The French Bulldog is a canine crime in the making.
You’ll find these creatures everywhere and more and more popular. If you can’t picture one, imagine a rump roast for a body, enlarged prostate for a face, four ginger-root like stubby legs and a brain stem. Fashioned in the correct way, you have a French Bulldog. Isn’t evolution amazing?
Oh, and imagine you were born and had to breath through two very thin twisty straws your entire life.
One more thing. Your heart beats faster than a hummingbird’s wings every minute – your entire life.
Not sure why they are French, except that they are as bad an idea as poutine for your national cuisine.
This insanity extends to the owners of these “dogs”.
The one client we had with a French Bulldog started our conversation out this way: we don’t want our dog peeing or crapping on our lawn so please don’t do that. Check. Crap on the neighbours lawn.
Apparently they rented their lawn out as a golf course. Unfortunately this policy extended to their house guests, who weren’t allowed to use the washrooms and had to run to the neighbours with the dog.
We walked this dog, Harvey, for half an hour, twice a week. That’s one hour per week. Quite the workout program. It certainly rivals Goop. And “walking” is a bit of an exaggeration. I kind of rolled him along like I would a rump roast in salt and pepper for a more flavourful meat. This seemed completely natural to Harvey. What does he know? I’m sure he looks in the mirror and sees Lassie. Good for him.
Anyway, the client fired us. Shit. Was Harvey unhappy? What does an unhappy prostate look like? I’ll ask my doctor during my next exam. Did I accidentally let him crap on his own lawn and he snitched? If I were him I would have crapped all over my owner’s bed as a big “fuck you” to where I can crap.
Nope. He wasn’t losing enough weight. Apparently the back-breaking, marathon-tested one hour workout wasn’t turning Harvey from a rump roast into a breakfast sausage.
But, they had a very nice lawn.