Lennox

The Save Lennox campaign came to an end yesterday, as Lennox was "humanely put to sleep" by Belfast City Council, a sad end to over two years of legal wrangling, accusations and counter-accusations, leaks, politics, protests and petitions.

Was Lennox dangerous?  Was he a Pit Bull type?  I don't know the answers, and that is almost no longer the point.  Lennox has become a poster boy, in his death he will be turned into a martyr for a cause, and his case has brought BSL to the attention of many people who neither knew nor cared about the legalities of the shape of dogs before this.

First and foremost, Lennox was a victim of a short-sighted law that caused him to be seized purely on the basis of his appearance.  Section 1 of the Dangerous Dogs Act 1991 banned certain breeds of dog.  In the case of "Pit Bull types", the document used was published in the USA in 1977.  Pit Bull Terriers have never been recognised by the UK Kennel Club as a breed, so there is no UK documentation that could have been used, and this is why the law refers to a type not a breed.  Bear in mind, at this time six month quarantine rules had been in force for nearly 100 years for dogs entering the country, and it seems to me extremely unlikely that the UK population of "underground" pitbulls would have had much genetic overlap with the USA population of show bred American Pit Bull Terriers.

Even supposing the ADBA description of a pedigree show American Pit Bull Terrier was appropriate for an unregistered fighting-bred pitbull type on a different continent, that 1977 description was 14 years old at the time of the legislation, and a further 21 years have passed since then.  I would not be surprised if in dog fighting circles 21 years equates to about 21 generations of dogs.

21 generations of selective breeding in any species can reap huge changes in both temperament and physical characteristics.  Where is the evidence that the law is even looking for the right thing in 2012?

People tend to assume the look and character of a dog breed is a fixed thing.  They think if you breed a Spotted Flooping Hound with another Spotted Flooping Hound, they will all look the same, forever.  This is not true, as not all Spotted Flooping Hounds will have the same number of spots, and within a few generations a breeder could easily select the most or least spotted examples, and the kennel down the road could do the opposite.  In a few years you could have a new breed, the Lesser Spotted Flooping Hound.  The debate on whether this is a breed, a line, a strain or even a crossbreed comes down to paperwork and politics, and is a complete red herring for this discussion, as anyone breeding pitbull types or other illegal fighting breeds in this country is not going to be attempting to register them with the Kennel Club anyway.

In show breeding, breeds tend towards physical conformity, and a line up in the breed ring can be like a house of mirrors where the same image repeats and repeats.  In many breeds, the focus on aesthetics has distracted from temperament and the original qualities of the breed have been lost.  Not all terriers show an inclination to kill small furry things.  Not all gundogs show hunting or retrieving instincts.  Not all collies show herding instincts.  In the same way, breeds originally used for fighting, bear-baiting or bull-baiting are generally accepted to now be perfectly safe pet dogs to own, as this temperament has been bred away from (e.g Boxer, Bulldog, Mastiff).

In contrast, when breeding working dogs, breeds tend towards a generally similar appearance, but working strains show far more variety in coat and type than their show counterparts - look at the working sheepdogs you see on farms or at trials, and they are all different.  They would be mostly black and white and medium sized, but not all symmetrically marked, not all one type of ear set, not all one coat length, but all selected and valued for their working ability and aptitude.  Put a working sheepdog in the show ring and you would get laughed out of town, but if you need some sheep fetching, many show collies would not have a clue.

I'm sure you can see where I am going with this.  I find it very unlikely that fighting rings would see any benefit in breeding dogs to correspond with a description of a show dog from 1977.  I suspect it is much more likely that they would breed for working ability, and in this case, this means selecting for a certain amount of size and muscle, an unpleasant, aggressive, stubborn temperament, and not fine detail of their physical appearance such as length or width of head, shape of tail, thickness of legs.

