Oh God. As I write this I have on the sofa opposite me a pit bull-staffy cross called Tyson. He’s currently writhing around on his back, frantically yelping and barking, trying to scratch his neck while biting his tail at the same time. His paws have just kicked my landlady’s favourite (and most expensive) knitted throw violently to the ground. There are bits of chewed wood everywhere from the filthy mangy stick he has dragged in and eviscerated with his teeth. What a mess. Thank you, Tyson.
It’s just me on dog duty today as my housewife and co-husband are both out either painting windows or practicing gardening skills. He probably just needs some attention. In a while he pads over and starts methodically licking every bit of exposed skin on my forearms, his tail wagging wildly, ears back in aerodynamic mode, his brown eyes hopeful. I’ll take you out in an hour, Tyson. You can help me in the field pick sloes and damsens to make a home-brew vodka.
To be brutally honest I wasn’t the happiest camper when the idea of rehousing an unwanted dog of a breed notorious for savagery was first brought up in our house. Our nice clean house. So quiet. So clean. So respectful. A staffy-pit bull cross?! I toyed with the idea of moving out.
The thing is that people, such as they are, tend to remember bad experiences and in my case it had been Brig, a cracking little border terrier we had when I was 13 or 14. Like Tyson, he was a rescue case, but had been mistreated by his previous so-called owner. Meanly, the guy had kept him outside in a kennel and by all accounts beaten him around a lot. Brig was a fantastic dog despite his bad start in life, happy and playful with that coarse badger-like grey-blue coat typical of the Border. Sadly though he must have been hit one too many times as we could never get the upper hand at home or out and about. Poor Brig would escape at any given opportunity; walking in the field, between people’s legs out the front door or even Houdini-like from the heavily fortified fencing of the back garden. My parents eventually called time when he got out and somehow chewed his way into our neighbour’s guinea pig cages. His terrier retrieval instinct probably told him he was doing the right thing by savaging them to death and then dutifully bringing them back to our front lawn, laying the bodies out for us one by one. Oh dear.
Tyson’s first experience of us, and our first experience of him was equally traumatic. Oh, and very noisy. As we sat down last year to eat our Polish Christmas eve dinner he cried and wailed in despair, writhing and yelping and biting the bars of the tiny cage he had arrived in. I wondered however we would sleep with this demented beast now in the house. How would the neighbours survive this racket? How would he react to us when let out of the cage? All things considered, it was not the quietest and most serene Christmas ever.
Of course to your average non-dog loving Joe Public, staffys and pit bulls spell trouble. The media simply loves a good dangerous dog story and quick trawl through the internet confirms the stereotype we have been fed. “Girl, 8, requires 175 stitches in her face after being mauled in horrific dog attack” screams the Daily Mail. “Blind woman tells of horror as pitbull mauls her guide dog”, reports the London Evening Standard. One local news website even poses the question, “Too violent for society?” Recently the tabloids adopted the moniker “Devil Dogs” for certain breeds after another gruesome attack. It doesn’t inspire confidence in the public, particularly at a time when Battersea Dogs Home is turning away staffy crosses in their droves, unable to cope with the numbers of unwanted Tysons.
With a press like this it’s really no wonder the public have such a fear of the staffy and its various permutations, but what, you may ask about our very own Devil Dog? Well, as is typical of his breed, Tyson has shoulders and chest bound with muscle, a head built like a brick, a big mouth, masses of sharp teeth and incredibly strong jaws that close lightning quick exerting a viselike grip.
Sounds forbidding? You’d be right. But what you don’t hear much about from the tabloid hacks and prim newsreaders is the truth about the character of the breed. Dig deeper and you’ll learn about the Staffordshire’s loyalty, gentleness and affection for people. Of course like any dog they require plenty of exercise, human companionship and commitment but their temperament makes them recommended particularly as family dogs. Staffys also have a reputation as playful creatures, fooling around clownishly at home.
Our resident killer is no different. His favourite game is to grab the nearest object in his mouth, be it your trainer, sock or the door jam, guffaw cheekily and then make to run off. Life is a game for Tyson. He’s frighteningly fast when running about after sticks in the field but then collapses in a heap when we get home, puffing and wheezing like a heart attack victim. It seems bursts of energy are his thing over endurance.
In the morning he’s a yelping happy mass of snout and paws, his body bending under the pressure of wagging so hard, continuously racing around in search of play or attention. He’s incredibly clumsy, walking into people’s legs and falling over or power sliding headfirst into a kitchen unit while chasing a ball. Luckily he seems to be made of steel, almost indestructible. One time he careened down the stairs head first landing with a sickening thud only to pick himself up, shake himself down, wag, and plod off to his next play project.
Does Tyson display a potential killer instinct? Well, we have to be aware as owners of this breed that they do have it in their blood to show aggression to other dogs. We are careful to put him on the lead when strange dogs and small children are around. That said, I can happily say in 10 months of having him, and despite his name he has never shown any outward nastiness to anyone, person or animal. I’m happy to say that unlike my previous dog, Tyson seems well-adjusted, intelligent and quick to learn. He’s stubborn when told to get off the couch, still jumps up on people who arrive at the house and is a needier than a small baby for love and attention. However he does respond to our commands at home and when out in the field and is amazingly loving, loyal and funny.
He’s just jumped up on the sofa and started licking me again. There’s another dirty paw mark on my jeans now. Thank you, Tyson.
