Puppy Poem: French Bulldog

This is a series of posts in which I write a poem dedicated to a dog breed because I love dogs and I need more ways to express my love for these animals. This go around, the poem is about French Bulldogs.

You are a potato, dog.
You say you are a dog—
but you are a potato.
You are cuddly and soft
yet brittle with two slanting
winky eyes. Are you not

You wheeze.
Your little nose,
pushed in, plugged up,
is not a very effective breather.
Sometimes you breath through your mouth.
That’s okay!
You are not a good breather.
You cannot do long plays.
You should evolve.

You cannot sex.
You cannot mount.
You cannot find a way
to plug yourself into another.
Yes, you find your way to me,
in photos and videos and cute online ways—
but you cannot sex.
You are a science dog.

But are you ever a saved dog?
Like, for example, something to think about:
Can you ever be a rescued dog?
Who would want to give you away?
If you cannot be sexed,
doesn’t that mean your are only born
by our demands?
That sounds stressful,
Wheezing Science Potato.
Do you think about this?
Do you have social class anxiety?
Do you volunteer to help less fortunate dogs?
Do you consider yourself an outsider?
Do you think this is why you are plagued with so many

But your eyes,
those almonds,
they are cute.
Those jowls,
them flop over teeth hiders,
they are cute.
That little butt,
that widdle waddle,
it is cute.
Your short,
it is cute.
You, little dog,
Wheezing Science Potato,
you are cute.
You are a dog catastrophe,
an experiment that will go wrong,
but you are cute.

I would own you,
Wheezing Science Potato—
you just have a lot of problems.

Photo via.

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