Frenchie Fever

I began noticing the signs last year: my sister and brother-in-law’s snapshots of French bulldogs—“Frenchies”—they encountered in public; little tales of interactions with strangers’ pups, talk of my brother-in-law acquiring one of his own. It didn’t take long. Before summer they had their own little white version of the breed, and my phone buzzed with pictures of Loki cuddling in my sister’s lap, sunning himself outside, or slumbering away with his back legs stretched out behind him.

During my recent visit to San Diego, I met the year-old Loki in person, so to speak. He was like a little old man—bald and wall-eyed, with a head too big for his body and a raging case of pica. His stumpy, crooked tail couldn’t wag, probably a result of a botched docking operation, so between his expressionless appendage and flat face, the animal betrayed little emotion. The snuffling, snoring emissions he projected down the hallway gave the impression that there was always somebody in deep repose who shouldn't be disturbed. Either that, or my sister now owned a species of pig dog that announced his interest in sniffing your pant leg with a series of grunts and oinks.

Further adding to his charm was his belief in posturing and violence to protect his favorite people, toys, and treats from the threat of both the little girl of the household and his fellow family pet, a noble mastiff no doubt confused as we all were by the random growling attacks of the newcomer. I’d heard rumors, too, that before the recent neutering, this creature had some habits that could be rather awkward to witness.

Despite all this, my sister loved to point out how he was a “Velcro dog,” who always had to jump up and sit so he was leaning against you. Not exactly cuddly, but at least this revealed a little regard for his folks. And sometimes when released into the back yard, he would shoot away, sprinting swiftly for such a squared-off, heavy-muscled dog. Living up to his name, he’d take off like a rocket especially when being summoned back inside. When my sister got ready to drive somewhere, he would shadow her, attempting to follow her out to the car, and if the destination was not appropriate for him and he was deposited back inside, he’d stand on a chair watching her go, releasing a few mournful cries sounding uncannily like a human child.

And this dog kept to a schedule. Every evening around 8:00, just when we were sunk down on the couch reading or working on our laptops in the glow of the lamps, the Frenchie would initiate a wrestling match with the mastiff. The grunting, growling play would drag on for fifteen minutes. I’d look up and think, Are they still at it?

“So do you like him? Is he growing on you?” She would pin me down with this question, and I would look at the flat-faced animal staring off into space, drowsing off for the fifth time, then once more quickly rousing himself with a lift of the head. “He’s okay,” I’d say. “I guess.” Then my sister would remind me that it took “a year” for her to get used to him, releasing me from the responsibility of being nice despite the fact that, minutes before, the animal had retched and vomited after “cameling up” following some hard play with the mastiff.

Fortunately, it was my brother-in-law and not me who cleaned up after the fellow when he threw up or used a corner of the house as a urinal. “I used to be a vet tech,” he’d explain cheerfully. “All that means is that I spent a year cleaning up poop and other messes, and you know what? After a few months, you get used to it, and the smells don’t even bother you anymore.”

I’ve decided I will never be a vet tech. What’s more, I never got used to the idea of jamming my hand down the Frenchie's throat to retrieve the little piece of plastic he was trying to ingest, of firmly creasing down the dog’s lower eyelid to make sure the eye stayed put after the dog had enjoyed a good wrestle, or even of welcoming him when he came lunging up at my chair and leaned heavily against me and my computer while I struggled to keep typing. The latter I decided to put up with to some degree: it was a sign I’d been favored, and his long, blank stares in approximately my direction were his sizing up of opportunities to be my friend before he made the leap.

Then one day, circumstances brought Loki and I unexpectedly together. It started out as a family walk, and even the mastiff was leashed up for the occasion. We didn’t get far when it was decided that three out of the four humans needed to return home right away, and of course the mastiff, who strained at the leash and was unfriendly to strange dogs, had to go back with them. This left the small white frenemy in my charge, and as the whole idea of the excursion came from needing to take him out, I decided not to be squeamish, to be a sport in front of my sister. Off we went, with Loki surprisingly responsive to tugs of the leash. We were a walking team, he and I.

And then I remembered what dogs do on walks. I looked down at the plastic bag tied to the leash handle and hoped that for once, he would skip that step, that he would realize that he’d already used the dog facilities in his own back yard. But it was not to be. We got to the first rise in our ascent out of the canyon, and the dog squatted next to the sidewalk. And I remembered something else, crossing my fingers and hoping old Loki had recovered from his recent bout of diarrhea. What would I do with that mess, and how could I make the spot pleasant for neighbors once the deed was done?

Fortunately, the deposit was not too atypical, and I was able to scoop it up through the plastic bag, bringing in some sticks and leaves to ensure I’d not left anything behind. A pungent, garlicky odor flicked at my nose, and I wondered what he’d been eating recently. He spent a lot of time nosing at plants in the backyard, so it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think that he’d been sampling some rare herb.

After insuring myself against a similar event by tying to the leash handle one of those free bags supplied by the park as a strong hint to dog owners, we resumed our walk, cresting the canyon and starting off on the sidewalk in a quiet neighborhood. Loki was deeply interested in sniffing at the landscaping, but still he responded when I reeled in the leash. I noticed, however, that he was a little harder to control when there were so many ornamental bushes and brick walks to examine. Perhaps, though, we would still get all the way to the park.

That’s when Loki stopped to study a bed of rough red gravel. “Come on,” I indicated with the leash. Suddenly, he leaned over and gulped one of the rocks before obeying. Before me paraded all the implications of his daring show of independence. It would be much worse than his recent bout of itching ears where my brother-in-law had to pin him down to rub lotion and antibiotic drops in them. First, he would languish, no longer interested in food or wrestling. Then he would stop using the dog facilities out back. Finally, he’d be taken to the vet where emergency surgery would be called for. Nope, no park today.

On the way home, Loki trotted back down the way we’d come, energetic after taking his harsh mineral supplement. When we got to a fork in the road and I wondered vaguely whether I shouldn’t extend the walk through the canyon just a bit or take the right-hand path back up to the house, the Frenchie didn’t hesitate. He swerved right and I followed him back to the arms of his family, who surely would not take well to the news of the red rock beginning its agonizing journey through their puppy’s digestive system.

But my sister didn’t ask why I was back so soon—apparently fifteen minutes was exercise enough for him. And when I confessed to her about the piece of red gravel, she hardly blinked. “He eats the lava rock in the back yard all the time,” was her reassuring reply. I told my brother-in-law about Loki’s choosing the right path home. “Oh, yeah—he knows the way,” he said.

Later, I looked over at the dog sitting erect in the living room armchair, regarding me with one of his eyes. I could detect a gleam of interest in that body language, I decided. And yes, maybe I wouldn’t mind so much—not so much—if he wanted to nestle against me on the couch that evening and wage his little war against sleep.