Cindi
Senior Member
I've only been the proud owner of a Boxer for about 4 months. I've always avoided owning breed dogs as over time I had heard that pure-bred dogs usually have specific health issues, which translates into cost for the owner, and honestly any time I ever saw a Boxer in public, I thought Pit Bull.
Two things happened to change my opinion: I visited my sister, who does Boxer rescues, and met dog after dog who were sweet and even-tempered and loving, and the lady I work with had a Boxer about 6 years old that her son had stuck her with, and that she was looking for a home for.
So, one thing led to another and I brought home a 65-pound female named “Petal” who had a gunslinger's gaze and a head the size of a half-grown pumpkin. She was as skittish as a 3 month-old colt and about as heavy. The first thing she did upon arrival at her new home, was loom over Frog, our Heinz 57 brindle mutt, threateningly, and establish her dominance, which he is used to as he wouldn't say boo to a goose on a good day. The first thing WE did was change her name to Phoebe, as Petal was the least petal-like creature that I had ever met.
I'd been told that Phoebe was missing a few teeth, and when I found the courage to stick my fingers in her mouth, I found that she had only one lower canine tooth and a good set of chompers in the back, so I immediately switched her from wet food to dry, which is what Frog gets. Phoebe had been living in a back yard, exclusively, and according to the previous owner's mother, had long stretches where she wasn't fed, or given water, and never had any attention. It took her a good while to relax ... for the first two weeks she stood patiently by the back door, waiting to be let out as she could not quite grasp the fact that she now lived indoors, even though I rushed out and bought her a thick smushy bed, and red bowl to go in the kitchen floor next to Frog's.
She had been in major scraps with other dogs, which left her with assorted scars around her face and a bad attitude toward other canines her size. Someone cropped her ears when she was a pup and I sincerely doubt they knew what they were doing as they are too short and still sensitive 5 plus years later. She has deplorable manners. She steps on our bare feet with her 4-pronged hooves, and waits until we sit down to eat and then crawls under the table and unleashes the most horrific streams of noxious flatulence known to mankind, and then has the audacity to look offended when we chase her out of the room.
She drools, and she slobbers, and might carry around bits of kibble in the folds of her maw for days before dropping these soggy, unrecognizable blobs of dark brown gop unceremoniously in the middle of Pet-Smart, or our laps. She snorts and she snores worse than my ex-husband, which is saying a lot. When she's feeling particularly affectionate she will put her face as near ours as possible and then in a move reminiscent of a manatee exhaling upon surfacing for air, jettison dog spit directly into our eyes or mouth, prompting us to welcome her as though we're preparing for a spray tan—with eyes and mouths tightly shut.
Because of her appearance, she effectively clears sidewalks and aisles of all other forms of life. While walking her around Town Lake I get looks of pure unadulterated hatred from poodle and wiener dog walkers as they abandon paths and cut across the grass. Having never had any real attention, she doesn't know how to accept same gracefully, and even people who are brave enough to approach her are instantly punished by being encased in goo that looks like it came from an alien seed pod.
I was sitting in Pet-Smart one afternoon near the doggy hotel that Phoebe and I had already been banished from with dirty looks from the attendant, contemplating automatic waterers, when a little girl about 6 years old and an older woman came around the corner of the aisle, headed our way.
Oh, here we go, I thought, and waited for them to notice Phoebe and turn around and go back to whence they had come. I could have moved, but hasten to admit that I am danged tired of doing that, so I sat there, a Phoebe-sized chip on my shoulder, and defied anybody to take issue with me and my manatee-dog.
As the woman and child meandered our way, lost in a shopping daze, my nerves started jumping; they hadn't noticed Phoebe yet, although she had certainly noticed them. Even though she's never been exposed to any, to my knowledge, Phoebe loves children and will stare at them longingly, her nubby little tail jerking spasmodically as these same children make wide circles around her and dash to safety. Even now she was standing like a castle guard, that little tail almost a blur, while she waited for the child to come closer.
Oh, crap, I'm thinking. This could be bad. Phoebe is scary enough from a distance, and they're practically right on top of her and have no idea! My hand tightened down on Phoebe's leash and I gently began to reel her in, until she was standing between my legs, but she was still within a tongue's reach of the little girl.
