Winston v. The Winter Coat

Oh, hello there, dear reader. Don’t look at me. I’m too ashamed. After all the time we’ve spent together, I never thought you’d see me like this, humbled, humiliated, and utterly betrayed. It’s me, Winston, your favorite French bulldog, though I hardly recognize myself anymore. Why’s that, you ask? Brace yourselves, because what I’m about to share is not for the faint of heart: My Mom bought me a winter coat.

Yes, you read that correctly. A winter coat. As if my perfectly curated, velvety coat wasn’t already the epitome of canine couture. This fashion crime unfolded earlier this week, and let me tell you, it was an offense so egregious that I am now considering taking legal action. Allow me to recount, moment by unpleasant moment, the travesty of it all.

It started innocently enough. Mom pulled out a big shopping bag, her face lit with an excitement that, at the time, I foolishly mistook for something positive, perhaps a bag of treats or, dare I dream, a meaty chew bone. But no. Out of the bag emerged a monstrosity so heinous, it deserves to be locked away in a vault and never spoken of again: a puffy coat. For me.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I tolerate the occasional sweater when the vibe is right. A cute hoodie for strolling into Starbucks events? Fine. A jaunty bandana on a special occasion? Adorable. But this? This was some polyester prison, complete with buttons, armholes, and the pungent aroma of injustice. I was horrified. As I sat there frozen with disbelief, Mom chirped, “Oh, Winston, look at this! It’s so windy and cold lately; you’ll love it!” Love it?! Has anyone ever “loved” being manhandled into a cotton straitjacket? I think not.

Naturally, I resisted. Like the noble spirit of resistance fighters before me, I twisted, flailed, and deployed every ounce of my considerable athleticism to escape. But Mom, with the determination of someone who once finished an entire 100-piece puzzle (crazy), was undeterred. Before I could bark “forfeit,” I found myself shoved into this monstrosity armhole by humiliating armhole. It was worse than I ever imagined. My range of motion? Compromised. My style? Ruined. My ego? Crushed. Humans, how would you like it if I wrapped you in bubble wrap before sending you to brunch? Exactly.

And then, as if my suffering wasn’t already at its peak, the unthinkable happened: Mom started laughing. Laughing. Enjoying my misery as she snapped photos and sent them to everyone she knew. I’ve never been so deeply wronged.

But I’m not one to take such indignities lying down (unless, of course, it’s naptime). No, dear reader, Mom awakened the beast, and I intend to seek retribution. Right after I shoved my way out of that horrific coat, I began drafting plans. Courtroom dramatics? Certainly within my skill set. A strongly worded petition against canine couture abuse? In progress. Imagine the headlines: “French Bulldog Seeks Damages for Puffy Coat Disgrace and Wins.”

To all my canine comrades reading this, heed my tale and prepare yourselves. If humans try to pull similar stunts on you, take action, or at the very least, master the fine art of side-eye. For the humans reading this, let me make this perfectly clear: Dogs already have coats. Nature gave us one. Anything beyond that is overkill (except bowties, obviously. Let’s not be ridiculous).

As for me, I’ll be spending the rest of the evening sprawled on the couch and chewing on a toy to release my pent-up frustration. In the meantime, please remember to do better, humans. Our dignity is at stake, or at least mine is.

Until next week, stay scandal-free, my friends,

Winston 🐾