pedigree dog


(Can be viewed in high res.)

I’ve seen a few comparisons of champions and Crufts winners, but never one showing the development of a specific line. So here’s a timeline depicting the champions of Sparta’s branch of the BB line, starting with Specks of Mountfort in 1924 and ending (for now) with her multichampion grandfather “Simon”. Only one (Max of Clerwood, 1928) was omitted, because I couldn’t find a picture. It should be noted that Wallace was not a champion, but as the son of the foundation sire Butcher Boy, he is the earliest photographic example we have of this line.

Years on the pictures refer to when they got their English titles. Dogs are as follows: Specks of Mountfort, 1924; Eltham Park Eureka, 1926; Kinnersley Gold Dust, 1936; Helensdale Bhan,  1949; Helensdale Ace, 1950; Hazelhead Gay Wanderer, 1956; Penvose Brandy Snap, 1959; Riverhill Ratafia, 1961; Rodhill Burnt Sugar, 1968; Riverhill Ricotta, 1974; Haytimer of Hanburyhill at Hartmere, 1979; Shelridge Haywire, 1991; Lirren Hashbrown, 1992; Mohnesee the Sorcerer, 1993; Mohnesee the Illusionist, 1996; Rannerdale Ghostbuster, 2003.

Speaking of brilliant/funny dog names, anyone wants to share their dogs’ pedigree names with me (no need to include the breeder/kennel name if you don’t want to, just the “name” part)?

My old sheltie was Mustafa Mutt.

And Rakki is registered to microchip database as Rakki von Smrz Duke of Muddleton. (this was a result of joking with my friends and Partner™).


BBC Pedigree Dogs Exposed 

Warning: Certain parts may be hard to watch.

tfw ur bfs bad habits are rubbing off on each other (PHRASING)

tfw the innuendos just won’t stop

tfw all ur bfs are taller than you and you can feel their glares boring into the back of your neck but you’ve learned to ignore it because that’s just how their faces look they genuinely can’t help it and you thank god that at least Yamaguchi doesn’t look at you like you’re a poorly trained but high-pedigree show dog with a nervous bladder at least not most of the time…

ponypal918  asked:

Can you talk a little about the bull terrier? I know their faces are messed up, but most people don't know that.

Sure I can talk about the Bull Terrier, and I can start with their skulls. Here is a photo of a dog from a century ago.

(Sources: 1915 dog & skulls both pedigree dogs exposed)

Above is how the skulls have changed.

(Image Source: Lilly M - Own work, CC BY-SA 2.5,)

And here is a modern example.

There are a few things to notice about the skulls. Firstly the sagittal crest is smaller and there is less space for attachment of the jaw muscles, so the jaw strength of these dogs has decreased. The second is the angle of the maxilla is deviated downwards from the level of the eyes. This means the dog’s nose isn’t right in front of its face, it’s approximately 45% ventral. The significance of this is unclear, but but I suspect the dog has to move its skull further upwards to reach the same position with its jaw as a normal dog, and I wonder if this is associated with some neck pain. They do typically pack on quite a lot of neck muscle, so I couldn’t say for sure about this.

They also have very fleshy heads, far more flesh bred onto that skull than they really need to make them look ‘tough’, and this is most obvious when I’m trying to intubate one under anesthetic. The back of the mouth is crowded, not like a brachycephalic dog, it’s just everything is thicker. This can make them prone to overheating and I suspect reduced their exercise tolerance.

Seeing as so any of these dogs struggle with their weight, even if they’re not hypothyroid, I wonder if there is something physical holding them back. They are also not brave dogs at all, they’re really quite big wuss bags and I wonder why.

Skin issues are extremely common in these dogs, whether it’s infected skin of the feet or simply allergies, this is the reason I most often see them come in.

Nails are the second most common reason these dogs are dragged into the vet clinic, and sometimes they are literally dragged. For some reason the nails of this breed curl very tightly against the toe, and don’t wear down easily. They often have long quicks making them difficult to cut, difficult to see where the should be cut, often need to be cut through the quick in order to stop the nail growing back into the foot, and are attached to a dog that is, as mentioned earlier, a giant wuss bag who understandably doesn’t want its feet touched.

Honestly, I like the breed but I couldn’t deal with owning one because of those darn nails. 

Skin cancers are a major concern, but I’m not sure if that’s just an Australian thing because of our extra high UV level. Especially common on dogs with white bellies, as they all seem to enjoy a good sunbake. I am forever checking them for skin lumps, and cutting them off. 