The "ideal" fighting dog could have changed immensely in the 21 generations bred since 1991, it could be a cross of any number of breeds, with or without pitbull, and could end up measuring up nothing like any of the breeds banned in the DDA.  It may still end up in court on the grounds of its behaviour, but that does not excuse the "incidental" killings of staffie crosses, lab crosses, mastiff crosses, who just happen to grow up to measure similar to a pitbull type. 

There is no proven correlation between aggression and any specific physical characteristics.  The DDA is therefore fundamentally flawed.

Lennox was only one dog, but literally hundreds of dogs have died under the DDA since 1991, most of which had never bitten anyone and were arguably not dangerous.  They died due to a hastily written law that says they look wrong, and takes no account of their parentage, or most importantly their behaviour.  Whatever the rights and wrongs on either side in the Lennox case, let the focus be on the fact that his first mistake was that he looked wrong, and in the end that is why he died.

Nerves

Two days to go.

Two days of stomach churning nerves, two days of waiting, then it will all be over, Alf's first ever final, the one I have wanted to qualify for since I first heard it existed, the rescue league.

Apprehension.  Excitement.  It's all bubbling away in there, counting down to Sunday.

The steps to get here have each felt so huge.  Every round, every rosette, I have treasured every single one.  Every time I remind myself how far he has come.  I remember the pride and emotion of submitting his first ever points onto the league website, for his first ever clear rounds last March, then places in April.  His first ever trophy in May - and his second the same day.

Then realising he was creeping towards the top of the table.  Daring to dream he might be good enough for the finals.  Wondering if the points would be enough, as the year drew to a close and other dogs still had shows in October and November, while we had none.  But he did it, he finished in the top 20.  I thought I might burst.

In February, it came, an invitation to the finals.  Thud.  Suddenly it felt it might be real.

I had to write a commentary.  Wierd feeling, surely that is what people with top grade 7 dogs do for Olympia and Crufts, not little me in grade 1 with her strange hairy lurcher boy.  I could have written so much about him, I can't even express what he has put me through at times, but he is amazing, and I love the bones of him.  How could I tell his whole story in 35 seconds?

There is the worry of an unfamiliar venue, what will the layout be like, where will the parking be, and what if we get lost on the way there?  I know my stomach will be full of monsters, never mind butterflies - and where are the loos?  Hopefully walking the course will calm me down a bit, once I see what we have to do, and once I know we can tackle it. 

But I still know my legs will turn to jelly as I walk to the ring.  I know I will have to remind myself to breathe.  I'm getting stomach flips just thinking about it now.

I hope that once I am on that line, I will think only of Alf and the course, I really need to find our bubble, more that ever, this run needs to be about me and him and nothing else.

I know it has been said before, but the hard work was getting there.  Everyone keeps telling me to enjoy it, enjoy my dog, he has earned it, we have done it together, as a team.  It is not about winning this final, it is about being there.  So I promise I will try to relax enough to enjoy it, I will try not to let the nerves spoil the experience - he tries so hard for me it's the least I owe him.

Two days.... and counting.

Silliness

Everyone needs to be silly sometimes, it is good for the soul.

One thing we have discovered is Basil has a weakness for plastic bottles.  One night, I flattened an empty 2 litre plastic drink bottle ready to go in the bin, and Basil came dancing up, looking interested, and tried to take it off me.  I played at chasing him along the sofa with it, then he grabbed it and charged around the room killing it.

This was unbelievably cute - the bottle was as long as the dog - and unbelievably funny - Basil attempted massive leaps with the bottle between his teeth and somehow always made it, and it was impossible to watch him in action without laughing so hard it hurt.

The game was entertaining enough that I hardly needed reminding to play it again the next time we finished a bottle of drink.  Basil bounced around in full on crazy mode and we laughed and laughed, and when he dropped the bottle I pounced on it and threw it for him and he did it all over again.

The game has developed over time, and one day he brought the bottle back to me.  We played tuggy, but I didn't make him let go, and when he "won" he was ecstatic at his own cleverness and strength, and came straight back to see if I would tug again.