Then, almost in slow motion, the little girl's head turned and her eyes went as big around as salad plates. She let out a sound that was something like, “weeeeee!” and her knees buckled and down she went. Oh, my god, she's fainted! I thought. I closed my eyes, wondering if a person could get arrested just for scaring a kid, and trying to calculate if I had enough money in my savings account for bail. I was starting to swoon myself and wondered if I would get any credit from the cops if I fainted, too.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a giggle and opened one eye to look down. The little girl was hanging around Phoebe's neck and Phoebe was licking her face fit to beat the band, her little tail just whirling in perfect circles.
“He looks just like Gilligan!” the little girl cried, while her grandmother gazed down at her smiling.
“We have a boxer at home,” the woman explained, and I was so overcome with gratitude I almost cried. Okay my eyes actually did mist up a tiny bit. It's amazing how powerful acceptance of someone you love can be, when you're accustomed to being shunned. “They're the best dogs in the world, aren't they?” she asked.
“Well! Yes! They! Are!” I replied a little too loudly, and sat forward watching the little girl and Phoebe writhe around on the floor together, as there is no love quite as expressive as Boxer love, even though it might be somewhat painful and/or disgusting at times, but the little girl was as at home with Phoebe as a goat on a mountain top.
The doggy hotel attendant was watching and I made sure my next words were loud enough for her to hear ...
“They're the BEST DOGS IN THE WORLD, AND IT'S NICE TO MEET SOMEONE ELSE WHO KNOWS THAT, EVEN IF THEY DON'T WORK WITH DOGS FOR ... A LIVING!”
That shamed her good and proper, as she went as red as Snow White's deadly apple and then turned her head, her nose in the air.
I know it sounds stupid, but it was like a hundred-pound weight had been lifted off my shoulders, as I am a very social person and after 4 months of being treated like a leper it was starting to wear on my bubbly personality.
So I did what any normal thinking person would do when they have developed an unbudging love for a creature that takes some experience to get to know. I went on line and joined a Boxer meet up group, where there are actual crowds of people who have that experience, and the same unbudging love for the often unlovable breed of dog, known as the Boxer.
Two things happened to change my opinion: I visited my sister, who does Boxer rescues, and met dog after dog who were sweet and even-tempered and loving, and the lady I work with had a Boxer about 6 years old that her son had stuck her with, and that she was looking for a home for.
So, one thing led to another and I brought home a 65-pound female named “Petal” who had a gunslinger's gaze and a head the size of a half-grown pumpkin. She was as skittish as a 3 month-old colt and about as heavy. The first thing she did upon arrival at her new home, was loom over Frog, our Heinz 57 brindle mutt, threateningly, and establish her dominance, which he is used to as he wouldn't say boo to a goose on a good day. The first thing WE did was change her name to Phoebe, as Petal was the least petal-like creature that I had ever met.
I'd been told that Phoebe was missing a few teeth, and when I found the courage to stick my fingers in her mouth, I found that she had only one lower canine tooth and a good set of chompers in the back, so I immediately switched her from wet food to dry, which is what Frog gets. Phoebe had been living in a back yard, exclusively, and according to the previous owner's mother, had long stretches where she wasn't fed, or given water, and never had any attention. It took her a good while to relax ... for the first two weeks she stood patiently by the back door, waiting to be let out as she could not quite grasp the fact that she now lived indoors, even though I rushed out and bought her a thick smushy bed, and red bowl to go in the kitchen floor next to Frog's.
She had been in major scraps with other dogs, which left her with assorted scars around her face and a bad attitude toward other canines her size. Someone cropped her ears when she was a pup and I sincerely doubt they knew what they were doing as they are too short and still sensitive 5 plus years later. She has deplorable manners. She steps on our bare feet with her 4-pronged hooves, and waits until we sit down to eat and then crawls under the table and unleashes the most horrific streams of noxious flatulence known to mankind, and then has the audacity to look offended when we chase her out of the room.
