ROLLIE’S WORLD

Kathy Salzberg
The Village Groomer
2245 Providence Hwy.
Walpole, MA 02081
May 3, 1998

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My name is Roland, also known as Rollie to friends and fans. I’m a French bulldog and I work at The Village Groomer. Kathy Salzberg, my owner, also refers to me as Cutie Patootie, Stud Muffin and Devil Boy. Right now, I don’t particularly share her joie de vivre. Take a good look at my picture and you’ll know why. I’m fed up with being the class clown around here.

You’re probably thinking I’m spoiled rotten and I should get a real problem. You probably get appeals from humane organizations every day asking for money, pictures of pathetic pooches with hangdog faces, bald patches and bony butts. Admit it: you’re a sucker for those sad sacks. You probably need to dab your eyes with your grooming apron while you drop everything to whip out your checkbook That’s just dandy but in my opinion, charity begins at home.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not belittling their plight. I feel for those poor flea-bitten urchins who only know how to beg and breed. But think for a moment of my situation. I get less respect than Paula Jones. See this silly hat? My owner puts it on me every summer and parades me around the shop to celebrate the Fourth of July. Customers guffaw as they gawk at me. Little kids point at me and scream with delight. I feel like the main attraction in a freak show.
At Christmas, my owner makes me wear those stupid antlers on my head. At Easter, it’s bunny ears. On Customer Appreciation Day, it was that beanie with the propeller on top. And she wonders why I’m moody.

After six years in this job, you’d think I would have developed a thicker skin towards the insults I’m subjected to. “He’s so ugly he’s cute!” “Look at those ears! He looks like he’s about to take off!” “Is he a dog or a pot-bellied pig?”

Actually, I’m rather rare. Frenchies only ranked eighty-first in popularity the last time the AKC took a survey so I’m far less common than a Poodle, Golden Retriever or a Lab, but to my mind, such ignorance on the part of the public is inexcusable. No, I’m not a Boston terrier on steroids or a Pug who was born with funny ears. I’m not part dog and part frog and I’m not a Boxer whose legs were cut off. If you take the time to study the French bulldog standard, you’ll see that I am an extremely handsome example of my breed, fawn with a black mask, and built like a brick - well, you know.

My owner bought me because she heard Frenchies were so lovable and docile. That one still tickles my funnybone! In reality, there are some things which tick me off. I’ll list them for you to broaden your knowledge:

• Big dogs who are handsome. They think they own the world and I love to get in their faces. I hate it when they call me “Shorty.” Poodles. I can’t help it. I love to rip their bows off.
• The vacuum cleaner. I view it as my mortal enemy. For years, I’ve been trying to kill that sucker. Ditto for the force dryer and the garden hose
• Waiting to go out. If I’ve given my owner the anxious stare, circled a few times and I’m still being ignored, I figure she’s been warned and let the chips - or drips - fall where they may. I’m not a total boor, however. I only lift my leg when no one is looking.
• Getting my nails cut. I can work my way out of any muzzle but that stupid Elizabethan collar just makes me lose it. But I love it when customers demand to know, “What are you doing to that poor little dog?”
• Anal glands. Let’s not even go there. Trust me - it would be safer to stick your hand in a tank full of piranhas who skipped lunch. Being ignored. My owner tends to do several things at once, running off at the mouth all the while. Sometimes I have to resort to my primal scream method of communication to get her attention.
• Time-outs. I spend more time in the penalty box than the Boston Bruins. My housemate, a goody-two-shoes Golden Retriever named Peaches, never gets banished to her crate - for her it’s just one cookie after another. But she has her good points. She makes one heck of a pillow.
• Being called “Kitty.” My owner’s daughter thinks this one is a real laugh riot. She also owns poodles.

Here are some things which make my Frenchie heart beat faster:

• Shoelaces. I can untie a double knot in under a minute - can you? I love to make the groomers limp around the shop while I’m hanging off their shoes.
• Little kids and senior citizens. It scares the bejeepers out of them when I snort and sniff them. When they back away, asking, “Does he bite?”, I always smile and show them all my teeth.
• Socks. I love to help Kathy do laundry. I’m fast as lightning when it comes to sock-snatching. My teeth lock just like a pit bull’s so trying to pull them out of my mouth is a waste of time. Lucky for her, I have a short attention span and can be distracted by freeze-dried liver.
• Doing the “butt dance.” I can spin on my tail with all four feet in the air. I like to do this while my owner is drinking coffee so I can watch it come out of her nose.
• Sunbathing. I’m like a turtle. My favorite spot is the middle of the picnic table. The only drawback is when that nosy neighbor pipes up with, “Why don’t you put an apple in his mouth?” Please. The guy thinks he’s another Henny Youngman. I can’t wait to dig up his daffodils.
• Couch time. I love to snuggle up with my owner and watch movies. My favorites lately have been “Air Bud” and “The Truth About Cats and Dogs.” I wasn’t too crazy about “101 Dalmatians.” To tell the truth, I was rooting for Cruella DeVille.

That’s it for now. I gotta run. It seems my owner never learns. Always the optimist, she went and bought another dog training book so while she’s out of the room, I’ve got to go chew it up.