SCOTSMAN’S CH MAX
Someone had told him about an eighteen-month-old American Pit Bull terrier that was lying on death row at the local dog pound. Apparently the guy at the furniture shop had finally realised that when he bought that puppy from Ed Reid he had taken on a lot more dog than he bargained for. Max was now dragging one of his back legs after having his pelvis pinned and plated back together in an operation caused by his diving out a first floor window to get into a cat on the street. It was this, plus one or two other unfortunate incidents generally concerning anything that walked on four legs that got Max sent to death row. He would certainly have been destroyed had it not been that in those days there was none of the hysteria surrounding Pit Bull’s that we got today and also the woman who was in charge of the place, well she took a real shine to Max she could even get him to sit on command and roll over for a biscuit. Max loved people and if you never knew what he was then you would swear he never had a bad bone in him. So the woman at the pound called a young couple she knew who owned an English Bull terrier and asked if they would be interested in saving the life of a beautiful Pit Bull terrier who sometimes got in trouble, but then isn’t that just what we love about those Bull terriers. The couple agreed to take him and so the bold Max escaped from death row and headed for the good life with his new pal the Bull Terrier. It was about this time that the Scotsman turned up at the dog pound making enquiries about an American Pit Bull and saying that this was just the kind if dog he was looking for. The woman did not like the look of the Scotsman and anyway she said Max had already been rescued. However during the conversation the Scotsman managed somehow to get the name of the people who had taken Max; so he heads home, gets out the phone book and starts to call every person listed under that name asking if they recently rescued an American Pit Bull terrier. Somewhere in the telephone book the Scotsman scored, but the woman on the other end of the phone was in tears as she told him that indeed they had rescued Max from being put down, but by the very next morning he would be back on death row again because Max had been shitting on her sofa all week and he had just killed her Bull terrier. The Scotsman offered to go straight round there and take the dog off her hands without even charging her a penny for his trouble, the woman agrees and the Scotsman was round there faster than a rat up a drain pipe.
Maybe I should make it clear that the Scotsman never did own Max, this is because within five minutes of getting him back home he noticed the dog dragging his back leg as a result of the hip operation and decided that a handicap like this would make Max useless as Pit dog, so he gave him away to his cousin. Only after they had rolled him a couple of times did the Scotsman actually realise just how much he had blown it. Within 4 months Max was ‘making his name in the west of Scotland. The Scotsman and his cousin rolled him almost every week into anyone who thought they had a fighting dog and Max just went straight through them all. He was born on the yard of Ed Reid coming out of his Skipper (ROM) dog and the Black Beauty bitch, I doubt if Mr Reid ever so much as rolled a dog. However I do still believe that Skipper produced the best line of pit proven match dogs this country has yet seen and I am amazed that Springview is the only person in all these years to have the courage to even consider this a possibility. I don’t think there’s any doubt that Ed Reid made a fortune selling puppies, but it’s ironic that around the same time his reputation as a serious pit dog breeder was going down the drain, the first generation of Skipper’s sons and daughters were making their presence felt against the best pit dogs here in the United Kingdom, which in my experience were the Buzz and Limey dogs. Back in 1985 Max could have landed in any of the top bull dog yards in England (many like him probably did) and the crazy thing is that most of the boys down there would not even have given him kennels space. Reid dogs were by now considered worthless and many of us had already been taken in by pedigrees and promises of bulldog traders in the States, who were quick to recognise the growing market for bulldogs here in Britain. Too many of these characters could not give a shit for a game dog, just so long as they got the dollars (and they got plenty). Soon everyone was importing dogs; each one came guaranteed fast lane. Some of them were even decent pit bulls, but most of them couldn’t fight sleep (couldn’t produced one either). And while our best British dog men were searching on the other side of the Atlantic for those elusive fast lane dogs, one of the best of the eighties was already in the hands of a couple of Lurcher men who were greener than every blade of grass in Scotland. No Kidding owned a Reid bred dog called Pistol that was open to match, so he called up the Scotsman asking if he would go at a weight of 50 pounds, the Scotsman agreed and Max was contracted into his first real one.
The Scotsman never had the first clue ‘about conditioning, he had never even heard of a treadmill. So he worked Max the same way as his lurchers, he just walked into the hills, slipped Max of his lead and let him run around chasing rabbits all night while he wandered about in the dark completely out of his mind on pills and drink, plotting the downfall of any dog, any size any where who stood in the way of him and Max.
