I Tried to Celebrate Like the Irish. It Ended Poorly.

Hello there, dear reader. Winston here, your not-so-Irish French Bulldog with an acute sense of injustice and a flair for the dramatic. As you might suspect, this week has been emotionally tumultuous, and I simply must share my latest tale of woe with you.

Let me take you back to the scene of the offense: St. Patrick’s Day. A day when humans, despite not looking at all like leprechauns and barely managing to stomach green beer, suddenly go wild to celebrate their Irish heritage. And me? Well, I spent the morning in a pitiful swirl of existential sorrow, because, to be quite frank, I’m only 50% French and 50% dog. Neither of those qualifications screams “Irish,” does it?

Oh, how I wallowed. I flopped dramatically across the couch, staring at my humans, hoping at least they would have the decency to acknowledge my struggle. But no, they were relentlessly preoccupied with shamrock cookies and laughing about “luck o’ the Irish.” Did anyone spare a thought for a Frenchie overshadowed by a holiday I couldn’t possibly hope to participate in? Non! Tragic, isn’t it?

But then, dear reader, a miraculous thought struck me. Perhaps I could be Irish. Was this not the very time of year when humans proclaimed distant Irish ties with as much exuberance as I bring to an unexpected slice of ham? If Cousin Nancy could claim “I’m like 3% Irish on my grandma’s side,” why couldn’t I claim Irish proximity by sheer spirit?

I mean, think about it: I love potatoes, or, well, I assume I do, considering my unparalleled admiration for kibble and snacks of all kinds. I believe in luck, particularly of the variety that magically produces dropped cheese from countertops. I’ve been known to embody the fiery spirit of a creature far larger than a Frenchie of my stature. I even guard treasure like a Leprechaun (read: my growing pile of hidden treats). And let’s not forget the pièce de résistance: I’ve once chased a rainbow, although it admittedly led to nothing but a puddle.

Fueled by these undeniable truths, I decided I was practically born to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. And so, I leaped (well, waddled) into the festivities with renewed determination. I began by scarfing down, no exaggeration, an entire can of corned beef. It was magical. For approximately 15 minutes. Then, well… let’s just say my French digestive system did not feel “lucky” at all. I yakked right in the middle of the living room, sat and watched while mom cleaned it up, then decided maybe St. Patrick’s Day wasn’t really my thing after all, and decided to go to bed.

That’s it. That was my entire St. Patrick’s Day celebration. So, dear reader, this has been a very long-winded way to say this: The next time you feel left out and sad when everyone else is partying, don’t. You are your own amazing person, and you don’t need to follow the crowd. You can celebrate your own things by yourself. Me? I wish I’d just celebrated being alive with a nap. My pillow would never have done me dirty like that corned beef.

Until next time, stick to regular beef, not the corned kind,

Winston 🐾