There are limits to how much lunacy even a Bull Terrier owner can endure.  I hit that limit after several weeks of daily company.  I don’t remember a time where I was so glad for a family reunion to end.  During the reunion, we had a houseful of people, much to Malcolm’s utter joy.  

     There was my mother, who thought Bull Terriers were the homeliest of dogs.  My older sister, her husband, and two daughters, ages four and nine.  Then, my younger sister, her husband, and her two sons ages one and four.  It was during this visit that I discovered exactly how much trouble one enthusiastic Bull Terrier and two four year olds could get into.  

     Malcolm was famous (or is that infamous?) for his love of mischief, he had a real nose for finding trouble.  This sixty-five pound white dog, with his two four-year-old allies, succeeded in making my house look like a nuclear disaster area. 

     I called this faction ‘Malcolm’s marauders’ which amused Dear Hubby.  However, I never used the term within earshot of the sisters.  The marauders also managed to terrorize our poor cat to where she only crept out of hiding after everyone left for the night.  

     Malcolm was in his glory.  Chaos reigned.  The dog had a blast leading his two willing victims into trouble.  Always playing the innocent bystander, he’d sit back, tail a wag, eyes twinkling with merriment, while his cohorts caught hell.  That dumb, innocent look saved his hide from both sisters’ wrath many times.  

     Okay, I admit I found it a hoot.  After all, neither sister was the least bit familiar with how much trouble a Bull Terrier could get into all on his own.  Moreover, I am guilty of not pointing out the fact that he was the leader of that small group of bandits.  Things were quiet after they left.  

     Then the new rescue dog arrived.

     The National Rescue called.  There was a Bull Terrier in trouble.  I in turn called through the list of club members to find someone willing to accompany me on the drive to shelter.  Jim said he come along.  Then I called our vet to see if he could squeeze the dog in for an exam after I picked him up, he could. 

     The next morning we set off on a thirty-mile drive.  A drive in weather that’s best reserved for sitting at home in front of a fireplace.  When we left, we had light rain, a little while later it became freezing rain and sleet.  Ice began to coat everything. 

     I hadn’t been to this particular shelter and had no idea we’d be driving winding back roads to get there.  Poor Jim had never ridden with me before.  I could see Jim’s knuckles whiten as he gripped the dashboard and door through every twisting turn.  I kept chattering away with the hope of easing his mind.  I’m sure he wished he’d stayed home and wasn’t riding in an old van on icy roads with a magpie that wouldn’t shut up. 

     The sign for the shelter was about the size of a walnut so he really couldn’t blame me for missing it could he?  Twenty minutes past the sign, I decided to stop and ask someone if they knew where the heck this shelter was.  Jim remained in the van while I inquired at a small diner. 

     “Go back the way you came.  You’ll pass a junkyard on your left.  Don’t turn there.  Then you’ll see an A Treat beverage sign on an old red barn on your right.  Don’t turn there either.  You’ll pass three more roads and you’ll turn left at the fourth one.  Can’t miss it.  The shelter’s about two miles up that road.” 

     I bought a coffee for me, and one for Jim.  I figured we’d need it.  When I told Jim the directions, I thought he’d bust a gut.  We backtracked, saw the junkyard and the red barn which may have once been red but if it hadn’t had the A treat sign on it we never would have known.  Jim gleefully counted off roads and we turned at the fourth one.  That’s when we saw the miniscule sign. 

     The people at the shelter were very nice.  They’d been told to expect me and they had the dog ready when we walked in the door.  He was white, his face had several cuts and scratches, and we could see every rib and vertebrate.  This boy barely tipped the scales at thirty-five pounds a good twenty to thirty pounds underweight.  Yet he wagged his tail and greeted us with enthusiasm. 

     We drove him directly to my vet’s office.  My vet named him Lucky because I had the dog and he knew the good care he’d get.  After Lucky had a checkup, a couple of shots, and was sent home with me I knew we’d spoil him with food, he sure did love the cookies all the vets and vet techs gave him.  When I arrived at home with the dog, I already had a possible placement for him.  My vet had a friend who had recently lost his Bull Terrier to old age.  However, I wasn’t about to place him until he’d gained some weight.  Within a few weeks, Lucky had gained enough weight that I felt I could call my vet’s friend.  