Pistol was a good 50 pound dog, and he was as game as they come but No Kidding picked him up in 53 minutes to save him. After defeating Pistol the Scotsman’ thought Max was invincible. He also thought that since Max had just beaten a good 50 pound dog then it was fair to assume that Max also must be that pit weight. Hindsight can be a wonderful thing especially since we never discovered Max’s true pit weight until after he was retired, but I can tell you that I have seen Max put on the scales and the dog weighed 43 pounds. Maybe another pound on him would have suited me better, but the fact remains that back in those days the Scotsman, his cousin or me could not even guess the pit weight of a dog, if only we could have, then Champion Max would have been matched at his proper weight of 44 to 45 pounds. Max’s second match was into a big catch weight dog called Clyde. Some boys from the West of Scotland had come back for Max after he stopped one of their prospects in a roll. When the question of Clyde’s weight came up the boys just acted dumb and said they had never weighed him. The Scotsman told them that it didn’t matter about weight, just to be there in six weeks with a dog and their money. (This almost sums up our attitude to matching dogs back then). On the day of the match the lads were real confident and when they opened the van it was easy to see why. Clyde was massive, he must have weighed at least 65 pounds and the scales only went up to sixty. The Scotsman just stared at Clyde in silence, while the boys were all bent over laughing at the look on his face. That day Max took the biggest pounding of his life in a match that lasted 3 hrs 56 mins, Clyde did all he could to kill Max, he completely wiped the floor with him, but Max had this fire in him that just burned and burned and if you could not kill him then you could not beat him. At around 3 hrs 30 mins Max was laying on his back, his eyes were closed as if he was sleeping. His head and chest were badly damaged but Max was locked solid onto Clyde’s throat and seemed content just to lay there and let time tick away. It became clear that Clyde was exhausted and slipping into shock. Suddenly Max started making little whining noises that got louder and louder and he just came of the floor and went into Clyde like a bazooka, driving hard into the throat and shaking like crazy. Clyde’s backers could not believe their eyes, they picked their dog up, lost a fortune and Clyde never saw the sun rise next morning. Max almost died from his injuries and he never came out of his kennel for weeks, but if you know the Skipper dogs then you will know they take a real good kicking and eventually Max came right again. And so we come to the match between Limeys Smokey and Scotsman’s Max. This is the one Hugh Limey referred to when he stated on record that Scotsman Max was nothing but a rank cur, and that statement is the only reason I now find myself writing about a wee dog who has been in the ground for almost ten years. The Limeys had just imported a two time winner called Smokey (for some reason he was also known as The Dentist) and he came with one of those big bad reputations after beating a dog called Champion Sinbad over in America. The Limey’s now wanted to make Smokey a Champion before lining him to every bitch they owned.
They had tried unsuccessfully to get Smokey matched up at 55 pounds. Meanwhile here in Scotland a match could not be found for Max at 50 pounds, so No Kidding finally got around to asking the Scotsman if he would give weight away to match into the Limey’s at 55 pounds. The Scotsman decided that since both dogs were going for their championship then Max would be the better one if he won pushing 5 pounds up hill. He still never had the experience to see that Max was only ever a 44 pound dog anyway, and if the Limeys or No Kidding saw it, then they said nothing. The Scotsman’s cousin was starting to enjoy Max’s growing reputation so he decided for this championship match he would condition and handle Max himself, a fact that almost cost him the match. When he was put on the scales at the venue Max weighed 57 pounds, which made him 2 pounds over the match weight and a full 13 pounds over his natural pit weight of 44 pounds. The Scotsman paid the forfeit, but when he asked his cousin how Max could be so heavy, the cousin told him he gave Max four eggs and a pint of milk for strength before leaving home that morning. So here comes Scotsman’s Max hog fat, fighting a dog 11 pounds heavier, he is totally unconditioned with four eggs and a pint of milk slapping around in his belly. He is going in against the best outfit in the United Kingdom, who are using a bum fit 55 pound dog who just whipped a champion out in the States. Max destroyed Smokey, he took him apart and he did it easy. He went absolutely wide open trying to kill Smokey and only done this when a dog was no danger to him. Because of the intense heat outside and all the weight that Max was caring the pace slowed down and the Limeys were’ able to get, a handle on Smokey with Max to go.
