SaddleNotIncluded

I love a dreamer Tell your family to heed the warning about crooks in the BB breed - they are legion. what can I say, I'm an optimist! Well warned about the crooks. Their buying budget, including travel but not including crate/toys/food/collar/rego/etc, is about $6000+, so I encouraged them to look beyond Victoria. There are quite a few breeders, but the worthwhile ones are spread thinly. Like any breeders from any breed, I suppose. Although I'm going to insist on coming with them, no matter where they go. For research purposes, of course. Puppy cuddling research.

I didn't mean for this to turn into a...well....a typical DOL thread. :laugh: Thanks to everyone who made suggestions here or through PM. I'll be seeing my family this weekend and will pass on the info of the breeders that have been recommended. I shall return (hopefully) with proud new auntie puppy pics

I talked to them a lot about the BB as I'm quite a fancier of them and they're top of my 'one day' list, and they are very much prepared for one. Since it's a public forum I won't detail, but they can quite easily afford the initial price and I know they still have a generous amount left in Sassy's (Rainbow Bridge Stafford) vet bills account. I estimated setting aside about $5000 for purchase price, which is easily affordable for them. I'm pretty confident that they would be good owners of the breed. Sass had DA and food guarding issues that they managed with a private trainer, so they have about 6 years experience in that area. I know most bull breeds *can* have issues along those lines, and they'd prefer a male, so a bit more common I believe. Sass weighed barely anything, and I've heard bullies can be little freight trains when they get the momentum up :laugh: That will take some getting used to, especially for the poor cats! They have a long wood floored hallway, Sass and the cats would barrel up and down it playing swat/bitey face. A bullie would just shoot right through into the loungeroom after a run up like that! :laugh: I'd love it if you could PM me the breeder's details, and I'll pass them along so they can call/email and talk to her personally. I'll suggest a Frenchie, thanks :)

Thank you very much! Appreciate it

Mod: If this type of question is not allowed, please delete. I have a family member who is actively seeking a British Bulldog breeder in Australia. Victoria region preferred. They are a couple who have two cats and a 7 year old son. They are trying to find a breeder that has children and/or cats raised with the adults and pups. The 7 year old is a really good kid, he interacts very well with my lot, very gentle and doesn't push boundaries. I believe he's recently done a dog safety class at his school. Their only other dog was a Stafford, who sadly passed on early last year, so they have experience with bull breeds. The cats got on tremendously with the Staffy, so I don't there'll be any issues there. They've looked online for themselves, and I've had a quick search on my time off, but we both had the same issue. Not many breeders have updated their sites in years, and most don't have recent contact details. If anybody has a recommendation for a breeder that I can pass along, I'd appreciate it!

Thank you everyone for your words. I've passed on how much his story was read and liked. Woolie was a wonderful dog for the short time I knew him and he really was loved this much

