Billy Tucker

In December of last year I posted two articles, Rufus 1 and Rufus 2, intending to write a series on the dog of that name. In the event, it never happened, mainly because I realized that it was a very long story indeed and too much to take on in addition to everything else I was doing.

There are tales of other dogs that are more suitable for blogging, however, and today I feel like talking of Billy. He was the first dog my father owned when we returned to England and, like most of his dogs, he was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, a Staffie.

I grew up with Staffies and would never have anything but that breed. But my father stumbled upon the Staffie purely by chance and so took time to realize how special they were; he experimented at times with other breeds, once a Boxer and later with two Bull Terriers (bred from the Staffie but not as intelligent). By the time he and my mother followed me back to England, he had learned his lesson and knew that only a Staffie would do.

Once they had settled into their new house, my father decided it was time to have a dog again; he began to look around for a Staffie. The one that took his fancy was up in Chesterfield, about an hour's drive north of Coventry. We planned an expedition to see this Staffie and I was to be a part of it, to hold on to the dog on the way back, should we decide that he was the right one. A four year old Staffie can be quite a handful if unused to traveling in cars.

We found the right house and were ushered through to the back yard, where the owner released the Staffie from the shed where he'd been kept. The dog erupted from the doorway and began to run around the yard like a mad thing, only pausing for brief seconds to greet us. Had we not known Staffies, we might have thought he'd gone mad, but it was quite obvious to us that he was desperate for exercise, that he'd been cooped up in that shed for far too long.

It was also quite clear that he'd been half starved; his coat was staring (dog breeder language for a coat that is too thin and dull), his ribs were showing and a Staffie's ribs are normally covered by hard muscle. But we could see that, in spite of his poor condition, he was a good Staffie, with heart and temperament. I think my father would have bought him whatever he looked like, just to get him out of those terrible conditions but, as it was, the dog gained a good home and we all came to know a truly great dog. His name was Billy.

On the way home, I remembered that I'd brought some sandwiches for lunch with me. I produced them and Billy was all over me immediately. He would not take them or fight me for them (this is a Staffie we're talking about) but it was clear that he was so hungry that it took an effort for him to remember who was in charge. I gave him all the sandwiches and they disappeared in an instant.

We fed him again when we arrived back at my father's house. He devoured everything we put in front of him and then looked around for more. And that was to remain his attitude towards food for the rest of his life; his experience had taught him to eat while he could. My father was amused at his insatiable appetite and renamed him Tucker but I always preferred his original name and called him so. In time, he became the dog with a first name and a surname: Billy Tucker.

With proper food and exercise, Billy filled out in a matter of a few days and attained the potential that both my father and I had seen in that starved, half-crazed creature that emerged from the shed. He was one of the best-looking Staffies I've ever seen, a brindle in color (for some unknown reason, the brindles are always the best). More importantly, he had that sharp intelligence that is the mark of the true Stafford. And his temperament was typical too; sure of himself, proud of his humans and devoted to them, always ready to play but serious about his responsibilities, above looking for a fight with other dogs but a killer if they insisted.

People do not understand this about Staffies. They know that the dog was bred for fighting, see the muscled body, square skull and massive cheeks, and assume an aggressive nature lurks within. But the real Stafford has nothing to prove. He knows full well that he's the finest fighting machine of the canine world and has no need to go looking for a fight, as a Bull Terrier will do. And he's a gentleman as well; nothing will provoke him to fight a dog smaller than himself. I have seen the perplexed look in a Staffie's eye when beset by some Yorkshire Terrier or some other yapping miniature. The Staffie walks on, pretending not to notice the pandemonium of sound and fury erupting at his heels. Only the glance directed at his master shows that he knows what is going on, the glance that says, "Boss, if I bite this thing once, I'll break it. What can I do?"

And that was typical of Billy, a gentleman to the core. He became part of the family, like a wise and ever-present old uncle.

I read somewhere that dogs acquire an understanding of about 100 human words but Staffies extend this to 500. Personally, I think this is a gross underestimate and Billy demonstrated often that he understood whatever was said. Just one story out of many is sufficient evidence of this.

Every Sunday, my father was in the habit of taking Billy in the car to open fields where he could have his fill of exercise. My father would leave by the back door, get the car from the garage and bring it around to the front door. Then he would re-enter the house and get Billy, who would be waiting at the door, trembling with his eagerness to go. Billy knew when it was Sunday and understood the arrangement so that, when my father prepared to leave, Billy would go immediately to the front door to wait.

On one occasion, my father decided to break the routine and take Billy to the garage with him, so avoiding having to drive the car around to the front of the house. As he got up to leave, Billy rushed to the front door. My father emerged from the living room, saw Billy at the front door and said conversationally, "No, Billy, today we're going straight out by the back door."

That was enough for Billy. He shot past my father and was there at the back door immediately, ready to go.

There were many occasions like that, when Billy would show just how much he understood of human speech. But that is quite normal in a Staffie; any owner will tell you the same and back it up with countless examples.

Billy grew old with my father and died a short while before him. They were both fit until right near the end and remained good friends and companions, often seen far from home on one of their walking expeditions.

May they both rest in peace.