It’s Max to scratch. His handier releases him but Max don’t move. The Scotsman’s cousin then slams his knee into Max’s side and Max flies over to finish what is left of Smokey. The Limeys quite rightly shout foul, and the Scotsman’s cousin looks over to ask the Scotsman what a foul is? But a foul it was and the match should have been stopped right there and Smokey declared the winner. No kidding was referee that day and he explained to the Limeys that the Scotsman’s cousin had never handled a dog in the pit before and although the Limeys had every right to claim the match as a win; this was a match between two dogs and not their handlers. After a moment the Limeys gave the cousin a fool’s pardon and allowed the match to continue. Maybe it was because they were trying to regain their good name in the dogs after King Limey robbed No Kidding that time, or maybe it was because they had brought with them a couple of Dutch boys who might go back to Holland and say the Limeys won by default, with a dog that was never in the fight. Personally I think that generally the Limeys were good sportsmen who knew we were stupid, but accepted we had a better dog that day. The match carried on but by 1.17 it was obvious that Smokey was getting killed so they picked him up.
The Limeys asked for a courtesy scratch for Smokey (AKA The Dentist), that killing dog who beat a champion in America, and guess what…? he never scratched It’s easy for me to see that even today Hugh Limey is not too pleased with Max, but why insult the memory of a wee dog who overcame such handicaps and weight differences, why call a dog like that a rank cur.? Maybe Max was not a finisher and after demolishing Smokey he felt he had done enough. Maybe he got distracted by a fly on the wall and maybe he was even going to quit. The trouble is that no one will ever know because Max’s handler struck him with his knee and Max did scratch inside 10 seconds. As far as I am aware the first ever battle between two Champion Pit Bull Terriers in the United Kingdom was Northern Lads Champion Billy versus Champion Scotsman’s Max. Billy was also a son of Reid’s Skipper and rated one of the best in the country. Even the journey down to arrange the match was an education with the likes of Grand Champion Jacko, Champion Klogger , Black Max, Champion Desperado and Grand Champion Rocky, all living within walking distance of the Northern Lad and Champion Billy. It still puzzles me just how little our friends in Europe and America seem to know about the dogs up here in the North and across the border into Scotland. Our mistake was that we never shouted about them. The weight for this match was made at fifty pounds and the atmosphere leading lip to it was electric. as Champion Billy hit the scales at forty nine and three quarters looking stripped to his limit Max entered at forty eight and a half pounds carrying extra weight but probably in the best condition of his life: The battle between these two Champions could be drawn into three sections. (1) The dogs are released and both go straight at it. Max is tuning a lot and at thirty minutes Champion Billy’s superior strength and ability is starting to show. Max is still trying to get into the fight but Billy is all over him. (2) Max goes on to the bottom, he is locked into Billy’s throat but Billy is dragging him all over the pit and biting hard on anything that’s in front of him, Max stays in the throat, his eyes are closed and for the next two hours he just stays on the bottom riding out the storm. At around 2hrs 3O min Max starts those little whining noises and Billy’s backers think that he is voicing the pain of a pounding he has taken for the last two and a half hours, but Max simply knew he had taken all that was coming. Champion Billy was going into shock, his strength had gone and Max knew it (3) Max comes off the bottom he is still locked into Billy’s throat except that now he is working the hold and shaking hard. At 2.45 the Northern Lad gets a handle on Billy with Max to scratch, and he goes over like a missile hitting Billy straight in the throat, if the Northern Lad thought there was any quit in Champion Max before the match, well he sure as hell didn’t anymore and he pulled Champion Billy out at 2.46. The Northern Lad asked for a courtesy scratch but Billy had already given far more than he had. As soon as he was released he just collapsed on his scratch line and lay still. I think about Champion Billy from time to time, he was a true game dog and I won’t forget him. But what about that old cur called Scotsman’s Max, how should we remember him?
