I was having a great time--I met a schnauzer, I sniffed the breeze, I watched bicyclists go by. Then, I found a primo poop spot and managed, even though Mom was keeping a close eye and a firm grasp on me, to smudge a little bit onto my neck (on the white part, so it was especially becoming) and on my collar.

Mom seemed disgusted at first, but then when we got to a nice grassy playground, she let me roll around with all abandon! And I mean, for about 5 minutes (35 doggie minutes!!). I thought she had finally calmed down. We even took a new route home through the meadow, along a muddy cowpath, and I had some great-smelling stuff on my feet! I really felt like a dog!

Turns out, she was leading me like a lamb to the slaughter. I knew something was wrong when she didn't take me off my leash before opening the front door. And when she started gathering up my dog towels, I tried to bolt--but what could I do? I was still leashed. And so, I resigned myself...and had a bath.

I even tried to act noble, hardly trying to escape and mostly just standing there as she unrelentingly soaped me up and rinsed me off, soaped me up and rinsed me off, soaped me up and rinsed me off...but inside my heart was breaking! I had never smelled so good in my whole life, and in a matter of 5 minutes (35 doggie minutes) she destroyed all I had built.

What's worse, she even washed my collar and in the meantime I have to wear my ridiculous baby collar. I feel like such a loser. I'm just going to go lay in a patch of sun and try to dream my troubles away.

Woof!

Wierd Spots

YAWN! (I am stretching- doggy style), I have just climbed out of a nice warm bed, under the covers next to mum and dad's feet, and I thought I would put up a post this morning before dad gets in the shower. I have to say, I protest at this treatement of me- dad's post yesterday was fragarent libel- I mean who doesn't prefer cushions to your towel kennel?

Anyway, life isn't all easy for this dog. A couple weeks ago, some mysterious spots appeared on my face, shown in the above picture. (See, this proves I am not a celebrity dog, because I don't care that these pictures are online!) You may not be able to tell from the picture, but those spots are perfectly round, tiny little bald spots on my face! (Or maybe it makes me more of a celebrity because all of the famouse ones have their nasty pictures all over the place, in magazines, etc.)

Dad thought it was pimples, but it isn't! I don't know what the heck it is! Other theories are that I got burned with a splattered liquid- when dad is cooking, I usually sit on the kitchen rug to try to get food from him, or that gunk from my eyes dried up on my fur there and when I scratched it out, I pulled out the hair.

Personally, I think tiny flea sized aliens are making crop circles...

Well, the hair is growing back, but its white for now, hopefully it turns black again! I have to have the amazing photos to, not just the nasty ones, or I'll just be like Brittany Spears!

Woof!

Master McCrazy

Ben here- Winston is still asleep in my spot on the bed. Yesterday when I went to bed I discovered Winston fast asleep on Jaci's pillows. Not caring, because they weren't my pillows, I got into bed- the dog didn't move. This morning I wake up, and the dog is next to my head! Not only that, but he has my blanket, I don't have any, and he is pushing me away with his paws!

As you can imagine, that didn't last long considering that I outweigh him by like 220 lbs, he got chucked, unceremoniously under the covers, down by my feet. I then woke up to go make coffee, and get ready for work, and he was still under there. I patted him and left. But when I came up to get a sweatshirt (It is August, and I think we need to turn on our heater again- it is a high of 12 degrees today!) and where is dog? but in my spot.

He is so cute now... but when he grows up, he better not be on my pillow, I'll tell you that much! I would have tossed him in his kennel right then and there , if he hadn't been puking a lot lately, and Jaci complaining about how hard it is to clean the kennel gets on my nerves...

You got to love the dog, but soon he is going to be spending some more time outside in the garden thinking about how dogs should behave...

My (mom's) Throne

Yesterday, Dad and Mom were having a reading/studying day because it was absolutely pouring outside. I won't go outside in the rain- I know I am English, but I just don't like to get wet, and since I am a luxury dog I just won't do it. I hold it until I am so full I just puke in the morning. (I am sure mom's blog will have something to say about that!).

 

Anyway, Mom was complaining that she and Dad were not together enough because their offices were seperate so when Dad is on the computer he is "boring". I quite agree, when he is on the computer he barely places with me- sure he'll toss my ball for me and pet me if I come under the desk, but seriously, I need 100% attention, and I just wasn't getting it!

 

Since Mom was working on her French too- Dad sugessted they would be less boring if she came into the library (Dad's office), but mom complained that she didn't have a place to sit. She and Dad went online to see if they could find a chair from Ikea or something- but no luck. They blame the Brittish- apperently we like to pay way too much money for cheap furniture! (Something about it wasn't tea that made us rebel, it was pricey balsa..."). Then Dad had a masterstroke. While mom was brooding in her office, he went downstairs and collected the chair cushions, and pillows, and brought them upstairs, and covered them with his red blanket, making a little reading spot next to the radiator and under the window!

 

Brilliant! I said, but was immediatly told off when I jumped onto the throne. Mom then came in and was plesantly suprised and did French on her chair, while I had to sit on my own blue, puffy, crappy papasan chair... ugh!

 

Then mom went to get lunch, and YOINKS! The throne was mine! You can see me above on my throne with my french books, muwhahaha! Anyway, I am the king of this house, so I should get a throne, not some measely papasan chair. You would think that the way my parents act- they were spoiling me! I mean, its not like I sleep on their pillows in bed, I have to sleep at the bottom of the bed!

 

So now, when Mom is not on the throne, its mine...

 

Woof!