home wie zijn wij onze honden fokprogramma pups geschiedenis karakter old storys short movies erfelijke gebreken favorite links foto album burning heart e-mail adres	Old storys Hieronder ziet u een aantal "oude verhalen". Zelf ben ik hier altijd erg in geintresseerd geweest. Waarom?.... Omdat ze eigenlijk de blauwdruk van de American Bulldog vormen. De huidige American Bulldog is gebaseerd op de honden die beschreven worden in deze verhalen. Zij vertellen ons hoe de Bulldoggen toen (rond 1970) waren, en hoe ze dus nu horen te zijn. Echte karakterdieren, eerlijk tot op het bot, gezond van lichaam en geest, volkomen in staat om het werk te doen waar ze ooit voor gecreëerd zijn. Helaas zijn de old story's alleen beschikbaar in het engels. Veel leesplezier. This is a story about Prince of Mr Kittle, one of the aerliest bulldogmen, written by Mr. Darrin Jones There was a dog named Prince that used to be in the back of a pickup every Saturday at Collinsville Trade Day in Collinsville, Alabama,USA. This was a place where on a good day you could see Cel Ashley, Alas Kittle, G.L.Williamson, and Alan Scott all in one day at this place. Prince belonged to Mr. Kittle. He was a large dog with a big head. Everyone has different views on his weight, myself I would guess he probably weighed around one hundred pounds. Mr. Kittle received a distress call one morning from some folks in a nearby community. It seems there was a Saint Bernard who had been given his free run. This Saint Bernard had killed a couple of head of cattle and several goats. There were about 10 people there when Mr. Kittle and Prince arrived at the farm that the Saint Bernard was visiting that day. Once in the Pasture, he told Prince to catch the dog. Prince caught and held the dog. One man wanted the dog so they were going to let him take it. As Mr. Kittle broke Prince off the dog he went for Mr. Kittle this was his last mistake. Prince broke his neck. Prince was killed in the eighties by a wreckless driver. Some say that he had to run off the road to kill him. Like many of the dogs, around those days no one knows where Prince came from. Mr. Kittle passed away in 1995. This man loved AMERICAN BULLDOGS. When Cell Ashley was asked where he got his first A.B. He said from Alas Kittle...? Alan Scott about Scotts dixieman Got my first Bulldog from Cell Ashley. She cost me $45. Called her Little Dixie Bell. Back then, Cell would buy and trade for 'bout anything, and he was constantly tradin' dogs. Cell got a lot of his dogs from the Kittles and some from Florida. I got a Florida Bulldog from Cell that was the best hog dog you ever saw. Wasn't all that big, but most of 'im was head. I called him ol' Joe. We bred 'im a few times. ol' Joe is the father of J.D. Johnson's Corky Ann. Had another pretty good dog named Dixieman of Alan Scott. (Buster to all who knew him). Ya know Buster was the first and only, as far as I know, Grand National Dog Show Champion. Buster was quite a dog. He'd work cows like a Cur Dog. He would circle and bay and catch when you sent him. l could put Buster up in the back of my pickup and slap the side of the truck, tell 'im to watch it, and he wouldn't let nobody around it. But if I didn't pat the side of the truck, anybody could crawl allover that ol' truck. He wouldn't bother you, wouldn't growl or nothin'. But if I told 'im to watch it you couldn't get near it, he'd eat you up. One afternoon in the fall of 1978, I went to check my cows and took Dixieman along with me. Well, the neighbor's bull, a brangus which would have weighed in excess of 1,600 pounds at the time, was in our pasture. I started to run him back across the creek, but he had different plans. The old devil turned on me. Well, needless to say, I headed tor the nearest tree. As I was approaching it at a very rapid pace, of course, Buster heard the commotion and came running. He caught the bull by the ear. I don't especially like for him to catch the ear, but at the time, I didn't give a darn where he caught the S.O.B. (sweet old bull). Weil, the battle had started and the bull tried to hook him off his ear, but old Buster just stuck to him. Buster fought him until the bull went down on his knees. I whistled and told him to drop the bull. The bull got up, looked around and headed tor the creek with Buster right behind him. When he reached a scope of woods, just before the creek, the old devil decided he wanted some more and turned to fight Scott's Buckin' Bronco Bill again. You heard about WW l and WW II, weil, I got to see WW III. Buster whipped him again, and the bull headed for home with Buster right behind him! When they went into a creek, the bull started up a bank that was too steep. When he turned to come back, Buster caught him again. He pulled the bull's head under water, and when he came up, he blew water out af his nose. I bet he went six feet back up the same bank again this time to climb out. When he got out, Buster stopped the chase and came back to me as if to see if I was all right. We finished checking our cows and went home ta tell my wife about WW III. John D. Johnson about his famous Dick the Bruiser. "In loving memory of Dick the Bruiser, one of my American Pit Bulldogs." He had a heart attack on May 12, and another on May 13, which took his life. On May 12, I was working him, even though he was 9 1/2 years old he was unusually strong, and ready to do anything I told him to do. When he had the first attack, he laid flat on his side. I sat by him talking to him for 30 minutes, then he rolled over on his stomach and appeared to get over it. I