This was written by one of my friends about her Rainbow Bridge dog, Woolie. I thought it would be best appreciated here, of all places. I have permission to post. Trigger warning; emotional: sadness warning It was a day like any other day. Every day starts the same with Woolie. I wake up and swing my feet out of bed. At the foot of my bed is Woolie's bed, the same bed he's had for a year now. Woolie will bounce to his feet, ready to go. As I get up, he'll wag his tail and follow me. I stand at the back door, cold air swirling around my bare legs, squinting into the sun as he does his morning business and chases the birds. He'll circle my legs and bark, his bright eager face smiling up at me. I'll shower and he'll sit on the bathmat, pressing his nose against the glass. On my side, I'll crouch down, wipe away the fog and press my hand against the glass. Woolie will lift his paw and press it against mine; two hands separated only by a whisper. It was the first trick he learned. I sit at the table and eat my toast. Woolie only eats the crust if it has no spreads or butter. He weaves between the chair legs, toenails clicking, sniffing and grinning. Mum says, Woolie, no, Woolie bad, but I see her slip him a biscuit. She loves Woolie. We all do. I'll get dressed for school and leave, pausing to cup his muzzle in my hand and whisper "Be good". He's always been good. Woolie always listens. When I get home we'll eat together. He sits at my feet as I do my homework. He groans at the appropriate places and sighs in impatience. I sip my Milo and curl my toes into his wiry coat. He squirms and licks my toes. I feel his heartbeat thumping through my feet, right up my legs. We burst out of the front door like leaves on the wind, running to the park, sunset in our hair, youthful coltish limbs and white teeth flashing. When I'm tired he races me home. I follow, laughing all the way. We have much to do before tomorrow, but always his eyes say "Are you sure?" Today is a day like any other day. Every day starts the same with Woolie. I wake up and swing my feet out of bed. At the foot of my bed is Woolie's bed, the same bed he's had for 15 years now. Woolie slowly opens his eyes and blinks. I kneel next to his bed and rub his legs. I whisper, come on old man. Let's go. He struggles to his feet, and I support his back legs so he can stand straight. I pick him up and wrap him in my gown and carry him outside. I stand on the wet grass and gently coax him to "Wee wee Woolie". He blinks blearily in the light and sighs. The birds flit around him teasingly, but Woolie doesn't see them any more. I'll shower and he'll sit on the bathmat.. On my side, I'll crouch down, wipe away the fog and press my hand against the glass. Woolie will blink at his feet. I tap on the glass and call "woolie, Woolie, paw". Woolie stares over his shoulder, then sees me through the glass. His tail swishes on the tiles. He slowly lifts his paw and presses it against mine; two hands separated only by a whisper. It was the first trick he learned. I sit at the table and eat my toast. The kids fight over the sugar bowl. Woolie only eats the crust if it has no spreads or butter. He sits underneath my chair, staring at the floor. The kids reach below the table and scratch his ears, coaxing "Woolie, Woolie, weetbix, Woolie. Woolie, toast?". My husband John says, Woolie, no, Woolie bad, but I see him slip Woolie a crust. He loves Woolie. We all do. I'll get my two children dressed for school, heave their backpacks on the their backs and stand by the door while they throw thin, tanned arms around Woolie's neck and press wet lips onto his tolerant nose. He creaks upright and licks their scabby knees, tail thumping on the wall. Both of them charge through the door, pausing to cup his muzzle in their sticky hands and whisper "Be good". He's always been good. Woolie always listens. He sits at my feet as I call Dr Roth. Woolie groans at the appropriate places and sighs in impatience. I cry into my tea and curl my toes into his wiry coat. He lies still and wheezes. I feel his slow, heavy, hitching heartbeat thumping through my feet, right up my legs. The door bell rings. Dr Roth enters and I sign on the dotted line, bowing my head to hide my puffy eyes. He follows me into the yard. I carry Woolie in my arms like an infant. We sit beneath the apple tree and I lie Woolie on the grass. I pat my leg and he slowly crawls up to lay his head on my thigh. I tangle my fingers in his fur and my tears wet his ears. Dr Roth scratches his neck and Woolie thumps his tail. He's always loved Dr Roth. I don't want to see any of it, so I stare into Woolie's milky eyes and smell the beefy breath that wheezes from his yellow grin. I know when the next breath never comes. Today was a day like any other day. Every day starts the same without Woolie. I wake up and swing my feet out of bed. At the foot of my bed is an empty space where his bed was for 15 years. As I get up, I still walk around where his bed would be. I stand at the back door, cold air swirling around my bare legs, squinting into the sun and watching the birds peck at the grass. I shower. On my side, I'll crouch down, wipe away the fog and press my hand against the glass. The space beyond the smeared glass is empty. I lean my forehead against the glass and taste my tears. I sit at the table and eat my toast. The kids tap their spoons against their bowls and bite at their bottom lips. My youngest cries into his Krispies. My husband John slips a crust beneath the table. It falls to the floor and nobody says a word. I'll get my two children dressed for school, heave their backpacks on the their backs and stand by the door while they shift awkwardly on their feet and their eyes dart towards the corner. Both of them walk like pallbearers through the door, pausing to dangle hands emptily in the air. He was always good. Woolie always listened. I sip my tea and scratch the scab on my thumb. I scrape my toes against the carpet. Why does it still feel warm? I feel my heartbeat thumping through my feet, right up my legs. He bursts out of the front door like a leaf on the wind, running to the park, sunset in his fur, youthful coltish limbs and white teeth flashing. When he's tired I race him to the bridge. I can't follow, so I turn for home. I have much to do before tomorrow, but always his eyes say "Are you sure?"

