Two weeks ago on September 25, we lost our beloved French bulldog, Milo, after a brief and sudden illness. He was the sweetest, most handsome, joyful, joyous, and silliest bundle of love you could ever hope to meet. Our home is colossally empty without him in it.
We adopted Milo in August 2004 from the wonderful folks at the
French Bulldog Rescue Network (FBRN). His foster mom, Kate, had done a fabulous job of readying the handsome lug for adoption. I don’t know precisely what that entails, but I do know that Kate diligently brought his health and dental care up to date and probably spent a goodly amount of time and energy socializing this poor boy who had spent the first eight years of his life neglected in a backyard kennel. And after she had poured so much love and care into Milo, she selflessly and happily allowed him to join our family.
When we went to pick up Milo from Kate’s, he was so happy to meet us that it seemed like fate that we were chosen—we would quickly learn that Milo was always happy to meet new people and we weren’t, in fact, all that special. Nonetheless, he was right there in the thick of things as we filled out all the necessary paperwork and Kate filled us in on the few remaining details that we hadn’t heard about Mr. Squishy, as she called him. We took a few pics with his handsome hunkiness and then loaded up the car for the drive back to our place. He hopped right into the car with hardly a backward glance and headed out on the road to his new home. I think the fact that he watched us put his food in the car helped allay any nervous feelings he might have been having. He spent the entire two-hour drive standing with his front legs on the console between Jason and me and his back legs in the back seat, which quickly became his customary riding position. And he spritzed Frenchie mist on us the whole way home—my right arm was positively crusty by the time we arrived.
As soon as we pulled in the driveway and let him out of the car thinking he’d need to go potty, he zoomed straight up to the front door and looked back at us as if to say, “What’re you waiting on?” So, we let him in and he burst right through the door, scattered the cats while barely noticing them, and checked out his new digs. He made himself at home immediately, in our house and in our hearts.
Unfortunately, within a month, it was discovered that Milo had a mast cell tumor and he had three surgeries in the space of one year to have various tumors removed. However, with the fantastic care he received at Hollywood Pet Hospital in Portland, and in particular from Dr. Martin, he came through those surgeries with flying colors and never looked back. It was also during this time that the doctors and staff at the vet’s office gave him the sassy moniker Big M.
A little over a year after he joined our household, we moved to the coast and oh, how he loved to rip and romp on the beach, claiming each clump of seaweed, piece of driftwood, pile of rocks, and, on at least one occasion, some poor child’s sandcastle as his very own. Even if the well had run dry, he would strain and strain until he could manage to squeeze out a single solitary drip with which to lay his claim. More than once, he just marched right into a tide pool and when the water reached his chest, we could almost see the light bulb come on, “Oh, so that’s why my people keep calling me. I was wondering.” And when he got tired, that was it, he just flopped wherever he was standing and you’d best be prepared to give him some recovery time or carry a wet, muddy dog back to the car.
He absolutely loved people and the beach was one of his favorite spots to make new acquaintances. Other dogs, eh—but their people! Now that was some exciting stuff. Some of his favorite times were when we had company. Of course, he had a little incontinence problem, and he’d sometimes greet guests by piddling just a tiny bit on their toes, but what’s a little piddle among friends? And he was normally the most placid, laidback dog I’d ever seen, but let someone ring the doorbell and he’d morph instantly into a crazed junkyard dog. Now if we were on the deck when the visitor arrived and told them to come on in, then no reaction, he’d just trot up to meet the newcomer; but the doorbell always unleashed his inner hellhound. His love for people and his love of car rides also led to several attempts to become a delivery dog. Many’s the time we had to coax him away from the FedEx truck. Combine his laidback personality and his love of people and attention, add his sweet nature, and you get Milo letting me dress him up as Arf Vader and Santa’s Little Helper. He ran all over town many times in his cute little antlers with the jingle bell. He’d wear anything so long as it got him a little more attention than usual.
He was a trusting feller, too. He’d climb up on the couch to snuggle with one of us and then hang precariously off the edge with half of his legs dangling as if he knew we’d never let him fall. Of course, we’d get nervous and move him to a more secure position, but he never dreamed that we’d let gravity run its course.
The thing Milo loved most of all, aside from food, was belly rubs. Rub his belly and you’d made a lifelong friend. Now, that’s the stuff, right there. He also enjoyed a good wallerin’ (that’s wallowing for those of you who are colloquially challenged) session on any sort of textured surface—carpets, driveways, decks—and the sun-warmed ones were always the best.
We took him camping a couple of times and we could never decide if he was the best or the worst camping dog ever. He made nary a peep when the raccoons ransacked us, but nor did he have a barking frenzy or even make any noise at all when the two ginormous bison ambled through our campsite, although he eyed them askance and seemed to be thinking, “Man, those are some BIG dogs.”
He was never very vocal, though. He communicated mostly through snorfles (that’s a combination snuffle and snort) and with expectant or inquisitive looks—with the notable exception of the stealth bark. Occasionally when he needed to go out, and for reasons completely unknown to us, he would sneak up silently behind his chosen victim and then suddenly bark so sharp and so loud that we would inevitably leap six inches out of our chairs and bellow an expletive. To which he would respond with his patented quizzical look.
Milo’s best and first love was food, glorious food. He developed this funny way of “sneaking up” on his food. He would approach his dish from the side, never really looking at it, drop his head down beside the bowl, and then kind of slide his head in a dipping motion over the food. We never really figured that one out. His favorite treats were the Simplylivin’ organic dog cookies, made here locally. I stopped giving them to him in the car because he would eat them so enthusiastically that he’d fling little slobbery bits of dog cookie all over the car interior. Once, a long string of cookie-encrusted drool was actually hanging down from the ceiling of the car. He never quite got the hang of synthetic toys, but he loved rawhide chews and his
Antlerz. If he was chewing on a toy upstairs while you were downstairs, he made such a racket that you could be forgiven for thinking a major construction project had started without your knowledge.
One of his other favorite treats was what is euphemistically known as
kitty roca. In order to dissuade him from indulging, we put the litter boxes in the bathrooms and placed tension rods in the doorways about eight inches from the ground. He could easily have knocked these out or climbed over them, but he never did. We sometimes forgot to warn guests about the Milo-proofing, though, and we always knew from the clattering of the rods hitting the ground when they got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Milo’s relationship with the cats away from the litter boxes was mostly one of oblivion. Stanley was in a constant battle to gain dominance over Milo and Milo usually just stared at Stanley whenever the hissing and histrionics started; and he just barreled through poor Jasper as if he weren’t there. The only time Milo ever showed any aggression toward the cats was if one of them vaguely leaned in the direction of his food bowl. Then it was on. He’d use those wide shoulders and that thick chest and redirect their trajectories to a safer path.
He really was a wonderful companion and a joy to be around. There wasn’t a day that went by in the last four years that he didn’t make us smile or laugh. We are so thankful to FBRN for choosing us as his family and for the support during the mast cell tumor surgeries; to Hollywood Pet Hospital for the wonderful care and love that Milo received there; and to Tillamook Veterinary Hospital for all that they did for him and for us.
Milo, you really were the best and sweetest boy ever and we are so grateful that we got to spend the last four years with you in our lives. We will miss your sweet face and your snuggles, snorfles, snorting, and snoring and we will love you always.