gave him his last two commands of several hundred that he always obeyed regardless if they pleased him or not. He always wanted to do what I told him, "get up old buddy, and lets go", which he did. He went to his place and ate about half his supper. The next morning he had another heart attack and was gone. He was the only dog that I ever saw my wife cry about, but to her he was the only one that ever lived, as he saved her life on a number of occasions. One time she was picking up Pecans below the barn and a man was coming up on her with a gun from off the river. Dick made quick work of him and his gun. In the same pasture we have a calf feeder, my wife was going to feed the calves, Dick ran ahead of her. There was a very large red wild dog waiting on a calf to come in. Dick took care of him also. About an hour before he had gotten another wild dog, a black and white on that was headed her way. Another time they went to the barn, and one was hiding under the loading shoot, she walked right by him, but Dick killed him. One other occasion he got the dogs before they got her. I must stop and explain that we have packs of wild dogs that will kill a man if he gets in their territory without some protection, or some way to get away. They have attacked lots of people in this country. Some on horseback, and the horse would out run them. Some would attack men on tractors, and some have been attacked close to their homes, and even in their yard. All my dogs are bred to protect their master, but Dick was one of the best I ever saw doing it. He was always with my wife, so he had lots of opportunities to do so. He saved my life when three black wild German Shepherd dogs attacked me, or started to, but Dick got the dogs first. Without help I would have been killed. After he killed more wild dogs than any one dog ever has in these parts, I started training some other dogs to help him. I saw him whip six wild grown German Shepherds at one time, and the smallest of them was as large as Dick was. I bought a .30-06 rifle and started helping him also. I have killed them within 20 feet of me, coming right at me. One of my neighbors, while I was gone, saw a pack of wild dogs go into my pasture and he got old Dick to go after them. They went over a small hill and was in the middle of them before he knew it. He shot one and Dick was fighting three more when one slipped up to my neighbors back and was about to get him when Dick saw him and broke away from the three and grabbed that dogs just before he got my neighbor. My neighbor had to run off and leave Dick fighting four dogs as he went to get some ammunition for his gun. As he passed my place he turned Lady Tuffie loose, and when he got back there was only one wild dog left and Dick was chocking him to death. Dick was known far and wide as a great dogs and people came from other states to get me and my dogs to go kill their wild dogs for them. Pound for pound there has never been a better dog that walked God's green Earth than 'Dick the Bruiser'. He loved cake and cookies, also flowers, so he is buried with his head against a bed of peonies with a butternut tree for shade. Of all the great dogs that I have owned, Dick has a special place in my heart. I always cry when one of my dogs dies, but it took me over a year to be able to write this story about him. Every time I started, I could not see for the tears in my eyes. I have six of his daughters and one of his sons left that I am keeping. His bloodlines will be in my dogs for a long time to come, but there will never be another just like him. John D. Johnson about Sandman the Great When Sandman the Great was a puppy, we let him run loose. He was the only dog that was loose. One day when Mildred and I was gone, a working man came to do some work on the house that we had commissioned him for, and the puppy was out front. When the man drove up, he got out of his truck and started around to inspect the house, and for some reason he threw a rock at the puppy. Now my mother lived in the other house up there and was watchin' the whole thing, and she said that Sandy (that's what we called Sandman the Great) tucked his tail between his legs and made a dive for that man. The man ran and jumped in his truck with that puppy chasin' and threatenin' him. So he cranked up and left, and Sandy chased him all the way to the street before he came back home. Now you need to understand that Sandy at this time wasn't but four months ald. That's when I knew this puppy was special. Now Sandy was used to me comin' in from work after dark, but he wasn't used to me goin' outside at night. But one night, it was bitter cold, and we heard dogs and thought they were in our cows. Back then, we had a lot af trouble with wild dogs comin' in our cattle ta kill the calves. We heard these dogs in the upper part af the pasture. So me and Mildred jumped up, grabbed the guns, and went to run the dogs off. When we got up there, we realized it was further on up the river at Mr. Jackson's pony farm. So we turned around and came back. Sandy, still just a pup, met us there at the edge of the yard and wouldn't let us come in. Boy, he was mad! He was pitchin' a big 'un. And I was talkin' to 'im and kept talkin' to 'im, and he just got meaner. I thought, good grief Mama, we're goin' to freeze to death or have to kill my puppy one. Can't get to my car, my Lord, can't do nothin. About that time, I guess he got our odor and realized it was me and Mildred, and then he just humbled down and started beggin' for us to forgive 'im because he'd made a mistake. Let me tell