They always say that a dog resembles their owner. In my family’s case, that means that our dogs are totally fucking insane.
There was the albino boxer with epilepsy, and another boxer who had no control over her bladder. There was the bulldog who was allergic to grass. Incidentally, he also liked to eat other people’s cats. There were the dogs who ran away, and the dogs who ate hair, and the dogs who were so hyper that if they sat still, their bodies shook uncontrollably.
Our dogs, if they are male, are always named after famous Irish boxers (Dempsey, McGee). And if they’re female, they’re named Molly or Nell. Neither a Molly nor Nell has ever lasted more than a week in my family before they’re returned to the breeder, usually because of some debilitating inherited disease.
That is, besides the Nell who currently resides in a gigantic crate in the front hallway of our house. She is an English Mastiff. She has a snaggle tooth. She’s afraid of everything, but mostly people, dogs, inanimate objects, ghosts, the world, food, water and if they approach her too fast, basically any member of my family.