I think the dog's name is Iggy. Also, the "dongtainers" typo had me sniggering

I agree. The fishtank divider is a nice touch. But in my opinion, they would benefit a lot more from having a good staff. They were highly recommended to me so I made the trip there and was sorely disappointed by both of the vets I saw. I love their waiting rooms but I don't recommend them as vets.

Mine suffered heavily today. First, we started the day with that bold Stafford from across the road actually daring to walk past the front fence, but yet, we were having our footsies rubbed with cream to prevent pad cracks, and we could only drape our royal head over the back of the couch and goggle at him as he strutted past our territory. Instead of leaping to our feet and bravely defending the home, as we usually do. Then, we ended the day with another footsie rub, and this time Dad called us for dinner, and because we were being held down and massaged against our will {cough cough lying on the bed and not making any attempt to move}, he had to bring in our nightly beef bikkie to eat there on the bed. Can you even believe what these poor souls go through in their day?! Call PETA right away!

I love unusual, and often non-show standard, colours. The only colour I'd never buy is pure, solid white. I especially dislike lightly marked harlequin Danes, with only a blotch or two of light fawn, pink noses and washed out eyes. Not for me. Reds and blues in any breed are my favourites, unusual and unique markings, heavily marked dapples or harlequins, or bi-colour eyes. I like different :)

Surely you have to be making that up! And how did you vision manage to survive past the home page to the sub pages, and why on earth did you go to them?! Pity me, for I thought that it might get better, and perhaps the front page was meant as a deterrent to those not bold enough to brave it for the sake of a pup. I think my wits were addled by the damn monkey pointer

I look for no music, nice colours, clear and easy to read text, no ads, stacked and candid photos, the names of the breeder, and an updated News page. When selecting my breeder, I came across one site that was a Geocities page, a starry background with lime green writing, the text was all in capitals and the spelling was horrible. The last news update was from 2007, and it had huge clipart pictures of random animals everywhere, most of them obstructing text or images, and a whole page called 'Cuuute!' that had google images of baby monkeys on it. Absolutely no info anywhere, except for a short paragraph about their tallest dog in a sub page that blared The Crazy Frog Song when clicked on, and tiny blurred thumbnail images of their dogs that didn't enlarge. The Contact page was just a blurry photo of an American flag, with a picture of a mailbox below it. Neither of those were links, or clues to how exactly I could contact the breeders. The mouse pointer was a monkey that trailed a string of bananas across the screen when moved. It was, and still is, the absolute epitome of everything that can possibly go wrong when designing a website. I couldn't care if every dog they bred had an IQ of 150 and was a multiple champion at 6 weeks old, they put me off by their sloppy, frankly nauseating website.

Somebody told me that there was a list of older Great Danes maintained by a club in Australia; where the names and ages are recorded to show the ones who make it past a certain age (it might have been 10?) I can't find mention of it on Google, so I was hoping one of the Dane people here could tell me where it can be found? I have a very distinguished grey-faced boy here in my home who is turning 12 on the 1st of February, and if such a list of oldies still exists, I'd love to send them his photos, one taken every year on his birthday (including an hour-old photo!) Thanks! :)

How incredibly stupid! It gave me thought on how different the children of dog people behave though. My kids have been animal educated since day one, and my animals have been kids educated. When my three year old sees an approaching dog on a leash, he asks me if he can pat, and stands next to me waiting for it to approach. Then he says "Hi, can I please pat your dog?" and even if they say yes, he doesn't move, just coos "Here boy, come here" and makes patting motions. If it backs away, or doesn't come to him, he'll stop trying to reel the dog in. My oldest, at 7, goes more advanced and mimics the 'asking the dogs permission' video we watched. She'll scratch it's chest, then stop, and if it backs away or doesn't come closer, she walks away. This is education that any parent could do, if they were themselves educated in the ways of animals. My kids have been bitten once- the oldest picked up an elderly mixed breed after we told her why she shouldn't ("he's old, sore, he can't see too well and he can get scared and bite. Wait for him to come to you"), she ignored this and got a snap on the thumb. On top of the small nip, she got a lecture from us about harrassing old dogs and touching them without permission. No sympathy or "bad dog!", the blame was laid squarely on her. She saw the same dog many times after, and they coexisted quite happily...because now she knew the fallout of grabbing dogs without warning, and to be gentle with old or sick dogs. The amount of times an owner grabs their bristling, shaking dog and physically forces it forward to be patted by the kids...it's crazy. It's throwing out NO signs left and right, but they're totally uncaring