ya, Sandy was a top-notch watch dog! Now remember he's just a baby. One night, I run outside to do somethin', and he liked to have eat me up. I had to side step and everything to keep him from gettin' me even with me hollerin' at him to help him realize it was me. I decided, boy, I've got to change this! So I started goin' to the front door, and then I'd call him and let him see me come out. Then he learned that I was supposed to be out at night, and it was all right. But, ya see, in his mind, there wasn't supposed to be anyone out there at night, so even as a pup, he'd get pretty rough. After Sandy was grown, I had a fella who I hired to do some work for me named John Robert Kindrick who come over on a Sunday. When he first came, I took Sandy. I said, "Now, Sandy, this is John Robert Kindrick. He'll be mornin' down here to work." Now you know how you'd feel if somebody introduced you to a dog and told 'im that. You'd sorta grin behind ya ears. John Robert told me later that's what he'd done. Well, anyway, John Robert would drive up in the mornin', and Sandy would bark two or three times 'til he saw it was John Robert. Then he wouldn't say no more, and John Robert would then walk down to the barn and go to work. One mornin', Mildred hadn't turned the power on. So John Robert came up front, petted Sandy, and then John Robert started up the walk to the house. Well, Mildred was home by herself, so when John Robert started to the front door, ol' Sandy reached up and grabbed him by the arm and just held him there. Then as you can imagine, John Robert began to holler for Mildred. Well, the next Sunday, John Robert told at church about that happening. He told the folks at church that he thought I was crazy for introducing him to that dog, but he was so glad I did. Another time, John Robert and I was workin' out in the garage and needed a 2 x 4, and there was one layin' up in the front yard. Well, John Robert went by Sandy and petted him, then went and got that 2 x 4 and started back to the garage. When he walked by Sandy, ol' Sandy noticed he had that 2 x 4, so he just reached up and grabbed John Robert by the arm. John Robert went to screamin' and hollerin', and when I looked at him, John Robert's eyes was stretched out real big, and he said, "Sandy won't let me come!" I laughed, walked up and took the 2 x 4 from John Robert's hand, and ol' Sandy turned him loose. John Robert asked; "Was he afraid I was gonna hit him?" "No, he's afraid you was gonna hit me." Casey Couturier about White Fang Dear American Bulldog Enthusiasts: This is the saddest occasion I have ever had to write about. It has been two weeks since the tragic incident, and it is still very hard to write about. On Monday, January 8, 1996, my beloved White Fang was shot in the head and killed before I even had gotten out of bed that morning. Sheila carelessly let him out unsupervised, he chased my low-life neighbor's cur dog from my property back to the neighbor's, caught and proceeded to work the cur over on his owner's porch. The cur's owner tried to "scare" Fang off by throwing milk jugs at him, of course to no avail. He then fired a shot to "scare" Fang off, to which Fang acted in a predictable manor, and "attacked the threatening bad guy who was shooting at him." Besides dealing with the shock and grief of losing my #1 buddy, I am mad as hell and can't do anything about it. You cannot go back in time. I am mad at Sheila for allowing Fang to go out unsupervised, I'm mad at that S.O.B. that allowed his cur to run loose, and I'm mad at myself for not shooting the cur in the past two years that he has been trespassing on my land. I had actually chased him off with warning shots numerous times because he was a neighbor's dog. The dog has been chained since he lured Fang to his death. But the slime bucket will let him loose again and I guarantee that either a 450# Russian Boar or the vultures will dine on cur. (editor’s note: The vultures dined, I didn’t want the mess in the hog pen) Fang had gotten out of our eyesight on a few occasions and found plenty of "bulldog" type distractions in his own yard that he availed himself on. My stud Russian Boar is only 150 feet from our house and Fang would love to fight him through the fence or chase him round and round the pen, which he would do till he dropped. (Fang, not the boar). Or he would go 100 yards past the boar pen and take another try at whipping my 90 pound Pit Bull, Brutus McCoy, or check out the various bitches for romantic reasons. But that morning, he found a trespasser on his property, chased, caught, and was 'interrupted in punishing the trespasser by a gun shooting antagonist. Fang had only one reaction to a gun shot, crack of a whip, or a threat to him or those in his charge, it pissed him off, and turned him into the GUARDIAN WARRIOR that he was. He never thought about where he was and retreating from a threat was not his nature. It doesn't make it any easier, but Fang did die doing what he loved. He considered our property, boars and dogs his domain and would not stand for four or two legged uninvited trespassers. He pursued, caught and punished an 'intruder and attacked a "bad guy" threatening him and shooting at him with a gun. He did what he was bred and trained to do and was cut down in his prime through no fault of his own. We are raising up a 5 month old son of Fang out of Scoot who is the only one around hear who's glad the Fangster is gone. He is getting a lot of attention. I was lucky enough to have had the foresight to freeze 'some of Fan's semen which will be used in our