A long time ago Hubby wanted an English Bulldog, a desire I sincerely felt was about as kooky as wanting to spend a couple of nights dangling off Mt. Everest. I mean, sure, it’s something we CAN do, but why would we WANT to?
Not only are bulldogs funky-looking, but they are famous for being difficult to train and having serious health problems that cost their owners beaucoup bucks.
So Hubby and I compromised. I got to pick our first dog because our boys were still young and he felt I would know better what would work best with our family at that time.
And then later—in the far, far away future—he’d get to pick the next dog, when our boys were older and could help out and it really didn’t matter if I had to work a bit harder with our dog.
So in 1993 I picked a Standard Poodle. What wonderful dog he turned out to be! Clean, non-shedding, friendly and ultra-patient with kids. Training was a breeze—he was house-broken almost immediately and was the star pupil in all his obedience classes. He doesn’t yap, he loves to go camping, and everyone adores him.
But now Casey Dog is getting old. At age 12 he’s still pretty spry for a Standard, but he’s going deaf and he sleeps a lot. And now Hubby is reminding me of my promise.
And Hubby wants a bulldog.
He doesn’t care about the cost of a bulldog. He doesn’t care how we’ll spend a fortune on veterinary bills. He doesn’t care about how we’ll probably lose all of our furniture legs to little bulldog teething patterns.
My strongest and best argument was how a Bulldog puppy would be murder on our carpets, because bulldogs take forever to house-break. So Hubby agreed to replace our elderly carpet with a laminate floor. After we installed the floor last summer I was plum out of arguments.
So now we’re getting a bulldog.