When your lamb shank is too meaty to eat, because you just filled up on a dinner of fresh rabbit thighs on a bed of steamed sweet potato and rice. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, this is the very same household where a certain neglected Dane is FORCED to nap on a $750 double size pillowtop mattress. The worst part? IT'S SECOND HAND. Yes! Mother bought a new mattress to fit her new bed, and who, I ask you, WHO got the castoffs?! The abused dog. Given a bed fit only for strays and beggers

If they don't like it...hotels don't have dogs. My mother despises any dogs over knee height and has little to no comprehension of how ownership is meant to work. She wanted to visit for a few nights last year during Christmas. Her suggestion was to drop the dogs off at the pound when she got there, and then pick them up when she left. Not for boarding.... for surrender. Her theory was if they weren't adopted, they'd still be waiting after the week was over, and could come home after she'd left. Plus, we wouldn't have to pay full price for vet treatment, food or shelter, like we'd have to if they were at a boarding place. And if they were adopted that week, then hey, we were already at the pound, we could just get a nice small puppy for our Christmas gift! It had to be heard to be believed and needless to say she decided that it would be better to stay at home. For her Christmas gift we made a $50 donation to the shelter in her name.

They're so fluffy!

My 2 year old Dane and I recently moved to a new house. The neighbours were really lovely by popping over while everything was being unloaded and informed me that the last owners had an insane flea problem, and got the house and yard poisoned twice a year. They also had an outdoor-only cat, and the neighbours said it brought fleas to their yard so they've had a recent fumigation as well. My boy is treated on a regular basis with flea preventives, and has never had a problem. We switch the brand every two years to prevent the flea immunity. {meant to add, we switch the treatment with the cat. Can't switch it on a dog that's already 2 lol} Last week I noticed the hair on his rump has thinned out, so I had a finger through it and saw he was crawling with fleas. I hosed out his crate with a commercial flea solution, gave him a Capstar and put him in the crate under shade outdoors. He went to sleep while I vaccuumed the house and used the spray inside, then flea bombed the three main rooms and vaccuumed again. I hung his bed outside and sprayed it with the flea killer and left it in the sun all day. Two days later, checked, and he's crawling with fleas again. He's only been on our property so I assume they're in the yard, and I've called a pest company to do a killing and preventative spray of the entire property {to the tune of $1200, mind you!} In the meantime I took him to the vet to get the sore on his rump checked. The vet gave him a Capstar for the fleas we found, and said a good way to kill fleas immediately without ingesting a chemical is to use an organic dishwashing liquid. Wash the dog with it all over, except the face and open wounds, leave for a few seconds, and rinse off. He said stay with him so he doesn't lick it, but it's a good last resort if he has fleas on him after his Capstar dose, and will safely kill every live flea on him. He said do a spot test first, though, in case of allergy. My questions are: is the dishwashing liquid a safe idea? I did it today and it worked. I didn't leave it on, just rinsed it straight away, and picked the dead fleas off his feet where they rinsed off to. It was amazing, they were all dead, and he's not suffered any ill effect. Second, if there anything besides this fumigation that I can do to prevent the fleas returning?

My Dane is a pig. Both of them were. They'd eat imaginary food from their bowls. Thinking this was a sign of starvation, I changed their diet and fed them a bit more. They just got fat, and just kept eating past the point where there was food in their bowls. Their snouts would dart around chasing kibble in the bowls for a good 5 minutes, then they'd rear up and look down in puzzlement because the magic kibble {that never existed} was all gone. Training was a snap because they'd slobber in excitement at the sight of an empty baggie, and do anything for a treat that didn't exist.

