The Ten-Minute Tragedy of a One-Year-Old Bulldog

Life has a way of giving and taking.

Take a recent Saturday morning, for instance. Panzer, my son’s one-year-old bulldog, was as happy as a dog could possibly be. While the rest of the house was still sound asleep, he got to spend some quality time with his second favorite person in the entire world: my wife.

They cuddled together on the couch in the quiet morning light. For a solid hour, my wife rubbed behind his ears, scratched the exact right spots, and administered high-grade belly rubs. Panzer, tongue wagging, was in complete, unadulterated heaven.

And then my wife dared to get up from the couch.

In a matter of seconds, Panzer was violently evicted from Paradise and cast down into the dark depths of despair. It was like he was flung out of Heaven, straight into Dante’s Inferno, surrounded by lost souls and existential doom. My wife hadn’t left the house; she had simply gone to take a shower. She’d be back in ten minutes. But to a bulldog who operates on instinct and emotion, ten minutes out of eyesight is a lifetime.

Here is how that “lifetime” usually unfolds in Panzer’s mind:

—Minutes 1–2: Denial. Panzer stares at the steps leading to our second floor, completely frozen, convinced that if he holds his gaze long enough, my wife will magically show back up.

—Minutes 3–5: Heavy Sighing. Next comes the grief phase. Panzer lies down with a dramatic, full-body deflating sound—a mix of a snort and a deep huff—resting that heavy, wrinkled chin directly on the floor or a shoe.

—Minutes 6–8: The Melodrama. Oh, the drama. Life is so hard. Panzer begins to question everything. Is this the end? Will it be a slow death?

—Minutes 9–10: The Phoenix Rises. A footstep echoes in the hallway. His ears perk up, tail stub wiggles uncontrollably, and the full-body, snorting, butt-wiggling welcome party launches into high gear as if she’s returned from a decade at sea.

It was simple. Panzer wanted my son. If he couldn’t have my son, he wanted my wife. Instead, he was left with, voilà, me.

His face cast a pained expression, like he’d been shot in a bad B-movie. His jowls drooped down low on his face and he looked like he had tears pooling on the floor. Oh, the sheer tragedy.

Nothing I was doing was cheering him up. Now, I consider myself a decent guy. I help old ladies cross the street. I remember birthdays and anniversaries. I wave to other drivers in the neighborhood. I’m kind to animals, and I buy Girl Scout cookies when the local troop sells them outside the grocery store. But none of my credentials mattered to Panzer. In his world, I was second fiddle. I was a poor example of a consolation prize. I was Option B.

I watched the transformation in real time: boundless joy instantly evaporated into disgust. He looked at me as if I personally had arranged for his favorite human to vanish into thin air. He looked at me like I was a piece of dirt, something to be pawed at and stepped over. He wanted to know: “What had I done with her?”

I briefly considered asking him who died, but I knew better. I’ve seen that look before. It’s best to keep quiet, maintain a safe distance, and accept my status as the filler human.

Of course, the second the shower water turned off, Panzer jumped off the couch, shook his heavy jowls, trotted to the stairs, and squeezed past our gate without so much as a backward glance. I wasn’t even worth a proper goodbye. Just like that, he found a better solution.

Looking For Some Help

To all my fellow Option B’s out there: how do you cope with being the filler human? I’m dying here, I need all the help I can get—please share your best tips (or bribe strategies).