Delilah is French for "Devil Dog"

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It’s quite possible that Delilah wins the ‘weirdest French Bulldog ever‘ award, or at least the award for ‘weirdest French Bulldog ever owned or known by me‘ award.

First of all, she still will not come all the way down the stairs. This is not because she’s incapable of it (unlike Dexter, who’s so large in the head that walking downhill causes him to tumble in a slinky-like fashion).

Our stair routine goes something like this –

The stairs from our basement are open at about the half way mark. Delilah, who has no issues going up the stairs, will only come down as far as the opening on the stairs. She lurks there, popping her head over the edge to see what we’re doing. My computer sits right beneath this opening, and I often look up and see her peeking over the side, checking to see if I’ve decided to spontaneously bake her some dog cookies. If she’s in the mood, she will sometimes leap into my arms from this point when I walk over to see her. Usually, though, she waits until I try to approach her, then bolts back to the top of the stairs. It’s like she thinks I have cooties or something. Once she’s sure I’m safely far away from the stairs, she’ll come back down again, for a second look.

Here’s a video of her playing the stair game with me –

If this isn’t enough, there’s the fact that of all the dogs, she’s the only one of our dogs who just will not come when she is called, thus leaving me to play a little game I like to call “Come and get the nice cookie so Mommy can tackle you like a sausage shaped football, you infuriating little beast”. Actually, the term ‘like to call’ is more of a misnomer for ‘am forced to screech every time she gets outside the fence’. Luckily for me, she’s completely food motivated, and would sell her dark little brindle soul for a dried up crumb of milkbone, so I’ll be working on the ‘come!’ command diligently over the next while.

Oh, and I should explain about chairs. Delilah doesn’t sit on them, like normal dogs – she scales the back of them, like some sort of mutant goat. I admit that she’s my ‘go to’ lap dog for chair sitting, but she doesn’t take being left behind very well if I have to get up for any reason. In fact, she barks with a sort of affronted indignation that’s almost as funny as it is alarming. Here’s a short clip of her Majesty expressing her opinion on the topic of my getting up and leaving her.

I’ve threatened to send her to Chicago to live with Hope and Dax, but I like them too much to inflict this kind of punishment on them.

A Sucker's Game

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I have, from time to time, decided that breeding dogs is a sucker’s game, and that I’m personally not going to play it any more. Usually, this takes the form of my ignoring all email, and just recently I added in “and I’m not blogging anymore, either”, for good measure.

Breeding dogs is a sucker’s game when you learn that a dog you love has died, without you there to hold her in her final moments. When you arrive home too late to even go with her on that final trip to the vet’s office. When you cry tears of frustration and anger at your own ineffectualness at doing anything to save her life, to keep her safe, to make her better.

Breeding dogs is a sucker’s game when the emails start to trickle in, with stories of how the ten and twelve and thirteen year olds you’ve bred are dead, or dying. Old age is never old enough, and the pain you feel for yourself, and the people who’ve lost their companions just doesn’t seem justified. Words fail you – what words are there when someone tells you “And then I told the vet it was time to let him go”?

Breeding dogs is a sucker’s game when you learn that the bitch you’d been waiting on isn’t actually pregnant. Haha, seems those ultrasounds aren’t so reliable, and I guess she was just fat. All that extra protein and those mid morning scrambled egg snacks sure can pack the weight on a gal. I guess there’s always next time. Or not, since this is the fourth time you’ve tried to breed her.

Breeding dogs is a sucker’s game when it all hits you at once, and you have to pull off the highway to cry it all out, because you can’t see clearly enough to drive at the moment. It’s a combination of frustration and anger and disappointment and a sense of overwhelming failure that can culminate in your throwing your hands up and saying “This is a sucker’s game, and I quit”.

Breeding dogs is a sucker’s game when you have to inform all of those people who’ve been waiting patiently for puppies that there aren’t any – no puppies, no idea what went wrong, and no idea when there will be another attempt. Politely referring them on to other breeders, and still getting angry, irate emails from people asking why you’ve ‘wasted their time’ with waiting can be enough to make anyone decide to quit.