She drools, and she slobbers, and might carry around bits of kibble in the folds of her maw for days before dropping these soggy, unrecognizable blobs of dark brown gop unceremoniously in the middle of Pet-Smart, or our laps. She snorts and she snores worse than my ex-husband, which is saying a lot. When she's feeling particularly affectionate she will put her face as near ours as possible and then in a move reminiscent of a manatee exhaling upon surfacing for air, jettison dog spit directly into our eyes or mouth, prompting us to welcome her as though we're preparing for a spray tan—with eyes and mouths tightly shut.
Because of her appearance, she effectively clears sidewalks and aisles of all other forms of life. While walking her around Town Lake I get looks of pure unadulterated hatred from poodle and wiener dog walkers as they abandon paths and cut across the grass. Having never had any real attention, she doesn't know how to accept same gracefully, and even people who are brave enough to approach her are instantly punished by being encased in goo that looks like it came from an alien seed pod.
I was sitting in Pet-Smart one afternoon near the doggy hotel that Phoebe and I had already been banished from with dirty looks from the attendant, contemplating automatic waterers, when a little girl about 6 years old and an older woman came around the corner of the aisle, headed our way.
Oh, here we go, I thought, and waited for them to notice Phoebe and turn around and go back to whence they had come. I could have moved, but hasten to admit that I am danged tired of doing that, so I sat there, a Phoebe-sized chip on my shoulder, and defied anybody to take issue with me and my manatee-dog.
As the woman and child meandered our way, lost in a shopping daze, my nerves started jumping; they hadn't noticed Phoebe yet, although she had certainly noticed them. Even though she's never been exposed to any, to my knowledge, Phoebe loves children and will stare at them longingly, her nubby little tail jerking spasmodically as these same children make wide circles around her and dash to safety. Even now she was standing like a castle guard, that little tail almost a blur, while she waited for the child to come closer.
Oh, crap, I'm thinking. This could be bad. Phoebe is scary enough from a distance, and they're practically right on top of her and have no idea! My hand tightened down on Phoebe's leash and I gently began to reel her in, until she was standing between my legs, but she was still within a tongue's reach of the little girl.
Then, almost in slow motion, the little girl's head turned and her eyes went as big around as salad plates. She let out a sound that was something like, “weeeeee!” and her knees buckled and down she went. Oh, my god, she's fainted! I thought. I closed my eyes, wondering if a person could get arrested just for scaring a kid, and trying to calculate if I had enough money in my savings account for bail. I was starting to swoon myself and wondered if I would get any credit from the cops if I fainted, too.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a giggle and opened one eye to look down. The little girl was hanging around Phoebe's neck and Phoebe was licking her face fit to beat the band, her little tail just whirling in perfect circles.
“He looks just like Gilligan!” the little girl cried, while her grandmother gazed down at her smiling.
“We have a boxer at home,” the woman explained, and I was so overcome with gratitude I almost cried. Okay my eyes actually did mist up a tiny bit. It's amazing how powerful acceptance of someone you love can be, when you're accustomed to being shunned. “They're the best dogs in the world, aren't they?” she asked.
“Well! Yes! They! Are!” I replied a little too loudly, and sat forward watching the little girl and Phoebe writhe around on the floor together, as there is no love quite as expressive as Boxer love, even though it might be somewhat painful and/or disgusting at times, but the little girl was as at home with Phoebe as a goat on a mountain top.
The doggy hotel attendant was watching and I made sure my next words were loud enough for her to hear ...
“They're the BEST DOGS IN THE WORLD, AND IT'S NICE TO MEET SOMEONE ELSE WHO KNOWS THAT, EVEN IF THEY DON'T WORK WITH DOGS FOR ... A LIVING!”
That shamed her good and proper, as she went as red as Snow White's deadly apple and then turned her head, her nose in the air.
I know it sounds stupid, but it was like a hundred-pound weight had been lifted off my shoulders, as I am a very social person and after 4 months of being treated like a leper it was starting to wear on my bubbly personality.
So I did what any normal thinking person would do when they have developed an unbudging love for a creature that takes some experience to get to know. I went on line and joined a Boxer meet up group, where there are actual crowds of people who have that experience, and the same unbudging love for the often unlovable breed of dog, known as the Boxer.
Congrats on your rescue! I have 2 myself.