I don’t have a problem with anyone who thinks that Max was not game; they can think whatever they like. The problem for me is that while pursuing a daft wee ‘pen war with Springview, Hugh Limey stated on record that Champion Max was nothing more than a rank cur. And so now that the truth has come out Hugh, maybe you are thinking that you should have put some thought into it before you came away with that one, because I don’t sell dogs and there is no other reason for me to write this, other than to do a real game dog a bit of justice and say that the day you called Scotsman’s Max a cur was the day that you shit your pants in public and that smell is going, to follow you around forever. See! The fact is that your killer was never enough of a dog to test the gameness of Max in the first place and even a good dog like Champion Billy could not find the depth of him. So now let me state on record, that while I admit to being a big fan of the Limey dogs it would be clear to anyone who saw Champion Max that Limey Kennels never owned one, bred one or even clapped a dog that ever got close to being in the same league as Max was. It would be clear, the only time your ROM litter met with a decent opponent, they quit. As for Smuggler I am not sure why he was put down (bad towards kids maybe), but I’ve seen the video and if you call that McCoy dog a worthy opponent for any dog boasting the title of Champion then it speaks volumes about your ROM litter and their opponents. Now take a look at them Skipper dogs we had up here in Scotland, have a look at the class of opponent we matched into and although (unlike Big D), I would never dream of comparing any of our dogs to Tudors Dibo, their ability to produce was not only unmistakable it was unbelievable. Reid’s Skipper ROM produced Champion Max who beat Champion Billy. Max’s brother Champion Dread beat East Ends Champion Neilson. Then there was Buddy who became a two time winner before the RSPCA got their filthy hands on him, and their sister Ray Rocks Lightning produced Champion Curstopper when she got bred back to her nephew Champion Hagar. Champion Max was only bred a handful of times and I know of just six dogs out of him that ever got matched, all the rest either went to pet homes or certain death in the hands of the RSPCA. After his Rambo dog scratched dead game against Champion Massada, the Scotsman bred Max to Rambo’s sister; this produced my two-time winner Charlie. Scar Kennels were looking for another victim to match into their four timer Champion Klogger at 48 pounds. Charlie only weighed 46 pounds, but I had a feeling he was a bit special so I took the match. Anyone who was around back then will know Kloggers reputation for finishing a dog, and most of the bets going down that night said my dog would be dead in half an hour. But that never happened because Charlie done moves that ballet dancers would be proud of and after he took Klogger to school for an hour and then set about killing him Champion Klogger quit in his comer at 1.18. Max was bred to Scotsman’s Tania twice and produced five dogs that saw. the square these were, Tosh, Huc, Archie, Yogi and Hagar. The first thing to put straight right now is that Tania’s pedigree is a complete lie…She was stolen from a terrier show in England and although she resembled a Buzz type bitch, it would be impossible for anyone to know how she was bred. It was only after Champion Yogi and his brother Champion Hagar entered the limelight that Joe Graham and those in England who were still interested in Skipper started making enquiries about Tania’s pedigree, rather than come clean about her. The Scotsman went to see a guy who owned a brother to Champion Billy called Buster. He just copied out Buster’s pedigree and attached it to Tania and so this is why Tania’s pedigree reads (Skipper X Lady). Incidentally, that dog Buster was just an old family pet, but he’s the very same one who produced what could be the greatest European match dog of that era. That dog was Grand Champion Bill. If I told you how good Bill was you might call me a liar, and if I told you that after he killed Champion Dirty Bertie in 1.44 you could have taken Bill straight to a vet and the guy would have sworn he had never even been in a fight. You might call me crazy, but ask someone who was there and they might just say the same. Out of the Max x Tania pups Junk Yards Tosh was the first to be matched, he got picked up game in 1.40 and died shortly after. Thankfully he had already been bred to a real good granddaughter of Skipper called Duchess This mating produced three good ones that I know of. Two met with accidents while quite young and the other one would even had made old timers cry. Every mistake that ever happened to a Pit Bull happened to this dog, He was rolled too young, matched too light, under conditioned, over conditioned and still he stopped opponents that could have become Champions had they not hit the brick wall that was Champion Bash. It was however his loss to Champion Yogi that showed a few of us there that day the quality of Bash and the depth of his gameness. His owner made the mistake of matching into Champion Yogi at 42 pounds, Yogi was a real good dog anyway, but Bash was only 38 pounds and going 4 pounds up hill against Yogi was plain suicide. At 1.10 Bash was in shock and two of his legs were not working anymore, so his owner conceded the match, but as soon as he tried to pick Bash up the wee dog ‘just started to scream the place down. Not only did Bash want to continue, but the nut case actually thought he was winning. His courtesy scratch that day was unbelievable, his legs would not hold him up, so he crawled across and if looks could kill then Yogi would have died were he stood. His owner gave Bash away in disgust because he never won, so I took him home with me before passing him on to the Road Warrior and Yarrakin Lad who made Bash a champion at 38 pounds. As for Champion Yogi, he went across the water to Ireland and defeated Grand Champion Ned in his own backyard, then came back home next day cuddled up against his brother Champion Hagar in the back seat of the car.
