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My Yellow Labrador retriever named Sadie lived sixteen years long and had the moral compass of a nun. She’d routinely tell on herself if she ate the cat food, and if I ever got mad at her for anything, she’d sit at my feet, follow me around the house, tail between her legs, ears back, asking for forgiveness until you gave it to her. Sixteen years, I got used to this, and honestly, the other dogs that I dealt with were pretty much the same way. I’d let Nestle, the other Lab I used to take care of, off-leash in the cornfields. The worst she’d do is submerge herself in mud – running away? She’d never. I thought it was so easy. I knew how to handle dogs.

Even with Stitch, though he also gave me a run for my money by somehow being simultaneously anti-movement and able to scale stairs and chairs and tables like spider pig, he honestly didn’t do anything else bad – probably only because his breathing and his stocky little legs wouldn’t let him.

Then, we got Luna.

Luna, the first dog of mine that has successfully learned how to fetch. She’s the only one that carries toys and sticks in her mouth for long periods of time. She likes to dig, everywhere. Luna, the fastest little thing that’s only 15 inches (40cm) tall, gives me a run for my money every single day. Her zoomies around the house make her 20lbs of bull-in-a-china-shop. We have a ring of dirt in our yard that literally has banks in it now from her taking her turns too fast. She made herself sick because she ate lemon even though it’s poisonous (something is definitely wrong with her tastebuds I swear – also likes to eat soaps), and we had to get a plant seed taken out of her nose because she bombed through the underbrush too fast at the Tower House.

Just this morning, I walked out to find my roses torn to shreds. Taken down by tiny teeth that had finally resisted enough and couldn’t handle it anymore. The only plant that had enured the heat of the summer. Now I’m desperately trying to keep the fragments alive – not even thorns stop this little beast. If I tell her no, she looks at me to make sure she’s understood and then proceeds with whatever she was doing. If I get angry and catch her in the act of wrongdoing, she tucks her ears back and runs in the other direction. I miss my Sadie apologies. With Luna, all I get is a blatant stare and an “I do what I want” -tude that is not appreciated. If I keep up the guilt trip, she doesn’t try harder to get my forgiveness. If she could shrug her shoulders, she would, and then she falls asleep.

Frenchies are not dogs. French bulldogs are little furry beings with attitudes and personalities to match. And though I’m upset about my roses, when I look at her face, that goofy, unapologetic face, I honestly can’t get that angry with her. Frenchies are hard-headed, mischief-making monsters, but the goofiness and the love they have when they aren’t pissed at you is worth it. As I attempt to finish this, Luna reaches up with her front paws and taps them on my leg. I bend down, pick her up, and she attempts to curl into a ball on my lap. Honestly, I’d say half of these blogs are usually encumbered by a Frenchie face leaning on a part of my body, but I’d really never want it any other way.

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