I’m fond of the breed overall, but their skulls are too extreme for my taste and trimming their nails is one of my personal nightmares. I’m not sure what exactly the changes in their skull means for the individual dog, other than deviating the airway, but I am skeptical that it is totally benign.

Have you found Dr Ferox on Patreon yet?

A wild fic prompt appears

So I’m watching televised dog fandom (Crufts) and the thought hits me - what if Hannibal were a champion pedigree dog breeder at a show? Of the most pretentious kind of dog? And Will - who only adopts abandoned mongrels and doesn’t like breeders on principle - is only there to fundraise for his dog shelter? And, idk, their eyes meet over organic kibble or something, and it’s only later Will sees him prancing around the ring with his ridiculous blow-dried dog. Hilarity and romance ensues.

I don’t know who to direct this to so I’m just going to leave it here. But omg 10/10 would read

Blue-sky thinking

Sometimes, I think it has to be more than just coincidence that my building is practically indistinguishable from the county prison. The first time I saw it all those years ago, back when I was a lowly intern with a five year plan, I thought it must be one of those concrete monstrosities left over from the ‘60s, when Communist chic was all the rage and minimalism was in with miniskirts. Nowadays, I’m not so sure. 

No, I am sure. This is how it happened. Some bloke way up the foodchain in management – some guy named John or David, some guy with oily brown hair and a trophy wife and a nuclear family and a pedigree dog and an illegal nanny-cum-mistress – had a serious brainwave of design during a spontaneous session of corporate blue-sky thinking. He was sitting at his desk, one of those overwrought and over-designed glass ones with metal legs and curves in all the wrong places - you know the ones, where your whole office is all desk and no practicality. Yes, he was just sitting there, looking over important things like Annual Budgetary Reports and Capital Gains and saucy emails from his illegal nanny-cum-mistress when the idea came to him, like manna from Heaven. 

This building, whether we like it or not; it’s a goddamn prison. It always has been. Ever since they hung that sign out the front, the one that says Napoleon Insurance in some generic Serif font next to a hideously stylised cartoon of an even more generic Colonial era admiral, this building has been a ball and chain around all of our feet. Every day, we trudge through those glass double doors under that omniscient sign, its goofy cartoon eyes watching us unrelentingly like the fucking Eye of Sauron - are you eating at your desk? I’m afraid we have a no food policy, you’ll have to finish it up later. No, I don’t care if you’re medically excused: do you want to pay to have the carpets cleaned? - and we don’t leave again until the requisite eight hours of community service have gone by and we’ve had enough of dealing with the dregs of humanity for the day. We eat lunch at our desks under the watchful Eye of Sauron, risking life and limb, because if we left to buy a sandwich, we probably wouldn’t come back.

The man at his overwrought desk would have steepled his fingers under his chin as he met the eye of the pudgy man two floors his junior, and told him about his plans. Make the place a prison, he’d have said. Make the fuckers think they can’t leave. And the pudgy man would have swallowed, eyes darting around a room full of desk, thinking am I one of them? Can I leave? Am I a prisoner too? before beaming and shaking the first guy’s hand, then taking the plans straight to the Architectural department, leaving Guy #1 to bask in his own glory at the comfort of his enormous fucking desk.

He probably got a promotion. Fuck him.

It goes like this: every day, the same slew of people, gushing through the doors like sewage from a burst pipe, stinking and reeking of ineptitude like they’ve smoked it all morning and it’s clung to their clothes, and we have to try and clear up their shit as best we can. People crying because they built their house on a sinkhole and their floors caved in. People ranting because they left the gate unlocked and someone stole their grandma. I don’t think we offer insurance policies on brains, but if we did, I don’t reckon the premiums would be too high for the people we see in here.

I used to want to be something. I used to think I’d travel the world, write a novel, fall in love with a bearded male model and fuck him self-awarely on bourgeois futons all over Europe, smoking clove cigarettes and arguing caustically about philosophy before making pretentious love for hours. That was before I realised that cigarettes didn’t agree with me and I didn’t want to sleep with men, self-awarely or otherwise. You can’t fuck women on futons across Europe. It’s too much like the plot of an indie film. It’s too close to the edge. I never wanted to be close to the edge; only as far from the centre as I could get, somewhere without a picket fence and not surrounded by retirement homes.

I live in the suburbs now, but I fucked a girl on my futon in Swindon last year. We fell off. You can’t win them all.