When I matched Huc into Limey’s Kelly, I was using the first Pit Bull I ever owned. His keep was a shambles and after ten minutes; of dominating the match Huc ran out of gas and he never recovered. Kelly seemed more interested in sex than fighting, but Huc was getting hurt so after a dozen scratches I picked him up game at 1.14 and went home to learn how to condition a dog properly. I still believe that the best dog lost, but the fact is when you want to beat the Limeys, you turn up with a great dog, in great condition, and I had neither. In his next match against Grand Champion Jacko, Huc quit in 46 minutes I wouldn’t hold it against him because it was only when I saw with my own eyes the mayhem that Jacko unleashed on his opponents, I realised that I could have given Huc a suit of armour and a big stick and still he could never have beaten that evil reptile. I think it was the summer of 1989 when Springview brought Grand Champion Bruno to Scotland. Hagar had never been matched before and we didn’t even consider him our best dog. Sam Marsden and I had been out stealing scrap metal all week to raise a few quid for a wee bet on the dogs at the weekend, but I was daft enough to leave him with the money and just like the true son of Ireland – which he was, Sam loved the drink. On the way to the match No Kidding and I were in the car with Springview and Bruno’s owner following in the one behind. As we approached the place, No Kidding noticed a man staggering along the side of the road, completely out of his mind on the drink. I knew there was no point in asking Sam if he still had the money. No Kidding said I’ll bet that guy never makes it home. I told him he was probably right because he’s handling Hagar. It wasn’t true, but it was worth saying just to see the look on No Kidding’s face. I guess we just had a different attitude about matching dogs than some of the more established outfits. Sure we liked to win, but mostly we matched dogs for fun and if we could scalp a Champion or Grand Champion along the way, well that just made it even better fun. Springview on the other hand entered the pit shouting about money and side bets and we were all pissing ourselves laughing because every one of us was skint. When the dogs were released Grand Champion Bruno shot across and nailed Hagar deep in the chest before he even got out of his corner. Hagar went into Bruno’s face taking him off on the nose and then switching to the ear and basically that’s it. Grand Champion Bruno kept pushing in hard and trying to slam Hagar into the corners where he could do some damage, but Hagar would just spin out on the ear and once again Bruno was chasing thin air. Hagar was now moving so fast that Bruno must have thought he was surrounded. At about 3O min Bruno’s tail went between his legs and he was turning and protesting so much Hagar turned up the pressure and at 33 min Grand Champion Bruno was down and out. Springview did try to courtesy scratch Bruno, but the dog just folded right there at his feet (stone ‘dead). It was only due to Springview’s patience and medical skills that we managed to restart Bruno’s engine and the wee dog recovered just fine. When the Pit Bull News and Sporting Dog Journal reported this match they said that in a 40 minute match against Hagar, Grand Champion Bruno was picked up and scratched game. All I can say is that he did not scratch and he was not game.
I still believe that Hagar gave Springview a lesson in bulldogs that day and still he can’t see it, because he’s too busy shouting that none of the daft jocks would have a side bet with him. Maybe he thinks that we were all afraid of his killing dog, when in fact he could have walked straight in there with Grand Champion Zebo and any one of us would have given weight away just to get it on. Those “real strange moves” that Springview talked about in his excellent article last November, those very moves that made him think that Hagar was not game, was simply a hold out dog “par excellence”. Hagar was a head dog, a counter puncher, a clever bastard, call it what you like, but we had three of them. I don’t know if Grand Champion Bill was game, because Champion Massada, Champion Dirty Bertie nor any other opponent for that matter ever phased Bill enough to test his gameness. The same might be said of Charlie, but Champion Hagar was dead game and that is a fact. My yard got raided in May of 1990, when one hundred and forty policemen busted me and thirty five other comedians when I matched Archie against a one time winner from the North East called Nailer. Earlier that afternoon Charlie had beat a one time winner called Sundance in 23 min and if the coppers had waited another 15 minutes then Archie would have made it Scotland 2, England 0. Archie was a monster. He was one of the hardest biting, most intense 50 pound dogs that I ever saw go into a pit and it’s a ‘tragedy that I never even got started with him. But like plenty of other fools before me who kept all their eggs in one basket, the RSPCA completely wiped out my yard of both dogs. They took prospects, match dogs and my brood bitches. It took more than a month of searching before I finally found out where they were being kept pending the trial. I wish now I had never found them at all, because when I eventually got there; what I saw made me sick and will probably stay with me all my life. Every bulldog in the place was starved of food and water. Maybe it was some crazy experiment to break their fighting spirit, or to provide good photo opportunities for the RSPCA propaganda war against dog fighters. Charlie was totally emaciated, his back bone was clearly visible through dry, staring fur and the rest were as bad. I had to choke back my anger as I told the manager of that death camp that I would be back in one week with a vet and a lawyer, and if the condition of those dogs did not seriously improve then the RSPCA would land in court and he would be in h hospital.
