I Barely Survived

Hello, dear readers and fellow survivors of this fiery nightmare! It is I, Winston, your beloved French Bulldog correspondent, here to deliver yet another harrowing tale of betrayal, endurance, and revenge. Spoiler alert: it’s mostly betrayal.

This week, my tormentor—you might know her as “Mom”—made a catastrophic, world-ending mistake. She tried (and failed miserably) to drag me, the divine and delicate Winston, on a long walk under the unforgiving, ever-glaring, pizza-oven sun. Sometimes, I wonder if she even listens when I pant dramatically at the front door.

So, grab a cold drink, sit somewhere shaded (the audacity if you aren’t already), and let me spill the kibble about my traumatic outdoor expedition.

The Walk to Nowhere

Imagine this: a supposed “leisurely stroll” that was actually more of a battle of life and paw—or at least, that’s how it felt to a heat-intolerant, smoosh-faced Frenchie like me. What started as an innocent walk around the neighborhood quickly descended into chaos.

First, we hit the sidewalk. Correction: the skillet. Every step felt like walking barefoot across the surface of the sun. I tried steering her toward shady spots—clearly, I was the more intelligent being here—but she was determined to “finish the route.” The nerve.

I struggled for air, my pancake-flat nose working overtime, gasping like an exhausted marathoner crawling over the finish line. Meanwhile, she kept pulling me along like some sort of cruel, heat-tolerant machine. Hadn’t she noticed my dramatic flops every few steps? Apparently not.

If this walk was supposed to take 30 minutes, it felt like three dog lifetimes. The sun burned brighter with every step, the asphalt seemed angrier, and my determination to make her pay grew stronger with each gasp.

Crash-And-Burn

The second we got home, I collapsed. Nope, not exaggerating. I flopped dramatically in the middle of the floor, limbs splayed, eyes narrowed at her, doing my best impression of “most betrayed dog ever.” She panicked (good), brought out ice packs, and tended to my little armpits like the dutiful servant she should’ve been all along.

Was I grateful? Not even close. I spent the entire cooling session plotting revenge. My arsenal included the angriest side-eyes, deep huffs of disapproval, and a vow to stage a walkout on all future walks. That’ll show her.

Strike

Effective immediately, and for the foreseeable future, I am officially on a walk strike. Why? Because my well-being matters, and because she needs to learn. A few guidelines moving forward:

1. Any walks must now occur only after sunset or during the crisp whisper of dawn. (Yes, I said “crisp whisper.”)
2. There shall be no dragging unless ice cream or an air-conditioned car is involved.
3. Violating Rule #2 will result in even meaner looks. Possible shoe destruction TBD.

You Will Regret This, Mom

Look, I already have enough trouble with this smooshed muzzle. Breathing normally is a struggle when the weather is fine, let alone when summer cranks up the temperature to “hellfire.” Let this be a public service announcement: the French Bulldog community is currently under attack. Pledge to do better. Carry an umbrella for shade. Pack ice cubes for cool hydration. Or, hear me out, stay inside forever.

Yours in sweaty resentment,

Winston 🐾

P.S. Mom, if you’re reading this: I expect belly rubs and treats on demand until further notice. You know what you did.