The plastic bottle game is now one of Basil's favourite things, and he still starts every game with a few laps of all the furniture and making as much noise as possible.  Then I have to pretend I want to steal it, and stalk him along the sofa with my hands.  I play chasey-chasey with my fingers, shuffle my feet, and pretend I can't see him, he puts on his stupid ears and plays hide and seek at 900 miles an hour around the furniture, crashing the bottle into the legs as he goes.

The thing with the plastic bottle game is it was always meant to be silly, just pure fun, it never had any rules or any purpose.  It's not as though I didn't play with Basil at other times, on his walks, in the field, we would play fetch or tuggy games, but they didn't initially tap into his silliness in the same way. 

His sheer joy at being given a plastic bottle to race around with brings a smile to my face every time.  Not for nothing is one of his many nicknames "Basilly".

Silliness is great.

Never

"I would never..."

It seems to me a lot of people who pride themselves on being animal folks are forgetting how to relate to their fellow humans. I have heard "I would never..." an awful lot recently. Whatever happened to putting yourself in someone else's shoes and trying to see their point of view? You may still not have made the same decision in their position, but trying to understand why they have acted as they did surely means as a decent human being you can offer support and sympathy.

"I would never give any of my dogs up."

Never is a long time. Anyone who cannot come up with any scenario where they may have to face this possibility either lacks imagination or leads a truely charmed life. Yes there are people who get rid of their dogs all too lightly, who buy a puppy on a whim and kick them out for growing too big or too inconvenient. But this isn't about them.

What if you were injured or ill, reliant on carers or hospitalised for a long period of time? What if you lost your job during this time, and you couldn't afford a dog walker?

I have only spent a few weeks on crutches at a time, but that was enough to teach me that being able to walk my dogs isn't something I should take for granted. If I hadn't lived where I did and been able to hobble out to a secure field and let them run, what life would they have had for those few months? And what if it wasn't months but years?

"I'd never give up a dog for biting."

For biting who? You? The postman? Your children? How many times? I have never yet come across someone willing to rehome their child in order to keep their dog, so if a dog is not suitable to be around children, and the owner does not have the skills, time or resources to make that dog suitable, then rehoming can be the best choice for everyone.

What if the dog was fighting with your other dogs? What if you got caught in the crossfire and ended up in A&E and your other dog ended up at the emergency vet? Is forcing those two dogs to live together for the next 10 years really the best option? However careful you are there will be a door left open one day, or a bit of toast dropped, errors that trigger a fight and possibly injuries. With all the management and behaviour work in the world some things are not fixable, and living with tension and stress is not easy.

"I would never live somewhere that didn't allow me to keep my dogs."

I've always flippantly said I would live in my car if I had to, but I know that would not be a long term solution, it would not be fair on my dogs. Many of us are lucky, as I know I am, there are people who would take us in, my parents, other family members, some good friends, I would be very unlikely to be truely homeless. But what if you were?

What if you had no parents, no job, no money? What if your partner has left you with two children under 5 and a dog, you are offered emergency accommodation but are not allowed to take the dog, do you turn it down and risk losing your children to foster care, or would you rehome your dog? One of the first dogs I remember booking into a rescue centre was that exact situation. The owner knew the dog was young, healthy and friendly, and going to find a new home really easily. She was looking at months of instability for herself and her children. She cried buckets, I don't think for a moment she took that decision to part with the dog lightly, and she deserves credit for having the courage to give the dog a brighter future.

"I would never be able to do your job."

I'm no saint, I don't do this job as a penance, I do it because I believe in what we set out to achieve, to help and rehome the animals, responsibly, and to provide backup for when things sometimes don't work out. But don't forget we get to see the happy endings, that is why I do it. And if you don't think you could do it because you love animals too much, I would say you are wrong, you probably couldn't do it because you don't like people enough.

It is people who have cared for these animals through their lives so far, people who are in tears at feeling forced to give them up, people who will donate the money to fund the rescue centre and people who will offer these animals new homes. Focussing on the sad puppy dog eyes is only half the story, and you sell yourself short as a human being if you cannot see the human side of the story.