I don’t hide my love of bulldogs. I gush, dote, kowtow, and cater to the charismatic clowns and heart melters wherever and whenever they cross my path (or back in for a butt rub, as the case may be). In my house that can be minute-to-minute. My mother shared that I was drawn to this lovable breed at an early age. As a toddler, I was infatuated with “Sister” the bulldog next door. Apparently her substantial mass, reluctance to move, and good nature made for the perfect combo of playmate and jungle gym.
Decades later, I still hold the bulldog in high esteem, just shy of calling the breed a deity. I’ve owned four, wait, make that four bulldogs have owned me: Maggie, Boz, Gracie and Buddy. More accurately, I rescued them and they rescued me. I have served at their pleasure and had my buttons pushed to accommodate most if not all of their whims, grunts, whines and standoffs.
If pets are any indication, it’s probably a good thing that I never had children; they would have ridden roughshod over me. “Dad, can we have cake for breakfast? Pretty please.” little Harper implored. “Well, I guess so; there are eggs and milk in it.”
While Boz and Gracie have graced the pages of this blog, Buddy is the new kid on the block and it’s time you got to know him. And what better way to do that then with photos of the top dog “in action” at Tall Clover Farm.
So long from Buddy and Tom, and here’s to good friends, whether two-legged or four-legged, feathered or furred.