The World’s Toughest Dog

OVER the years I’ve sat in pubs or around a campfire and heard a variety of blokes brag about their tough dogs. But I think a dog named Buster deserves the title World’s Toughest Dog.

Buster wasn’t my dog. He belonged to a mate named Gwirk who happened to rent an old farmhouse about four km from my parent’s farm. Buster was a pure bred English Bull Terrier. One of those big, all-white mutts with a head like a football. He weighed about 36 kilos and had more muscle than Arnold when he won the Olympia. The kind of dog that scared the neighbours but was so placid your kids could ride on and pull his ears without a care.

Buster only seemed to have one enemy: a crazy, brindle, Bull Terrier bitch that Gwirk had bought for breeding. Most of the time she was on the chain, but anytime she was off, she would attack Buster savagely and only his size got the better of her.

On this particular morning, I had arranged to meet Gwirk and his mates at his farmhouse. The boys had set up a gym in the shearing shed but needed some training tips and a weights program. Usually I rode my Harley over but as it was early Sunday morning I borrowed my girlfriend’s car.

The farmhouse was quiet. Gwirk’s bike wasn’t in sight and only one car was parked in the yard. It was only nine o’clock, early for a Sunday and pretty nippy for this time of year. No dogs were barking. As I walked up onto the veranda, I noticed the bitch’s chain lying outstretched from her kennel with the collar attached… but no bitch.

I knocked on the door and listened for some life inside. Nothing. As I knocked again, I heard movement from the side of the veranda. 

Buster appeared from the corner of the house, walking very slowly with his head down. At first I thought he was covered in mud or dirt, but as he slowly waddled towards me, I realised something was very wrong with him. 

He leant against my leg and managed a weak wag of the tail. Looking down, I saw the gaping wound in his neck. A hole about 8 cm in diameter and the same in depth was a gory mess of sinew, protruding bone and mashed flesh. The loss of blood was obvious as he was coated in a congealed mess from his snout to his hind quarters. The blood was caked with dirt and he looked close to death.

My thoughts were racing and I immediately suspected that the bitch had somehow escaped off the chain and attacked Buster. Maybe the wound was from her ripping a large chunk from his neck? She was nowhere to be seen.

Reefing off my shirt, I wrapped Buster up as well as I could and carried him to my car. I was kind of worried he might bite me but he was way too weak to even whimper. I needed to get him into town to the vet if he had any chance of surviving his wound.

Town was about 15 km away, and as I raced down a hill, I saw two motorbikes coming in the other direction. The first bike was Gwirk’s so I flashed my lights and pulled over.

As Gwirk pulled off his helmet, I blurted, “Buster’s hurt bad, mate. I think the brindle bitch has attacked him. She’s ripped a huge hole in his neck!”

Gwirk and his mate looked at each other with a stunned look on their faces and then simultaneously said, “What the fuck are you talking about? Buster’s dead!”

Rewind to 3 pm Saturday:

Gwirk and his mate are watching the rugby league on TV. Suddenly they hear growling and barking outside. As they run outside, they see a mob of sheep pressed against the fence near the farmhouse. The brindle bitch has jumped the fence and is now killing the neighbour’s sheep. Buster has joined in. At least six sheep are dead and the two Bull Terriers are in full attack mode.

Before Gwirk can jump the fence, the neighbour’s ute roars to a holt, a cloud of brown dust enveloping the scene. The rule of the land is savage and swift. Sheep killers don’t get a trial. The neighbour pulls his 12 gauge shotgun from the ute, and at close range, both dogs are shot dead.

Gwirk stands, looking on in stunned silence. Both dogs lay beside their quarry, blood gushing from terminal wounds. The neighbour can see Gwirk’s pain but there is no apology, only, “I’ll bury them, mate.”

Gwirk jumped on his black Sportster and roared into town to drink away his sorrow. The neighbour took both dogs and buried them in shallow graves in a nearby gully about 800 metres from the house.

At what time Buster woke up is anyone’s guess. A blast at three meters from a 12 gauge shotgun should have taken Buster’s head off. But Buster’s time wasn’t up yet. Despite massive blood loss and being buried alive, he managed to dig his way out of the shallow grave, walk 800 metres to the house and scale the fence before waiting all night on the veranda.

By the time the vet returned to his practise it was 3 pm on Sunday. Buster had been shot 24 hours before. The vet extracted 28 pellets from the wound and put in 27 stitches to close up the hole.

The next weekend I went over to see Buster at the farm. As I pulled into the yard, a large cow came running frantically past the shed. In hot pursuit was Buster. Neither his wound nor the stitches seemed to bother him.

Now that’s a tough dog!

Words & pics by Don Walker