Article on Commitment to Puppies
At Aunt Bea’s French Bulldogs, there is a commitment to the puppies
and to the dogs that are part of our home pack.
The commitment is that Aunt Bea’s French Bulldogs agrees implicitly to
receive any dog back that has been breed by our home pack for the duration of
the life of the puppy for ANY reason.
It is the hope of Aunt Bea’s French Bulldogs that our rigorous
screening process places the right puppy in the right home and that the new
family makes a lifetime commitment to the puppy and ultimately the adult dog.
Life changes and there are times that circumstances are such that even
the most committed dog owner must make hard choices.
At Aunt Bea’s French Bulldogs we never want to see any puppy bred by us
end up in a situation that is not optimal for the health and well being of the
dog.
Aunt Bea’s French Bulldogs is committed to its offspring.
Carol Sciannameo the owner of Aunt Bea’s French is also a teacher of
Criminal Justice at the College level and in teaching one of her students gave
her the following story. The story
was not signed, and the author is unknown to Danielle Seese who is a student and
who gave Carol Sciannameo the story. Carol
Sciannameo has adapted the story to fit French Bulldogs.
Carol did not write the story and in sharing it on this website, is not
taking credit for the writing of the story:
When
I was a French bulldog puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you
laugh. You called me your child, and
despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I
became your best friend.
Whenever
I was “bad,” you would shake your finger at me and ask, “How could you?”
Then you would relent, and roll me over for a belly rub.
My
housebreaking took a little longer than expected because you were terribly busy
but we worked on it together. I
remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences
and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect.
We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice
cream (I only got the cone because you said, “ice cream is bad for dogs.”)
I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of
the day.
Gradually,
you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching
for a human mate. I waited for you
patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided
you about bad decisions and romped with glee at your homecomings and when you
fell in love. Your love is not a dog
person, still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and
obeyed her. I was happy because you
were happy.
Then
the human babies came along and I shared your excitement.
I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and wanted to
mother them too. Only you worried
that I might hurt them, and I spend most of my time banished to another room, or
to a dog crate. I wanted to love
them, but I became a “prisoner of love.”
As
the babies began to grow, I became their friend.
They clung to my fur, and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked
fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose.
I loved everything about them and their touch, and it replaced your touch
which was now so infrequent. I would
have defended them with my life if need be.
I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret
dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway.
There
had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a
photo of me, your first French bulldog from your wallet and told stories about
me. These past few years, you just
answered “yes” and changed the subject.
I had gone from being “your dog” to “just a dog,” and you
resented every expenditure on my behalf.
Now
you have a career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving
to an apartment that does not allow dogs. You’ve
made the right decision for “your” family but there was a time when I was
your family. I was excited about the
car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter.
It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear and hopelessness.
You
filled out the paperwork and said, “I know you will find a good home for my
French bulldog.” They shrugged and
gave you a pained look. They
understand the realities facing a middle-aged French bulldog, even one with
papers and great pedigree.
You
had to pry your son’s fingers loose from my collar as he screamed, “no,
please don’t let them take my dog” and I worried for him.
I worried about the lessons you were teaching him about friendship,
loyalty, love, responsibility, commitment and respect for all life.
You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely
refused to take my collar and leash with you.
You had a deadline to meet, and now, I have one too.
After
you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move
months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home or to return me to
the breeder. They shook their
heads and asked, “How could you?”
They
are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow.
They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago.
At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it
was you, hoping you had changed your mind, this was all a bad dream or that
someone who cared would take me and save my life.
When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking of happy puppies,
I retreated to a far corner and waited.
I
heard the footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day. I padded alongside
her in the aisle to a separate room, a blissfully quiet room.
She
placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry.
My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also
a sense of relief. The prisoner of
love had run out of days and as it is my nature and the nature of most French
bulldogs, I was more concerned about her.
The
burden which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I
knew your every mood. She gently
placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek.
I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many, many
years ago. She expertly slid the
hypodermic needle into my vein. As I
felt the sting, the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily,
looked into her kind eyes and murmured, “How could you?”
Perhaps
because she understood my French bulldog speak, she said “I’m so sorry.”
She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went
to a better place, where I wouldn’t be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have
to fend for myself, a place of love and light, over the rainbow bridge, so very
different from this earthly place. And
with my last bit of energy, I tried to let her know with a movement of my stump
tail, “How could you?” This was
not directed at her, it was you, my beloved master I was thinking of.
I will think of you and wait for you forever, ever faithful, waiting to
be the first one to greet you and comfort you when you cross over the bridge
yourself.
If you are considering a dog, take this to heart, and be ready to make a
lifelong commitment. If your
circumstances change and you cannot keep your commitment, Aunt Bea’s French
bulldogs will not judge you, we will take back the adult dog into the arms and
hands that first held the small French bulldog as it was born and who weighed it
each day, nurtured it along with its mamma dog, and was sure to see that when it
went off, it was ready and willing to live a long and happy life.
If you are an individual who cannot purchase a purebred French bulldog
puppy, there are rescue organizations for this breed as well as almost every
other breed. There are local
shelters with mixed breeds, some of which may be in the same circumstance as the
dog in this story.
Aunt Bea’s French Bulldogs supports no kill shelters and for routine
examinations and vaccinations uses the Pet Pal Spay and Neuter clinic located in