The chairs in the waiting area, where we let our esteemed clients sit for a few hours in the hope that they’ll fester and drop off like gangrenous limbs, are all steel and straight lines. They’re so perfectly aligned that they remind me a little of soldiers at roll call, standing to attention and readying for battle. There’s always a battle to follow, although it’s usually between me and a white middle class, middle-aged woman called Linda, who wants to know why we won’t insure her toaster, and there’s not usually any bloodshed in these wars, as much as I wish there could be. They’re parallel, those chairs, lined up in four rows of eleven and nailed to the floor. The prime number in each row annoys me sometimes, but there are forty-four chairs in total and that’s divisible by four, so I’ll take what I can get. You have to in this place. 

I came here for the first time when I was eighteen, so it’s been ten years. I still remember the first time I darkened these doors. My mother wanted advice on renewing her car insurance, and we ended up sitting for half an hour with a guy called Barry, just chewing the fat. Barry wore a big red tie, like a tongue, and only had hair above his temples; thin little wisps like light brown cirrus clouds, only greasy and lank. When he turned around in his swivel chair to fetch a file from the cabinet behind him, I could see the rolls of his neck escaping his pinstripe shirt collar. It was all shiny, like lard melting in a pan, and I shuddered. I wondered why Barry didn’t seem to give a shit. I wondered how he could turn up to work every day with his cheap suit and his tongue-tie and his big fat neck, and just not give half a fuck about how he presented himself to the world.

Barry works on the sixth floor now, and I haven’t washed my hair in four days. There’s no point. Barry’s worked here for fifteen years and we serve the scourge of humanity every day, and Barry wanted to be a teacher once. But still, he’s on the sixth floor. In fifteen years, he’s moved up five floors. That’s three years per floor. If he keeps it up, he’ll be right at the pearly gates themselves by the time he’s ready to retire. I bet he’s excited.

We have a joke here – and it’s not a very funny joke, but everything becomes hysterical when you’ve spent all day clicking pens and pushing paper – that the floor you work on is directly linked to your salary. You work on the sixth floor, you get six figures. You work on the fifth, you get five figures. You work on the fourth, you get four, and so on. The joke, of course, is that most of us work on the first floor.

It’s funny, right?

I’ve worked on the first floor for five years. I’d probably be more pissed off about it if I had a mortgage, but I don’t. I don’t really have anything. Nothing I couldn’t live without, anyway. And nothing insurable. Fuck that. I’d rather lose everything I have than be forced to file a claim with people like me. Although even our lives are insurable these days, aren’t they? Slap a figure on an existence, measure it by the girth of its wallet and the fatness of its payslip, and that’s what it’s worth. That’s what other people get if it fucks up.

When I die, my mum’s going to get a mangy cat and a huge funeral bill. That’s the way it should be. Who knows what I’ll get when she goes? Some crockery, perhaps. Maybe her wedding china.

I don’t want to think about that.

There was a time when I would have thought about things like that – big things, things that stretch the threads of your imagination and stitch them to other things like a big patchwork tapestry of intangible things – but not any more. Sometimes, I think about whether or not I should move my stationery pot to the other side of my desk, so it’s not in the way of the keyboard. Sometimes, I think about whether I should walk to the other side of the communal office and get a Go Ahead bar from the vending machine, just for the hell of it. And sometimes, I think about whether or not I should go and visit Barry on the sixth floor, just for old time’s sake, and jump right out of his fucking window. But usually, it’s just the stationery pot and the vending machine.

I still remember all the big thoughts I’ve had, though. Sometimes, I think you don’t ever really meet people; just facets of them, and you never know any more than what they want to get across. That was one of mine. Copyright Me: My Diary, edition 1. One of the great philosophies of our time. And war is just big men with big guns and lots of shrapnel. That’s another one of mine. A regular Nietzsche, teenage me. Only more optimistic. Not that that’s hard.

I could leave, couldn’t I? Any day now, I could hand in my resignation, tip over my desk and scream a big fuck you to Debbie at the desk in front of me, who always scratches the back of her neck until it’s red and then acts irritated because it hurts. To Mick on the third floor, who’s technically my boss but has at least six bosses himself, and he gives Christmas cards to every single one of them. Even to Barry, just for being so high up when his ties are still so awful and he has even less hair than he did that first time I met him. Mostly, I think I want to scream a big fuck you to the guy at that first corporate blue-sky thinking meeting, the guy who made this building a prison and forgot to put the bars on the windows, so we can still see what we’re missing in the outside world as we sit here in our discount office wear and tap through our carpal tunnel on company issued keyboards.

But I won’t leave. I won’t. I won’t travel the world, won’t write a novel or fuck girls on futons across Europe, because leaving is too close to the edge. I’ve never been one for the precipice. Too scared of heights; not just of falling, but of looking down and feeling small, or perhaps feeling too big; staring down at the people below, like ants building castles.

