It all started with a text from my fiancé. Just a few harmless photos of adult long-haired Frenchies. “Look how cute they are,” he said. Famous last words. Because now, we have Moose — a four-month-old French bulldog with Disney-prince eyes, a body like a loaf of bread, and the digestive system of a frat boy on Taco Tuesday.
Parasite Palace
Moose’s first trip to the vet revealed that our sweet little nugget wasn’t just a puppy — he was also an all-inclusive resort for parasites. Worms, protozoa, probably some microscopic freeloaders the vet didn’t even bother naming. He was basically a carnival of intestinal horrors, and we were the unlucky hosts.
So now, Moose gets medicated like an old Victorian child with “delicate lungs.” Twice a day I’m coaxing him to take his pills while whispering, “Please, just poop something that doesn’t make me Google at 2 a.m.” I knew puppies were work, but I didn’t realize it was mostly lab work.
Potty Training Olympics
Potty training Moose has been less “training” and more “interpretive art project.” Some days he pees outside like a champ, and we throw a parade in his honor. Other days he looks me dead in the eye and pees inside, like he’s conducting a social experiment on the limits of my sanity.
We’ve celebrated every successful outdoor bathroom trip like it’s the Super Bowl. I’m genuinely considering commissioning a trophy that says “Best Pee.” Meanwhile, my search history now includes: “can Frenchies wear diapers” and “how much bleach is too much bleach?”
Frenchie vs. Frenchie vs. Cat
Our adult Frenchie has accepted Moose’s presence with all the enthusiasm of a tired mom at Target tolerating her toddler’s sixth tantrum in the cereal aisle. They coexist, mostly. Occasionally there’s a bark-off over who gets the best spot on the couch, but otherwise, détente has been achieved. There have even been a few play sessions – the outlook is good for a friendship in the future.
The cat, however, has declared psychological warfare. He stalks Moose, ambushes him from behind furniture, and gives him that slow, withering blink that says: “You are beneath me.” Moose, being the golden retriever trapped in a Frenchie body that he is, just wants to be besties. The dynamic is basically: Cat = Regina George, Moose = Cady Heron, Adult Frenchie = the teacher just trying to keep the peace.
Conclusion: The Snuggle Cult
But here’s the thing: Moose snuggles. And not in a normal, casual way. He snuggles like it’s his full-time job with benefits. He tucks himself against me, makes little puppy snores, and suddenly I forget about the worms, the pee, the cat-driven bullying. He’s a tiny, warm, farting antidepressant.
Do I love him? Absolutely. Would I go through all this again? Probably. But only because Stockholm Syndrome is real, and my captor is a 12-pound loaf with bat ears.
Frequently Wrong, Rarely in Doubt 
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