     The friend arrived at my house twenty minutes after I’d called him.  Lucky fell for the man immediately.  Six years later, I still get reports on how wonderful Lucky is.  They never did change his name.

     One breed of dog that teaches a person humility in obedience classes is a Bull Terrier.  If you brag about their progress, they will immediately take the starch out of your sails.

     When the canvas bag came out, the water bottle was filled, and the leash rattled, Malcolm knew it was time to go to school.  He did helicopters, bully runs, and generally made a fool out of himself.  His idea of school was a place where there were many dogs and people to play with and to pay attention to him.  It’s also, where he held the uncontested title of class clown. 

     The first ten minutes of class, he was a lunatic, but then he settled down to work.  The settling began during our heeling session that our instructor put us through for fifteen minutes.  Therefore, after ten minutes of him leaping and cavorting about we had five minutes where he was working well. 

     Malcolm loved doing recalls.  He got to sit in line with all his pals and see if he could get any of them into trouble.  Then came the part where he would run full tilt into Mom, I braced for impact.  Enthusiasm is great but I wished he would learn to stop before he hit my legs.  My instructor said it would come in time and it was better not to put a damper on his enthusiasm.  She was right.  He used my legs less often later. 

     Figure eights were jolly fun.  Sits and downs existed for humor.  He loved to see how many of his pals he could entice into breaking position.  A little eye contact here, a madly wagging tail there, he did manage to get his fun in.  

     The down was the best time to see how patient Mom could be.  Early on in obedience classes, Malcolm discovered he could make all the people laugh.  When I would walk away from him while he was on a down, his tail would start to wag like mad, and he’d crawl on his belly behind me.  Crawling was fun.  It drove Mom crazy.  Everyone laughed.  His face had that grin that said, ‘see, I stayed down.’  It took a while, but he finally learned (after having to use two leashes and an assistant) that down/stay meant lie down and stay put, NO crawling. 

     Once he learned the down, the next most difficult thing for him to learn was the stand for examination.  That person who approached him in such a friendly manner, offering a hand for him to sniff, it must mean-yes, time to play or have belly-tickles.  How exciting to have someone approach him.  His tail would wag, his body would wiggle, and he’d move, try to climb on them, or flop onto his back.  Hello, what part about the word stay have you forgotten? 

     The most important thing was that he had the time of his life and so did I.  Oh, he finally learned to stand for examination and sure looked good in the show ring.

Visit our home and you’ll see numerous beware of dog signs about.  They are surplus from when we owned a German shepherd, though I feel that they still apply in Malcolm’s case.  He’s not the type of dog to be aggressive with people.  That is, not to those that we welcome and who enter by the front door.  They are the ones he’d probably lick to death or lead to the icebox.

However, in the last few months we’ve noticed that he has become a hazard for anyone who drops in on us.  The dog has developed a fascination for shoelaces.

After our guest or guests enter our home and sit down, Malcolm crouches at his chosen victim’s feet.  When he figures that no one is paying attention, he noses over closer.  Then, ever so proficiently, he takes a hold of his target’s shoelace, and little by little, tugs until it is untied.  They never feel it unless he wants them to.  Once he’s untied the shoelaces on both shoes, he waits (rather pleased with himself) for them to notice his scheme.  I’m waiting for the day that he learns to tie them together and really trips someone up.  Believe me; I think if he had thumbs, he would’ve succeeded at that endeavor a long time ago.

If a dog could laugh, Malcolm does.  He has a weird sense of humor.  Most of his jokes are on me.  There’s a certain sense of relief to see that he’s found another outlet for his wit.  And, a lack of sympathy for the new targets of his hilarity.

For my safety, I’ve taken to wearing sneakers that close with Velcro.  Unfortunately, he’s discovering how much fun Velcro is, and what a neat sound it makes when you tug on it.  But, at least, unlike shoelaces that dangle and delight his hilarity, Velcro isn’t something he can open without you knowing it.