Walter turned six on August 31st. French Bulldogs average ten to twelve years, sometimes stretching to fourteen with good care and a little luck. Do that math with me, because I did it and I wish I hadn’t. Six means he’s already on the back half. Six means the dog currently asleep against my leg has seen more days than he’s got left in front of him, and there’s no amount of holistic anything that changes that arithmetic.
I waited six months for him. Found him before he was even born, then had to wait out the pregnancy and the weaning before I could bring him home. Somewhere in those six months I got cold feet, mostly over what he cost, a number so ridiculous I won’t even type it here, and I almost talked myself out of the whole thing. Then I met him. That was it. Love at first sight, the real kind, the kind that makes a grown woman with a consulting business, three mortgages, five months out of the country ,a year plus extensive travel here in the states, look at a puppy a little bigger than your open hand and understand immediately that her life had just been reorganized around him.
He is the first face I see in the morning and the last one at night. On the days I don’t love myself very much, and there have been plenty, Walter has never once gotten that memo. He is a constant “you go girl”, a resplendent “I love you so much”, delivered with zero judgment about whatever mess I’m currently in. Anxiety doesn’t stand a chance against a Frenchie who insists on being underfoot. Depression gets interrupted by a snoring, snorting, gas-passing little gremlin who needs his belly rubbed right now, thank you very much. He has gotten me through more low days than any human ever has, and he did it without saying a single word, just by being ridiculous and present and mine.
And he is ridiculous. Frenchies are a genuinely hilarious breed, and Walter takes the assignment seriously. This dog does not listen. Not to commands, not to his name sometimes, not with those great big ears standing straight up like he should be receiving a message from Mars. But rustle a potato chip bag, or say the word snack, treat, let’s go, or car, and suddenly he’s catching the holy ghost on steroids, full spin, full body, like the Rapture is happening in my kitchen. Selective hearing, expertly deployed. The zoomies used to happen multiple times a day too, this full-body, ears-back, sliding-around-the-hardwood explosion of joy for no reason at all. Now it’s down to a few times a week. I notice. I notice everything now. I notice the pause at the stairs, the walk that’s sometimes just a walk instead of a strut, the way six looks different on him than six looked on him at two.
This is my third dog as an adult. The first two, I had to make the call to euthanize, and both times it broke something in me that took a long while to put back together. Loving a dog is one of the best decisions a person can make and one of the most guaranteed heartbreaks you’ll ever sign up for on purpose. I know what’s coming, eventually, with Walter too. I’m not rushing toward it and I refuse to spend the good years grieving in advance. But I’d be lying if I said the math hasn’t been sitting in the back of my mind since his birthday.
So, here’s what I’m doing instead of spiraling. I’m spoiling him rotten, more than most entitled children I’ve met, if I’m honest, and Frenchies are not a cheap breed to spoil. It’s not just the purchase price, it’s the maintenance, forever, on everything. Special food because his stomach gets yeasty if I so much as look at him wrong, which is another reason I make his food myself now, completely grain free, heavy on the wild game. $90 a bag if I buy the commercial version, because apparently, he’s allergic to air. Glad I live in South Carolina, where sourcing that stuff is at least possible, and usually very inexpensive. He’s on probiotics with names so long I have to read them off the bottle every single time, because the conventional meds never touched his allergies to begin with. Frenchie allergies are basically an epidemic in this breed- the eyes, the folds on the face, all of it will get infected within a week if you skip the daily routine. So, we don’t skip it. Daily massages to stretch his limbs, powders in the folds to keep rashes and breakouts from starting, a full facial every single day, and always extra wet wipes on hand for the eye boogers. It’s not pampering at this point, it’s medical maintenance dressed up as a spa day, and either way, no complaints from Mr. Walter, he expects King treatment. A wardrobe that’s better coordinated than some people’s. He’s got more stamps on his international health certificates than most US citizens have in their passports, my actual road dog, cabin trained, dignified, unbothered by airports in a way that would honestly embarrass most humans I know.
Six is not old. I keep telling myself that. But six is old enough to make me pay attention to every single zoomie I’ve still got left to witness.
What’s the thing your pet does that gets you through your worst days? Tell me about them in the comments.
