Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire Montana wolf attacks dog...

The only way to determine gameness is break the fighting animals up,when one turns his head away. Then turn him loose again if he goes back for more..he is game,if he walks away he's cold. If not broken up,the lesser of the two will be fightin defence,going back after being on the losing end is offence.

You're showing atypical good sense, jorge.

It's a characteristic that, if found in the wild, would assure the extinction of whatever species possessed it. It's an unwillingness to release a grip once acquired (except to secure a superior grip), regardless of the degree of bodily damage taken in battle. Naive people mistake the observation of gameness in practice with "locking jaws." The jaws don't lock. The Pitbull merely refuses to let go. Now, a Pitbull trained to a release command will release on command, but that's not a statement about its gameness. Gameness is the refusal to let go due to damage, not the refusal to let go in response to a command, assuming the dog is trained to such.

Pit fighting professionals never train their dogs to let go on command, since this training operates counter to their purposes, and opt for breaking sticks instead, which are wedged between the upper and lower teeth and worked back towards the molars till the grip is released and the dogs are separated.

Yep, that's another essential characteristic of gameness, and is indeed how it's tested by professional dog fighting men.

All I know is that pitbulls scare the hell outta me and should be banned. lol

That's basically how professional rooster fighting is done also.

Counter-intuitively, Pitbulls by nature tend actually to be friendly towards people in the extreme, if not conditioned to be otherwise. Poor folks, however, who cannot afford security systems, and are frequent victims of crime, have the tendency to train their Pitbulls to be people-aggressive. There are specific techniques for this that are popular in "the hood," usually referred to as "making them mean." They go about this starting in puppyhood.

Ever see the movie Sling Blade? that's what a Pit Bull is, a tragedy waiting to happen. Add to that I've never seen anybody but inbreds and other "untermenchschen" own the damned thing, same with those weirdos that keep lions, tigers, etc. I love dogs, but by God but Pit Bulls are a danger.

Pitbulls are popular among dog rescue types, too, jorge, who tend to be white, middle class, yuppy types rather than ghetto thugs.

Nice picture of Sophia and the killers there Hawk, but since this is a FORUM where opinions and facts and experience are the basis for posting, I personally have never seen "civilized" people own those dogs, not EVER. Every time I've seen one (and it's owner) have either been the Michael Vic or Deliverance types and personally not a single one of my friends have ever owned one.

Not going to read all 27 pages so maybe it's been said but the guy in the OP is either the bravest son of a female dog alive or the dumbest. Not sure which. But the day I walk out in the apparent 'wilds' in the black of night in pursuit of my boxer that apparently is getting eaten by something badder than he is, to wade a creek in my flip flops armed with a flash light and some pepper spray.... well.... hopefully somebody will just put me down because my end is not likely to be painless.
On top of that he thought it might be a coyote?!?!? If I ever live where they have a coyote that can hold a 65# boxer by the muzzle, I'm moving!
I've owned multiple boxers (granted, 65# was the smallest one I owned, by far) and I've shot multiple coyotes, that comment/concern simply doesn't compute.
In any case, glad the boxer (GREAT dogs!) suffered only a bruised ego.
Regarding what the critter was that had the dog subdued, whatever it was, it should have been shot with something other than pepper spray. Nickle says it'll be back... with more attitude (or friends).

There are lot more Pits that don't go bad than do.Petey from the Little Rascals was a Pit,he never attacked Darla,or any of the others.Generalizing can be a bad thing.....anti's will tell you AR's are a tragedy waiting to happen also...Ever seen the movie "Heat"?

An AR doesn't have free will.

I've seen them in middle class white neighborhoods all my life. Granted, those are usually registered with the AKC as either American Staffordshire Terriers or Staffordshire Bull Terriers, but a rose by any other name smells as sweet.

Here's James Thurber (You've heard of him, right?) writing about his Pitbull named Rex:

A Snapshot of a Dog:

I ran across a dim photograph of him the other day. He's been dead 25 years. His name was Rex (my two brothers and I named him) and he was a Bull Terrier. "An American bull terrier," [That was prior to the UKC placing the word "pit" in parentheses between American and Bull Terrier in the breed name] we used to say, proudly; none of your English bulls [English Bull Teriers are a different, though related, breed]. He had one Brindle eye that sometimes made him look like a clown and sometimes reminded you of a politician with derby hat and cigar. The rest of him was white except for a Brindle Saddle and a Brindle stocking on a hind leg. Nevertheless, there was a nobility about him. He was big and muscular and beautifully made. He never lost his dignity even when trying to accomplish the extravagant tasks my brother and I used to set for him.