Breeding dogs is a sucker’s game when you get email asking how does one, exactly, know when a dog is about to go into labor? Because, you see, they threw their dogs together into the yard, and now she’s really big and she’s making a nest in the closet, and she’s leaking milk, and what do I do now? And what’s a c section? And can you help me sell them? And you’re polite, and helpful, because it’s really all about the dog, at this moment, and not about giving in to your urge to scream in frustration and lecture about uterine inertia and why breeders have homes lined up before they whelp a litter. And then you realize you’d have to explain what ‘whelp’ means.

So, you contemplate quitting, because really – who needs it? You could raise orchids, or maybe Koi. Perhaps get into goats (cheese making might be fun). Dog breeding, after all, is a sucker’s game.

Until you get an email with photos of a girl, who goes back to your girl, who is out of your favorite girl, and did you want her? Then you get another email, and it’s that puppy you sold, and he’s playing with his soccer ball, and they sure do love him. There’s that other email, from those people who lost their dog to old age, and they think they’re ready now for another one, and do you have one, will you soon?

And you realize you miss puppy breath, and that a litter now would mean puppies playing in the grass, and there’s that play center you wanted to build for them, and then it hits you – it’s a sucker’s game, but it’s also your life, and it’s been a pretty good one.

French Bulldog Photo Blogging

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It’s finally warming up a little, so the dogs have been spending more time in the garden. Tessa likes to find a sunny spot, either outside or in ‘her’ chair, in front of the french doors. Delilah prefers bug hunting, or eating dandelions.

Photos here on Flicker, or in the slide show below.

Still here…

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Sorry, I just haven’t felt much like writing anything since Ellie’s death. I guess sometimes words just don’t seem to matter, and this was one of those times.

 At any rate, we’re here, we’re fine, there are no puppies (because apparently, we’re under some sort of catastrophic, puppy disappearing cloud of doom), but we’re still hanging in.

Maybe a second try for pups later this summer, when I can stand the idea.

Oh, and I’m at Charlotte’s, re discovering how much fun pugs are. They’re like valium on four legs.

It's never enough time…

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I have a number of things to write about, since a lot has happened in the two weeks I’ve been off line, but nothing more important that this – we have lost Ellie, our special girl, and the light of Sean’s life.

Ellie was a special dog from the very beginning. An illness during the final stage of Sailor’s pregnancy left Ellie somewhat addled at birth. She was small, and had a hard time thriving. Barb hung in there, though, and Ellie made it through well enough for us to go and pick her up. Sean was ambivalent – he’d never had a dog of his own before, and Tessa was the first one he’d ever lived with. He was a cat person, and wasn’t sure what to make of the indifferent little brindle mite who refused to even come over and sniff his hand.

During the seven hour drive home, Ellie huddled in the back of her crate glaring at us, and Sean asked me mildly “Is she ever going to come near us?”. I explained that some dogs need more patience than others, and shortly after we arrived home, he made it his goal to get Ellie to love him.

Unlike other French Bulldogs, Ellie was indifferent towards affection. She loved Tessa, staying close to her and sleeping curled into her side. People were a different story. She barely tolerated Sean and I, and would skitter away from us if we tried to pet her. We felt like negligent pet owners, and laughed it off when she ran wide circles around anyone who approached her at the dog park. “She’s just not that in to people” we’d explain. Ellie had a fine sense of dignity, and never once willingly let a stranger pat her on the head. She insisted on her own personal space, and we learned to let her sit her own limits on interaction.

Eventually, Ellie learned to love us, by which time we, of course, were head over heels about her. She’s sidle up to you and butt your hand with her head, which meant “Scratch my ears”. She’d perch on your lap, tentatively, never settling down enough to really get comfortable. Still, she loved us, in her own way.

We knew she wasn’t going to be with us for forever. We even knew she wasn’t going to be with us for long. What we didn’t realize is that even the knowing of that doesn’t prepare you for the loss you feel when they go. Logic can tell you that time is short, but our hearts don’t rely on logic, and there just wasn’t enough time with Ellie.

There’s never enough time.

Bullmarket Absolut Elliemental
June 21st, 2004 – April 11th, 2008