Part of the reason why I bought from carefully selected registered breeders {well, except for the one who was a private rehoming} One of my questions centered around the fact that my husband and I want kids. If the kids were dangerously allergic, would they take back the animal, if we paid a fee for their trouble? They both said yes, without a doubt, of course they would, as long as I promise not to rehome privately or send them to a shelter. I keep in regular daily contact {friends on Facebook} with the breeder of my cat and my dog so they know what's going on in our family life. Twice a year the animals go for visits to their old homes and everyone enjoys it. My cat's breeder cries every time she gives her a cuddle, and assures me there's always a forever home with her if we need it. If I didn't have this security of the future, I don't know what I'd do. I'd probably end up spending a lot of money on large, amazing dog and cat runs to give them the best of life outside the home, and try and spend as much time with them as possible. If it was that bad, I might also consider private rehoming, but I'd be extremely picky about where they went, and insist on email updates every year.

All I thought was "George's owner must be FUMING" Book deals, TV deals, soft toys, his own collar range, even had a movie coming out next year. All the while claiming that George will never be beaten, he's simply the biggest dog that has ever lived and will ever live. :laugh: If he doesn't die of green envy, he'd be planning to assassinate this one! :laugh:

Didn't...they chose me. Well, a member of the breed chose me. Went with a friend to her friend's house to pick up some university books. While standing in the kitchen, I heard a loud 'whomp whomp whomp whomp' every time there was a pause in the conversation. Eventually I asked what it was, and the friend's-friend said "The bast*** dog in the backyard" So I looked out the kitchen window and in a small dog run was this fawn Dane pup. The whomping was it's tail whacking against the fence every time it heard someone speak. I went out to have a pat, and the lady told me they were putting it on the Trading Post tomorrow because the thumping drove her crazy every time she was trying to cook. She opened the door to the pen and it rushed out and did laps around my legs, tail whomping the whole time. "Bast***" came home with me that weekend after a mad rush to the store to buy dog things. Don't worry, I changed his name... ....to Whomper :laugh:

Ahhh, sweet memories of childhood. My first introduction to "leave the damn dog alone" was an old Kelpie x German Shep at my grandpa's farm. He was in his kennel, asleep. I was told, leave the dog alone, and expected to listen. I was about 9, so there was no excuse, but I was over there in a flash, reaching in to pat the dog. My parents were the typical suburban idiot dog-owners "Oh, she's seen dogs in the pet store before, she'll be fine. Let her pat the doggy" It turned it's head away, pop said "That's your warning, get out or get bitten" I patted it's head; it turned it's back. I was told again, get out or get bitten, the dog won't say it again. So of course I gave it a playful slap on the rump. Four stitches across the thumb and a lifelong lesson of leaving the damn dog alone. You still meet farm kids with a very healthy respect of dogs, and they never get bitten. It's because they know the language of "get out or get bitten", avoid confrontations and don't expect the dog to play dollies.

Re Giants in apartments. I had a Dane in an inner city {Melbourne} apartment. Two rooms, kitchen, bathroom, balcony and "living area". I bought one of those futon couches and put it in the spare room; that was his bed. Food and water was out on the balcony, so he could look at the city while he ate {don't think he cared much, personally!} When he was a pup the spare room was his kingdom. It had a crate, bowls, toys, treats, chews, and a baby gate across the doorway. Because the door faced into the lounge room directly, I could see him while I was watching tv/playing games/reading, and he could see me as I went into the kitchen. It helped with cutting barking, howling and separation anxiety as I was right there, but if I disappeared, I'd eventually come back and he'd see me again. I worked night shift so during the day we'd go for an hour walk around the block, and every second day we'd drive to St Kilda beach and walk up and down it. That was his exercise, and after it he'd come straight home and onto his couch for a long nap; legs splayed out, jowls quivering with every drawn out snore. As if he'd just gone on a week long marathon! He was in perfect health, never overweight or bursting with energy. He liked a run around on the weekends at the dog park, but after about an hour he'd come over and stare at the gate until we left. I think it really depends on the dog. I was lucky because he was so laid back and docile. He never chewed anything, scratched the walls or door, or barked.