There was a mystique associated with owning an English bulldog that defies description. To walk Dozer on the streets of Willits, was to court celebrity status, and with the two braids flowing down from my chin a foot or so, I’m sure we made quite the picture.
Typically, if the highway were jammed the way it used to be in pre-bypass days, I would get horn-honks, shout-outs, and in extreme cases, folks hanging out of the window, hollering and waving.
Let’s be candid here: I personally would struggle when driving and hanging out the window of my pickup truck, but the woman I witnessed, did it without hitting any other vehicle, as she veered into the center lane.
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| Caught in the headlights? |
Off the main drag one blisteringly hot August evening, I rounded a corner and nearly collided with one of five middle school-aged boys, doing their best possible imitation of five middle school boys, with attitude. I was supposed to gasp with trepidation, while going speechless in my fright.
“‘Sup, Men!” I boomed, “Are we having fun yet?” That was the first surprise; Dozer was the second.
The obvious leader didn’t even have time to react to my greeting, before one of the other dudes had dropped to a knee beside the people-friendly Doze, cocked his head at me, and inquired, “Is he friendly?”
“As long as you are not another dog, he is. Loves kids, especially middle schoolers,” I lied. It wasn’t a lie so much as an exaggeration. Dozer loved all people, almost. He just did not like other dogs. Talk about your classic Alpha male.
Take your pick.
Bulldog owners are apt to congregate and compare notes, but unless you are willing to hear about “…snorts, farts, shit consistency, crusty eyes, puke, and various forms of gas…” (Brad Pitt talking about his bulldog, Jacques), you had better keep a deaf ear to the conversation.
And best not get me started on facial creases.
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| My creases cause crises... |
When I see photos of bulldogs posted by my friends on social media, I always smile, sadly. I would have loved to have had another bully after the Doze moved on, quite unexpectedly a few months ago, but I was feeling overwhelmed by all of the critters who were left homeless, from the wildfires our region had experienced around the same time.
Gluten-Free Mama and I needed to do something.
The little female hound dog we eventually adopted is the sweetest, most appreciative four-legged companion I have ever encountered. Ellie Mae displays all of the classic symptoms of a dog in rapture with her Designated Human(s): She wants to jump on us, she wants to follow me wherever I go, she wants to sleep in the bed with Gluten-Free Mama and me, and her tail becomes quite the Lethal Weapon when I come in from operating the wood splitter.
She does not have an ounce of alpha maleness in her body, which is fine because all of the dogs on-farm these days are female. She does have a free-spirited mentality, though, in that she values her independence. I have had a difficult time confining her to our two-acre, fenced-in yard.
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| "Born free, as free as the wind blows, born to follow my heart..." |
She’s like a middle schooler trying to get uptown at lunch for a Shady Nook extravaganza.
We currently have five “escape-free days” under our metaphorical belts, yesterday’s close call notwithstanding. Because I caught her in the act of trying to dig her way under the fence, and prevented her from accomplishing the deed, it doesn’t really count as an actual escape.
She hears the deer, mostly, but other critters too out in the woods, and she wants to go chase them. I figure it’s nothing more than a case of “bad habits dying hard” and eventually she will forget about the idea of escaping.
I also want her to forget about the idea of ever being hit, cuffed, kicked, yelled at or starved. Those days are gone forever. She has gone from a 42-pound, skinny, rib-enhanced rescue dog, to a 48-pound, sleek and contented doggie, and whereas Ellie Mae is cute, she will never induce women to lean out the window of a moving vehicle to wave.
I think we might all agree we’re better off for that.
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