The Final Verdict on Willow: She Has to Go

Hello there, dear reader. Winston here, reporting live from what I can only describe as the longest month of my entire existence. A couple of blogs ago, I told you my verdict on Willow was still out. I was trying to be fair. I was trying to be the bigger dog, so to speak, even though technically she might be bigger than me now, which is a whole separate outrage I will not be addressing today. Well, the waiting is over. The jury has deliberated. The verdict is in, and dear reader, it is not good news for Willow.

I want you to know that I gave this an honest chance. I really did. I told myself, Winston, you are a dog of culture and patience, and you will not rush to judgment. But after everything I’ve witnessed, I can say with complete confidence that Willow is, without question, the most exhausting creature to ever set paw in this house, and I have had just about enough.

Let me walk you through the evidence, because I believe in due process, even when my verdict was already decided somewhere around day two.

First, there was the incident in the dining room. Willow pooped in the house. Now, I want to be clear that I do not actually have a problem with this on principle. Sometimes a dog has to make a statement, and I respect a bold move when I see one. No, the real crime came next, when she stepped directly into her own mess and then paraded it through every single room like she was unveiling a new art installation. My poor mother had to get down on her hands and knees and clean up the aftermath while Willow pranced around like she had just won an award. The nerve.

Then there is the matter of how she sleeps, which, frankly, keeps me up at night. She does not tuck her front paws out in front of her like a normal, respectable dog. She lies completely flat, paws tucked back, stretched out like a creature from another dimension. I have stared at her across the room more than once, wondering if she is even a dog at all, or if my family accidentally adopted something else entirely. I have questions. Nobody will answer them.

And then, dear reader, there is the matter of my furniture. My stairs. My couch. These are not communal property. These are Winston property, clearly marked by years of fur, drool, and the occasional dramatic flop. Yet Willow struts up my stairs and plops herself onto my couch as though she owns the place. I have given her several pointed looks about this. She has ignored every single one of them.

But none of that, not the mess, not the creepy flat-lying situation, not even the furniture takeover, compares to the real betrayal. My mother told me, and I quote, that Willow was supposed to be my father’s dog, and that I would still get all of my usual attention. I believed her. I am a trusting soul. But then I started noticing the phone coming out. The camera pointed in Willow’s direction. The little coos and the “oh, look at her” comments. I have watched my mother take more pictures of Willow in one afternoon than she took of me in an entire month, and I do not appreciate it one bit.

So here is my final verdict, delivered with the full weight of my authority as the original, rightful dog of this household. Willow’s behavior is intolerable, and I refuse to put up with it any longer. The mess, the creepy sleeping position, the furniture takeover, and the stolen camera time all add up to one conclusion: she has to go.

Now, I’ll be honest with you, dear reader. My original plan was far less ambitious. I just wanted to make everyone in this house pay for bringing Willow home. I would teach her to bark at strangers, convince her that shoes are delicious, and sneak her extra snacks when nobody was looking.

Well, guess what? She is still here, wagging her tail as if nothing happened. Plotting small acts of revenge is no longer enough. I need a plan to get rid of her for good. Fortunately, I am a dog of action.

Step One: Operation Cold Shoulder.

I will stop acknowledging Willow’s existence. She says hello; I look at the wall. She wags her tail; I sigh dramatically and leave the room. Sooner or later, she will get the message that she is not welcome here.

Step Two: Reclaim the Territory.

I will park myself on the couch and the stairs, and I will claim every sunny spot in the house. I will not budge. Let her try to find a place to sit. Spoiler alert: there isn’t one.

Step Three: Win Back the Camera.

Every time my mother lifts her phone toward Willow, I will leap into the frame with my best, most photogenic pose. Cute head tilts and soulful eyes, plus a dramatic yawn if the moment calls for it. My mother cannot resist me, and Willow will be left out of every shot.

Step Four: The Sad Face Campaign.

I will perfect the saddest, most wounded expression a French Bulldog has ever produced and aim it directly at my parents. I will sigh loudly, flop onto the floor, and refuse a treat for a full ten seconds. They will feel so guilty that they will have no choice but to send Willow packing.

Step Five: Wait for the Victory Parade.

Once Willow is gone, I will sprawl across the couch like the king I am and accept my well-deserved belly rubs.

Is this plan flawless? Yes. Will it work? Absolutely. Do I have a backup plan? Dear reader, I do not need one.

So there you have it: the battle has begun. For now, I will be sitting right here and waiting for Willow to make her next move. And Willow, if you’re reading this, know that I see you, I am watching, and this house is not big enough for two Frenchies.

Until next week, dear reader, you had better stay loyal to me. I know where you keep your snacks, and I have a very persuasive sad face.

Choose wisely.

Winston 🐾