French bulldogs are basically kryptonite to me, and over the past year have actually caused my head to explode from cuteness aneurysms on several occasions. In a mad rush last summer to find an apartment - any apartment - we managed to find the one building in all of Philadelphia that doesn't allow dogs, and proceeded to sign a two-year lease with no intention of moving somewhere else for the third year. What were we thinking?
French bulldogs are crawling all over this city, like an adorable infestation, with their smooshed-in faces and little drumsticks that you want to pour barbeque sauce all over and take a big bite out of. Their owners, with a skillful ability to peripherally see my drooling advances from as far away as one city block, try to go on about their days cautiously, haunted by my crazed puppy-napping look. I can't say I blame them for scurrying away with their pups the same way one might remove a toddler from the path of an oncoming train. "One day!" I cackle hysterically, "one day, I'll have a French bulldog too!"
Until then, I'll be researching breeders, Google-imaging them, and otherwise trying not to think about the fact that in two years I will be paying more money for a puppy than what I sold my Thoroughbred mare for a few years ago.