own breeding program in our attempt to recreate a bulldog 3/4 as good as Fang, which would still be one hell of a BULLDOG. I hesitated about putting the best damn dog I've ever owned in over 30 years on the cover of ABR #5 because I knew my critics would accuse me of a self serving act, and trying to promote my own dogs. But when I really thought about it, I realized that in reality, if it weren't for that big white brave buddy of mine, there would be no American Bulldog Association or American Bulldog Review. If Fate would not have delivered Fang to us, I would not have included the American Bulldog in the working bulldog magazine I was starting. National Bulldogger which turned into Bulldog Review which in turn evolved into the all American Bulldog American Bulldog Review, and I never would have started the American Bulldog Association Registry. The following is a brief story on White Fang and a little of our roots in the American Bulldog world. The Story of White Fang and the birth of the ABA In I 988, after being attracted to this breed by some real slick full page ads 'in Dog World magazine, I took the plunge and went to visit Joe Painter in Illinois. I was impressed enough to spend more money then I care to admit on buying "pick of litter" brood stock from Joe Painter and later from Joe and Margentina when the started their partnership. I really wasn't satisfied with most of the dogs I bought from Painter. The dogs mostly looked good cosmetically and had brave bulldog hearts but had a variety of physical disorders. The dogs I bought from the liar in Massachusetts (steve leclerc) were simply pitiful, real mental basket cases. The dogs themselves and the relationship with the breeder himself equaled the worst horror breeder/puppy story you have heard. Joe Painter honored his guarantee but the replacements I got were as bad as what they replaced. The fellow from Massachusetts knew of the difficulties of suing out of state for a few thousand dollars and refused to honor his guarantee. I was about to chalk up the $I0,000+ I had spent on the dogs as a valuable lesson learned, and stick with a breed that didn't have all those problems, which I already had. (I had my own strain of Pit Bulls that I had bred for 12 years as companion/ guardians.) at that point I wouldn't have given a plug nickel for another American Bulldog. One day a fellow named Jim Dewberry from Virginia, whom I had sold a couple of Pit Bulls, called and asked me if I wanted a free American Bulldog with the agreement that he would get a dog back sometime. He described the dog as a little demon that would bite me. I took this as a challenge and agreed to take the little monster. Jim had warned me that this pup would come out of the crate and attack anything he saw and to be careful. I had never seen the puppy that would not learn respect real quick with the proper discipline, and was ready to take any appropriate action. The first pleasant surprise was that little baby Fang came in a free crate with no shipping bill. The second was that little Fang bounded out of the crate and wanted to play. Just a normal rowdy pup. He would play as hard as you wanted and I could not figure out why Dewberry thought this was a viscous pup. He would retrieve a ball and would play tug of-war as long as you wanted. And he looked and acted like I wanted my other bulldog pups to look and act like. I and many others got sucked in and bought dogs from Joe Painter that we hoped would mature into a dog like Sgt. Rock. After $ 10.000 invested, none did. And now I had one. I felt I was due for a break and a good bulldog. As a growing pup. Fang was a lot of fun. He was definitely not a dull dog. If he got bored playing by himself, he would bring his tennis ball and drop it or throw it in your lap. If you didn't grab it quick, he would grab it back with part of you if you weren't careful. From the day we got him at I 2 weeks old he never soiled the house and never destroyed anything of importance. The only dog I've ever had to be that good. He always came when he was called and liked to keep you 'in his sight. At around six months old, Fang's innate qualities of protectiveness started to blossom. My friend John Tatman, who lives near Dayton, Ohio agreed to evaluate and help train Fang if he had what it takes. John had previously finished his Pit Bull Sam to a Schutzhund III and has since titled a son of Sam's. John also is the author of Dear John, the training and problem solving column we run in American Bulldog Review when there are questions for it. John has spoke at many Schutzhund seminars and is respected by fellow trainers and judges. I was lucky to have a friend that qualified that was willing to help train Fang. Fang possessed well developed and balanced defense and prey drives and took to the protection phase of Schutzhund like a duck to water. Fang was never trained enough to get any titles, but his protective qualities did get some fine tuning that helped to make a hard, brave dog that knew no fear and would lay his life down for you. Even at a young age Fang instinctively "took over" when I was out of town. He stuck to Sheila like glue and let any visitor know that he was in charge. Anyway, he really was the inspiration for all of Sheila and my contribution to the American Bulldog breed. In summation, I would like to dedicate this ABA web site and all future issues of American Bulldog Review, plus any good that we have done for the breed with the A.B.A. registry and the foundation of the WABA to the memory of my big White Buddy, Watchdog White Fang.