Life with a Boerboel

Our family dog could genuinely be described as a killing machine. There’s no way around it. It’s what he was bred for. He’s a South African Mastiff, otherwise known as a Boerboel. In keeping with his heritage, we named him after one of the biggest and most ferocious Springbok rugby players of all time; Bakkies. (It rhymes with “truckies”.)

Boerboels are banned in several countries and to look at one, you can see why. Bakkies is actually a bit of a runt, courtesy of one of his testicles failing to descend and still, he is 80 kilograms of pure, rippling muscle. He has paws the size of a man’s fist, a bite force more than double that of a Pitbull and his “there’s-a-stranger-near-my-house-and-I-don’t-like-it” bark would make your blood run cold. However, co-existing with our dog’s deep-seated instinct to protect at any cost is his unshakeable belief that he is, in fact, one of the children. And therein lies the strange and slobbering paradox that is a Boerboel.

It’s all about where they come from. When the Dutch and German settlers emigrated to South Africa in the early 1600’s they brought with them various breeds of Bulldog and Bullmastiff to help with farm work. In deepest, darkest Africa - where there were many threats to life and limb - working dogs were required not only to be supremely physically powerful but also intensely protective of their masters. To the point where they’d fight off a leopard. Or die trying. They spent a lot of time with their humans, forming deep bonds, honing their defensive instincts and, along the way, claiming their “rightful place” in the family home. Hundreds of years of breeding, with the help of natural selection, produced the teddy bear we know today, whose name roughly translates to “Farmer’s Mastiff”.

How did we end up with one? Well, my South African husband, Greg, really wanted a Boerboel. I didn’t. So we compromised … and got a Boerboel. Right from the start I felt our new puppy was trying to show me who was boss. I had always wanted a dog with a blue coat and when we inspected the litter of eight-week-old pups there was one gorgeous little bluey. I was delighted and we handed over our deposit. However. We returned four weeks later to find that his beautiful blue coat had morphed into stark brindle which, let’s be honest, is the home hair dye disaster of dog colours. But for better or worse he was ours. We started the two-hour drive home with Bakkies on my lap in the passenger seat but he was restless and it was a nightmare. He squirmed and cried until I gave up and made Greg take over. Bakkies gazed up at his new Dad, settled in and, within seconds, was asleep.

It quickly became apparent that the man of the house was at the top of Bakkies’ pecking order. And he loved being around the kids. I, on the other hand, didn’t even register on his respect scale. We started training from day one and while Greg made steady progress, Bakkies seemed to have an innate aversion to listening to me. Which led to a lot of frustration. And swearing. And resentment. As I cleaned up after this puppy, disinfected the sites of his constant indoor accidents and rearranged my days to make sure he was supervised and content, he gave me no love at all. His little needle-sharp teeth gave my ankles a lot of love, but that was about it. 

That was until the day he happened to be strutting through the kitchen while I was cooking and a piece of food fell to the floor. He scoffed it and peered up at me with such fervent hope that I couldn’t help dropping a second morsel. Next thing, I felt a gentle pawing on my leg. He was “reminding” me that his next snack was due. And so it went. Every time he spotted me in the kitchen he would plonk himself down next to me and paw my leg for scraps. Greg warned me that no good would come of this but I didn’t listen. It was our thing, just Bakkies and I, and it was the one time I had his full attention. But our dog put on bulk and muscle very quickly and soon, those gentle paw-taps became painful paw-punches which left bruises down my thighs. It wasn’t his fault. He still thought he was being gentle. But he didn’t know his own strength. I knew I had to put an end to our kitchen ritual and, with perseverance, I succeeded.

These days, he's given up on the pawing but he still finds it hard to accept that the kitchen is a no-go zone. As soon as I’m cooking he’s there, watching with an eagle eye for scraps. When he’s been yelled at enough times to “GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN!” he reluctantly shifts just over half of his body across the threshold of the adjoining dining room. And there he lies in his favoured sulking pose; chin and jowls resting on the floor between two enormous front paws. He never gives up hope. His eyes track my every movement and he stares with such a palpable sense of loss and rejection that it’s impossible not to anthropomorphise the situation. We reckon he should cut his own Country and Western album full of songs about anguish and heartache. The kids and I have come up with an ever-expanding song list, including; When a Boerboel is Starved, When a Boerboel is Unloved, The Lonely Life of a Boerboel, Just a Boerboel Who Needs Love. My husband can often be heard singing his own ode to Bakkies, to the tune of Michael Bolton’s When a Man Loves a Woman, except in his version the word “woman” is replaced with “Boerboel”. Not surprising, really. The dog behaves perfectly for him. Kind of like how the kids are always angels for Dad and save their worst behaviour for me. But that’s a different blog. 

