As a kid growing up, I had always been around good working dogs. My Grandfather had working cattle dogs that were unbelievable and he also raised and hunted with a big family of Beagles. My Father also raised and hunted with these Beagles until I moved out and went on my own. Truth be known, it was me who raised and cared for all of them after my Grandfather died when I was eight years old. After I moved out when I was eighteen, they all disappeared. I always loved dogs. I would always look at the encyclopedia and study all of the different breeds over and over again. I would go to the library and read all I could find and just couldn't get enough.

We were always camping out at the lake and spending most of the summer fishing and skiing when I was growing up. One day, when I was thirteen or fourteen, a truck pulls into the campground with a little 30 pound brindle male dog. He was absolutely stunning. I had never seen anything like him. He was the greatest, most beautiful dog I had ever seen. I ran up to his truck and asked the man who owned him what kind of dog it was. He told me that he was a registered American Staffordshire Terrier, but everyone just called him a Pitbull.

He ended up camping next to us for a couple of days and he was a really great guy. He could tell how much I liked the dog and let me walk him around the campsite and play with him that whole weekend. I fell in love with the breed immediately. My father wouldn't allow me to have one no matter how hard I tried to convince him. I thought he was just being mean but I understand why now. We lived in the middle of town and he just didn't want to risk something happening. The day after I moved out of my parents house, I bought my first bulldog. I still have dogs that carry her blood to this very day. The dog in my avatar is her grandson.