I know it’s not customary for a lady of a certain age to discuss her certain age, but next week I will be turning…ahem…eight, and it’s making me feel rather – how shall I put it – uncertain. Given the average age for a French Bulldog is nine, I think you can understand my concern.
In my current state of health and fitness, it doesn’t seem possible that I’m teetering on the cusp of my twilight year. Humans tell me on a regular basis that I don’t look my age – only last week a man in the park mistook me for a puppy. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to play with his dog, a serious-looking Golden Labrador who was apparently working at the time. Apart from a slight whitening around the muzzle, nature has been kind to me. Unlike the majority of Frenchies I see waddling about town like they’ve just escaped from Gremlin Fat Camp, I’ve managed to keep my figure and good looks. I have a chest to waist ratio that would've made Marilyn Monroe jealous and all my wrinkles are deliberately inbred.
It therefore seems incredible that in a year from now my Humum could be facing the heart-wrenching decision of whether or not to ‘do the right thing’ and put me and my old crumbling dog bones out of our misery.
I must keep reminding myself that nine is the average life-expectancy for a French Bulldog, and let’s face it I’m no average French Bulldog. In fact I'm no average dog. I should feel heartened by the likes of Pusuke, the Shiba mix, who died in Japan last year aged 26, after suddenly falling ill and refusing to eat. Or Bluey, the Australian cattle dog who died in 1939, setting the Guinness record for canine longevity at 29 years.
Right, catch you later - I’m off to eat sushi and chase some cows.