One of these was the bringing of a ten-foot wooden rail into the Yard through the back gate. We would throw it out into the alley and tell him to get it. Rex was as powerful as a wrestler, and he would catch the rail at the balance, lift it clear of the ground, and trot with great confidence toward the gate. Of course, the gate being only four feet wide, he couldn't bring the rail in broadside. He found that out when he got a few terrific jolts, but he wouldn't give up. He finally figured out how to do it, by dragging the rail, holding onto one end, growling. He got a great, wagging satisfaction out of his work.

He was a tremendous fighter, but he never Started fights. He never went for a dog's throat but for one of its ears (that teaches a dog a lesson), and he would get his grip, close his eyes, and hold on. He could hold on for hours. His longest fight lasted from dusk to almost pitch-dark, one Sunday. It was fought with a large, snarly nondescript belonging to a large colored man. When Rex finally got his ear grip, the brief whirlwind of snarling turned to screeching. It was frightening to listen to and to watch. The Negro boldly picked the dogs up, swung them around his head, and finally let them fly like a hammer in a hammer throw, but although they landed ten feet away, with a great plump, Rex still held on. Working their way to the middle of the car tracks, two or three streetcars were held up by the fight. A motorman tried to pry Rex's jaws open with a switch rod; somebody lighted a stick and held it to Rex's tail but he paid no attention. Rex's joy of battle, when battle was joined, was almost tranquil. He had a kind of pleasant expression during fights, his eyes closed in what would of seemed to be sleep had it not been for the turmoil of the struggle. The Fire Department finally had to be sent for and a powerful stream of water turned on the dogs for several moments before Rex finally let go.

The story of that Homeric fight got all around town, and some of our relatives considered it a blot on the family name. They insisted we get rid of Rex, but nobody could have made us give him up. We would have left town with him first. It would have been different, perhaps, if he had ever looked for trouble. But he had a gentle disposition. He never bit a person in the ten strenuous years that he lived, nor ever growled at anyone except prowlers.

Swimming was his favorite recreation. The first time he ever saw a body of water, he trotted nervously along the steep bank for a while, fell to barking wildly, and finally plunged in from a Height of eight feet or more. I shall always remember that shining, virgin dive. Then he swam upstream and back just for the pleasure of it, like a man. It was fun to see him battle upstream against a stiff current, growling every foot of the way. He had as much fun in the water as any person I have ever known. You didn't have to throw a stick into the water to get him to go in. Of course, he would bring back a stick if you did throw one in. He would have brought back a piano if you had thrown one in.

That reminds me of the night he went a-roving in the light of the moon and brought back a small Chest of draws he had found somewhere--how far from the house nobody ever knew. There were no draws in the Chest when he got it home, and it wasn't a good one--just an old cheap piece abandoned on a trash heap. Still it was something he wanted, probably because it presented a nice problem in transportation. We first knew about his achievement when, deep in the night, we heard sounds as if two or three people were trying to tear the house down. We came downstairs and turned on the porch light. Rex was on the top step, trying to pull the thing up, but it had caught and he was just holding his own. I suppose he would have held his own until dawn if we hadn't helped him. Next day we carted the Chest miles away and threw it out. If we had thrown it out nearby, he would have brought it home again, as a small token of his integrity in such matters.

There was in his world no such thing as the impossible. Even death couldn't beat him down. He died, it is true, but only, as one of his admirers said, after "straight-arming the death angel" for more than an hour. Late one afternoon he wandered home, too slowly and uncertainly to be the Rex that had trotted briskly homeward up our avenue for ten years. I think we all knew when he came through the gate that he was dying. He had apparently taken a terrible beating, probably from the owner of some dog he had got into a fight with. His head and body were scarred, and some of the brass studs of his heavy Collar were sprung loose. He licked at our hands and, staggering, fell, but got up again. We could see that he was looking for someone. One of his three masters was not home. He did not get home for an hour. During that hour the Bull Terrier fought against death as he had fought against the cold, strong current of the creek. When the person he was waiting for did come through the gate, whistling, ceasing to whistle, Rex walked a few wabbly paces toward him, touched his hand with his Muzzle, and fell down again. This time he didn't get up.

But those that own them do.

An AR can't run off a leash. A gun can't bolt out the door and attack the mailman.

It's easy, if you'd just let it be.

Ah, but a man with an AR can.

I see where yer going with this.

I just disagree.

A Pit has a mind, an AR don't.

But the man with the AR does.

The man with the Pit is normally the problem also.Bad owners give them a bad name,I am willing to bet horses injure more people a year than Pits do.