No, I won’t leave. I’ll come in again tomorrow, look up at that great big sign with the jovial cartoon admiral, the words Napoleon Insurance, and I’ll talk to someone called John Smith, who wants to know why we won’t pay for him to get the carpets of his house replaced because he built his house on a floodplain and it rained a lot in January, and then I’ll eat my lunch at my desk while the Eye of Sauron roams, and I won’t even think about leaving, not once, and then I’ll ask Barry what he thinks I should do about John Smith, and I’ll do it, and I’ll go home. And I’ll come in the next day, and I still won’t leave, and John Smith might get his carpets replaced, or he might not, and Barry will still have a neck like lard, and Debbie will still pick her skin until it bleeds, and I will still look at that sign and rue it, fucking rue it, and I’ll stay. Chained to my desk by the need to pay my rent and not fail, because choosing to stay is better than failing to leave. Choosing to stand still in purgatory is better than jumping and ending up in Hell.

Napoleon Insurance: It’s a price and a promise. That’s the slogan. That’s the truth.

How’s that for blue-sky thinking?


I am a dog breeder. I spend a lifetime learning pedigrees, going over dogs, talking and learning from those in my breed and those outside it.
I raise each litter as if I gave birth to them and spend an equal amount of time finding them loving forever homes. I only put puppies on this planet that I think will be the healthiest (mentally and physically) and best examples of their breed.
I support each family who chooses one of my puppies and let them know they are now a part of our extended family. I am there if one needs to come back and will aggressively pursue the return of one of my dogs if its in the wrong place. I support my breed in rescue and education. I hold them when they arrive and leave this world, not only my own, but my brethren in the fancy. I share my knowledge and socialize my dogs so that they will be the advertisement for my dedication.
I don’t keep track of the money and time I put in to my love of dogs, it would not be true measure of how I feel. I support my friends in the fancy, because it takes a village sometimes and only WE know how things are for us.
The price I charge for my puppies is never profit, but investment in the next generation. I will not be ashamed of who I am, I work hard at being a good dog person and encouraging others to be the same.
I am a breeder and I am proud of it.
I am a breeder and right now I need your support
If we don’t support each other – we are doomed as a fancy.

Ok so im posting this because my mum just opened a tin of pedigree dog food for the dog and the meat inside was rancid and grey and smelt strongly of iron(stronger than normal) .

Obviously she didn’t feed it to the dog but she’s also not the type to complain so just posting it out there since the tin of food was in date and the other tin she bought was fine.

Another fine example of why you should not buy pedigree dog food!

Posting because its something people should watch out for!

speedbee  asked:

Is there a reason for pedigree dog names being the way they are? I've never heard of this before now. :o

This is explanation I got for it way back when. Could be total bullshit so anyone feel free to correct me. But what I’ve heard is that breeders have their kennel names to separate their line of dogs from others in the same breed, right. It is like family name.

Now imagine you’re having a lot of puppies. Sure you could name them simple names like Charlie or Grace or Fluffy or whatever, but it’d become confusing really fast, as you’re trying to keep your lines and litters documented and keep track of the family lines. Not to mention the other breedes who also name their dogs same way. It could all become confusing really fast.

Some breeders use ABC method. I.e their first litter is A litter and all puppies names start with letter A, second litters names with B and so on.

Other breeders have themes. So you pick your litters theme to be whatever, say movies and your puppies get names like Titanic, Gone with the Wind, Avatar etc. Or the theme is Star and the puppies get names like Morning Star, Evening Star, Shooting star etc. Its up to breeder basically, and many let the new owners to choose the register name/ pedigree name within the letter or theme.

So people give their dogs imaginative pedigree names to make them easy to find in register and to separate them from other dogs in same breed. And many do it for fun too, because let’s be honest names like that are just fun.

Some names end up being popular anyway tho. There’s tons of “Love at First Sight"s for example.

Hope this makes sense. Its 2:35am and I really should be sleeping… XD

Headcanon that Hannibal offers to buy Will a papered, expensive, purebred dog.

And while Will is flattered by the offer, he instead makes Hannibal go to the local shelter with him because adopting from a shelter is much more Will’s style and Will knows some of those dogs will never get the same chance of a good home that a pedigree dog will.

Just imagine Hannibal, in one of his pretentious suits, standing a shelter that smells almost intolerably wet dog, stiff and uncomfortable as Will Graham precedes to fall in love with every dog at the shelter.