When I went back a week later every dog had been moved away. I believe at that point, perhaps six months before the start of Britain’s biggest dog fight trial, the dogs were already dead. Sometime later I heard that someone sneaked out there in the middle of the night and burned that shit hole to the ground and although I never condone breaking the law I have to say that I slept real well that night. The trial was a joke, but I was amazed just how accurate the police had been in pinpointing the organisers of the match despite the very large numbers of people involved at the bust. The reason for this became apparent as we went to trial. Out of seven organisers named on the charge sheet, only six of us appeared in the dock. This is because one was sitting in the witness room. Of the 36 people appearing on various dog fight charges, only one man had his Not Guilty plea accepted. Only one man had money returned to him by the court and only one man’s name was on a list of prosecution witnesses, right there beside the police and BSPCA. It was not an English man or an Irish man. IT WAS A SCOTSMAN.
When I got out of jail I jumped straight back into the dogs again. But new government laws had come into force banning Pit Bull Terriers and effectively ordering the genocide of that breed in the United Kingdom. To make matters worse I found dog men curring out so fast that it made me wonder why the hell they were ever around Pit Bulls in the first place. The Scotsman got out of the dogs soon after the ban and swapped Champion Yogi for a Lurcher. That was bad enough, but nothing would prepare me for the news that when the Scotsman’s cousin shit out of the game dogs soon after the trial, he had Champion Max destroyed rather than save him from a death sentence, sanctioned by a bunch of faggot politicians who were willing to accept any bullshit that their corrupt and paranoid little police force threw at them. Max deserved better than this, he deserved better than to have his life snuffed out by a maggot that never even had the balls to scratch just one time for the wee dog that gave us everything. For a while I tried my luck around some different dogs including a one time winner from the North East called Scar. I matched this one into Doctor Death using a Neilson/Mayfield dog called Bible. Scar won in 54 minutes but to be honest he did not have much more in his tool bag than a decent bite so I gave him to another maggot called Turley. If the Champion Max family survives or ever again reaches the heights we all took so much for granted back in the eighties, then it will be thanks to Ray Rock and the Yarrakin Lad who showed the dogs in the nineties when myself and Frank Mc Phie were not around. Ray Rock lined Champion Max’s sister back to his son Champion Hagar and produced the wicked wee two time bitch Grizzly. Also in the litter was the Billy dog that killed a one time winner in a kennel fight before the RSPCA dragged him away. Yarrakin owned another pup and this was the pure game Champion Curstopper who finally defeated Grand Champion Jacko in a match going l hr 3O min making Curstopper a four time winner. Going after his fifth Yarrakin decided to cross the sea to Ireland and into another Reid dog called Champion Rocky. This was the first time that two, four time winners were to fight for the title of Grand Champion in the UK or Ireland (another first for Reid dogs). Sadly the match did not materialise because after driving over to the west coast, Yarrakin was forced to turn back when all Ferries across the Irish Sea were cancelled because of bad weather. Yarrakin drove North trying to cross over from Scotland, which he did successfully; however by the time he finally reached the South of Ireland; Champion Curstopper had dropped over 3 pounds in weight.Yarrakin had a tough choice on his hands; either go ahead with the match, using a weak dog fighting, four pounds up hill or pay the forfeit and go home. He decided that if Champion Rocky entered on or under the weight limit of 47 and a half pounds the match would go ahead. But if Rocky was even as much as a bees wing over that weight limit, then Yarrakin would lift the forfeit and head home. Rocky did come in over the limit, and Yarrakin did lift that forfeit. I don’t know if Champion Rocky ever made it to Grand Champion (I hope he did) but Champion Curstopper remained open to match for exactly another twelve months with no takers and so he was retired a four time winner.
Maybe some day I’ll write about the dogs Curstopper produced, dogs like Bracken and Peaceman. Maybe Frank will finally write that story about Bill, but until then I present to the readers Reid’s Skipper ROM and his hard living son Champion Max who defeated Champion Billy and produced the dead game Champion Hagar. He destroyed Grand Champion Bruno and produced Champion Curstopper who defeated Grand Champion Jacko and is still producing them as game as himself or any before him. Some might say not fast lane, but I say…. proven against Champions.
So next time you boys invite the daft jocks to a dog fight do not be fooled by our shoddy appearance or by our dogs pedigree written on the back off a bus ticket, just bring the best one you got, because if you don’t, then chances are you’re going to find yourself standing over a dead dog.