Every now and then we puppy-sit this English bulldog. She's less than a year old, but already she is almost 40 pounds of wrinkles, snorts, and flatulence. I love her.
Now, there's nothing terribly aesthetically pleasing about a bulldog. That stout body, loose skin, bulbous eyes, droopy jowels and the fearsome underbite. There is no dog in all of God's creation that was meant to look like that. They were fashioned entirely by humans and bred to be fighters, especially for the sport of bull baiting. It's quite tragic that this results in quite a lot of health problems and a relatively short lifespan overall.
But a lot of people find bulldogs' unique appearance enormously endearing. I'm one of them. And that's before I even realized what sweet personalities they have. This little girl who comes to hang out with me is indiscriminately friendly to a fault. It's a wonderful thing to have the companionship of a living, breathing thing that does not, and cannot, judge you for how you look.
My favorite thing about her is that she'll come up to me, snuffling and with her bottom teeth poking out, to nuzzle my face. And she's got the most prickly whiskers, giving the scratchiest kisses. But that's okay, 'cause there are days when I'm just as scratchy. We're weird together.