Father’s Day Who?

Hello there, dear reader. It is I, Winston, coming to you live from my spot on the couch where I have been sitting, alone, unattended, and under-appreciated. This past weekend was Father’s Day, and I have a lot to say about it.

Now, let me set the scene for you. Father’s Day is supposed to be a day of celebration. A day where dads everywhere are showered with love, gifts, and gratitude. And my dad? He absolutely deserves all of that. He is, after all, the father of the greatest French Bulldog to ever walk this earth. Me. That would be me, dear reader, in case that was not abundantly clear.

The thing is, though, that Father’s Day felt a little different for me this year. Why? Because my dad has been completely and utterly consumed by babysitting duties. That’s right. Some of my aunties at the office have been bringing their babies in, and my dad, sweet, misguided man that he is, has been taking care of the babies so my aunties can get their work done. And listen, I respect that. We love giving working moms a hand so they can be both the loving mothers and the career-driven queens they deserve to be.

But here is the problem. My aunties’ babies are not me. I am the only baby my dad should be worried about. I require attention 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, and I was not getting it. My dad had been spreading his love around like it was some kind of community resource, and I was simply not going to stand for it.

So I did what any reasonable, completely emotionally mature dog would do. I decided to protest Father’s Day entirely.

The first order of business was the mug. My dad has this “World’s Best Dad” mug that he uses occasionally. Key word: had. I found it, I relocated it, and suddenly it was just… gone. Vanished. A mystery for the ages. Dad spent a solid 10 seconds looking for it before giving up and using a different cup. Did it feel good? Yes. Yes, it did.

Next, I employed what I consider to be my most powerful weapon. Silence. You see, I am a very vocal dog. Barking is basically my second language and I normally use it to warn my humans of danger. I don’t know what they’d do without my surveillance. So when someone knocked on the door that afternoon, and I said absolutely nothing, not a single warning bark, not even a snort, I’m sure he felt the threat.

And then, the grand finale. That night, I waited until dad was just about to go to bed, and I very deliberately, very intentionally, slobbered on his pillow. Not mom’s side. His side. I wanted him to know this was intentional. This was a statement.

I felt pretty good about my protest, I will be honest. I thought I had made a compelling case for myself. I was the wronged party. I deserved justice.

But then something happened that I was not expecting. I looked at my dad, wiping my slobber off himself in disgust, and I thought about it. Really thought about it. Dads get busy sometimes. They do not always get to choose exactly where their time goes. My dad was not ignoring me because he loved me less. He was just trying to help, which is actually one of the things I love most about him.

I am not saying I was wrong to protest. I was absolutely right to protest, and I stand by every single act of mischief I committed. But I will admit, just this once, that maybe I could have been slightly more understanding about the whole situation.

I went over to him. He gave me a pat. All was forgiven. Mostly.

Happy belated Father’s Day, Dad. You are still the World’s Best Dad, even if I am in desperate need of more back scratchies.

With love (and mild grievances),

Winston 🐾