With the help of a professional dog trainer I was eventually able to gain some control over Bakkies, although I can never be sure that he’ll obey me. I can’t take him for walks on my own and receiving guests can be a bit of a drama. It’s not that he’s threatening towards anyone who we welcome into our home, but in his excitement at meeting new people he can, at best, trample feet and whack crotch regions with his rapidly wagging, whip-like tail and at worst, bowl them over. This is entirely my fault. I have no doubt that, had I put more time (much more time) into training, he would be a better behaved dog. I wouldn’t recommend a Boerboel to anyone who was not prepared to become its pack leader in every way.

There are beautiful, funny moments with Bakkies. Like when I walk into the lounge room and find him curled up on the couch with my three children, just cuddling, and it dawns on me that I actually have four kids. When he plays with an ice cube on the wooden floor boards, batting and chasing it around like a puppy. When I bring groceries inside and he noses through each bag, assessing their contents with all the purpose and entitlement of a catering manager. We have also - and this happened organically - given our dog a voice. Literally. We speak for him, vocalising what we think he’d be saying at any given moment, particularly in situations where he feels hard-done-by. If you can imagine a dumber, more indignant sounding Scooby-Doo, that’s the voice.

There’s a common misconception that if a dog is big it must need a lot of space and exercise. In Bakkies case, that couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s actually a very lazy dog with a pressing schedule of daily naps to maintain. It starts at 8:45am with his early morning nap. (This is after he’s scabbed around the dining room floor for any crumbs of toast or splodges of spilt cereal.) A little while later is his mid-morning nap, followed by his late morning nap, his midday nap, his early afternoon nap and so it continues until he collapses into bed, exhausted, at the end of each day.

Just on that subject - and this is where I take a deep breath and brace for a tidal wave of judgement - he sleeps on my 12 year old daughter’s bed. I know, I know, it’s “disgusting.” But by way of mitigation, we keep him very clean, he lies on his own blanket and I change the bed clothes regularly. Still, I don’t know how she does it. He snores like a freight train, flatulates with abandon and stretches out over most of her double bed. But she wouldn’t have it any other way and misses him terribly when she’s away from home. The circle of friends that she can have for sleepovers is limited. Understandably, not many are keen to share a room, let alone a bed, with an 80-kilogram Boerboel. Only the strongest have faced down this challenge and prevailed. And by “strongest” I mean those who handle Bakkies with a rare combination of fearlessness, bemusement and affection. You know who you are ;-)

I’ve read that Boerboels have the most highly developed threat perception instincts of any breed in the world so I know that our dog’s intense desire to bond with us has the potential to be a double edge sword. Years ago, Greg worked on an oil rig with man from South Africa who had two Boerboels. One day he got a call to come home early. His dogs had attacked and killed two intruders who had broken into his house while his wife and two little girls were there alone. Days before, this guy had shown Greg beautiful photos of his children climbing all over those dogs in their backyard.

I’ve seen these protective instincts only once in our boy. It was when a tradie came to look at our gas oven. I let him in through the side gate. Maybe it was because Greg wasn’t home at the time, maybe he sensed some apprehension that I didn’t realise I was feeling but Bakkies was adamant that this stranger was not going to get inside our home. He didn’t bite or lunge or even bare his teeth but the message was unmistakable. If Bakkies saw me or Greg or one of the kids in real danger, I honestly don’t know how he would react. No one can ever be one hundred per cent sure what any dog is capable of. All we can do is understand their potential and take precautions.

Bakkies was never my plan. I wanted a pedigreed, blue Great Dane. But the drooling, brindle Boerboel I ended up with takes up a bit more space in my heart every day. Someone who works intensively with animals told me once that anything with eyes has a soul. Maybe Bakkies was sent to remind me that dogs should never be viewed as status symbols, nor should they be assigned worth based on the way they look. They have intrinsic worth. Every dog does indeed have a soul. And a unique personality and a purpose. When we welcome one into our lives their happiness - and their fate - is in our hands. It’s a big responsibility but I’m loving the journey and I wouldn’t change our life with Bakkies for the world.

***