05/09/2026
IYKYK
I want to start by saying I am a 34-year-old man who has never owned so much as a goldfish.
My ex left. My apartment went silent in a way that felt heavier every night. My therapist suggested I get “something living” to take care of.
I assumed she meant a houseplant.
Instead, a coworker sent me a rescue post: two 10-week-old French bulldog puppies—a fawn brother named Finn and a pied sister named Penny—needed an emergency foster because the shelter was overcrowded.
“Just two weeks,” she told me. “You literally just have to keep them alive.”
That sounded manageable.
I picked them up thinking: I’ll put them in the bathroom, feed them twice a day, and absolutely under no circumstances will I get attached.
Day one: Finn climbed out of the bathroom, waddled into the living room, and fell asleep directly on my chest like he’d already signed the lease.
Day three: I woke up with both of them snoring on top of me like two warm little weighted blankets.
Day five: I bought them a $70 orthopedic dog bed.
They completely ignored it.
Apparently the preferred sleeping arrangement is my rib cage.
Here’s the thing nobody warned me about French bulldog puppies—they are ridiculously affectionate.
Like… aggressively affectionate.
If I stop petting them for more than three seconds, a tiny smushed face immediately wedges under my hand like, “Excuse me, sir. The pets have stopped.”
Penny has started bringing me “gifts.” Socks. The TV remote. Once my wallet.
She dropped it at my feet like she’d just hunted it in the wild.
Then the rescue coordinator called at the two-week mark.
“Great news,” she said. “We found an adopter for one of the puppies.”
Just one.
I looked down at the two little French bulldogs asleep on my chest—Finn using Penny as a pillow.
And something in my chest just… shifted.
“No,” I said.
A pause.
“No… to the adoption?”
“They’re not getting separated,” I said. “I’ll take them both.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.
“Sir… you told us you’ve never owned a dog before.”
I looked around my apartment.
There were chew toys everywhere. Paw prints on my couch. And two tiny Frenchie puppies breathing softly while they slept on top of me like I was their favorite place in the world.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I guess I do now.”
My therapist asked how the “houseplant” was going.
So I sent her a picture of two sleepy French bulldog puppies passed out on my chest.
She replied with three words.
“That’s not a plant.”
No.
It’s better.
Foster Fail Anniversary: 4 months.
And they still refuse to sleep anywhere except directly on top of me.