English bulldogs are known to have mild temperaments and a very gentle demeanor. This fact has lead to often speculated questions as to what made Quasimodo the dog that we've come to know him as. I guess when you spend your formative years as the mascot for a junior high wrestling team, going by the name of Nelson, your environment is bound to take over your true nature completely. I often picture his baby puppy year, his clean pudgy fur being tossed about amongst mildewy rolled up mats, jock straps and used Gold's gym sweatshirts. He obviously would have been the center of attention - he has always absolutely dominated every room he's ever entered with his magnetism. I suspect these junior high aged boys of having gotten too carried away with their baby bulldog mascot. Even I have been accused of too ardently adoring this dog, and I have self-control. Where I come from, the local junior high wrestling team was a notorious bastion of homoerotic cruel depravity; I feel so bad when I think of Quasi being subject to, as a baby, the boundless perversions of those asics-wearing sweaty jerks, all hormones high voices and braces. I have always suspected those fuckers of animal cruelty - to this day Quasi flinches when you hold any sort of broom or stick in your hand. He even barks at the maglight (even as he fondly chases its beam around).
We adopted him when he was one and a half years old. He had been hastily put on sale by his previous owner - the wrestling coach - who had a problem with his "constant barking at night". Quasi had been relegated to only living in their garage and apparently the whole family was too allergic to him to play with him. That was their story, but I think what actually happened was that his puppy adoribility wore off and suddenly they had an angry, abused, frustrated, full-grown dog with a snappy jaw on their hands so naturally they ran screaming and unloaded him. And gave him to us.
When he first joined our home we set up the basement for him, thinking he'd enjoy it like a little dog bachelor pad, with its wet bar, fireplace, full bathroom, photographic wall coverings of tropical jungles and easy access to the garden. The only thing about the basement is that you can hear the footsteps and doors of every floor all over the house. He couldn't stand feeling left out and only lasted a few hours down there, none of us had the heart to ignore his urgent howling at the door.
He made short work of the antique couches and rare persian rugs that me dad tried in futility to protect, covering them in brindle colored fur. Overnight, the brass studded leather of the furniture took on a chewed and worn patina that made them look centuries old overnight as he made himself comfortable. We stared at him, thoroughly entertained, as he cagily explored the baroque nooks and crannies of the house. What didn't get destroyed in that house as the four of us grew up got slimed by his drool and covered with fur when he entered the picture. My dad's authoritarian boundaries were once more overwhelmed, to our amusement, this time by Quasimodo's cuteness.
His personality began to reveal itself slowly and his odd quirks and idiosyncracies that define him emerged as he got used to his surroundings. Most famously, he bit my brother on the lip when he was trying to remove a pen from his mouth. Out of nowhere. I skidded on a small puddle of blood one night one I walked through the front door, saw my brother reclining with gauze on his face and the dog sulkily peering out from under a couch, chewing on a pen. We had a problem on our hands.
Luckily for Quasi, his problematic personality, violent outbursts and tendency to snap meshed quite well in that house, which was full of strong-willed teenagers during that time. We looked at him in awe; we all had it in us to react impulsively, emotionally, totally irrationally and recklessly, some of us wrote the book on territorialism; but who'd be so bold as to just go and bite someone? And then just sit there coolly and casually?
Any other dog owner would have marched that Nelson straight to the nearest dog clinic and shook their heads in contemptuous judgement as the euthanasia needle plunged into his fur. But the bells of fortune rang harmoniously for Quasi during this time - a number of coincidences conspired to keep him alive. We chose to look the other way, and actually welcomed him into our family with six sets of open arms. First of all, my brother has sustained far worse physical traumas in his time than a dog bite, so luckily the next day it was all water under the bridge. He couldn't have found a better household to be a rowdy dog in. Secondly, his greatest survival skill is his charming personality. He is so cute that it is impossible for anyone to stay mad at him, much less plan and execute his demise. Or properly discipline him. Third, the chaotic nature of the household that he entered allowed this charming personality to not only blend in, but to perfectly compliment his surroundings. If we were the type of household that would go around euthanizing those of us who were prone to behaving badly, we'd all be dead.
A few people have rudely commented throughout the years, upon being growled at by him, that if he was their dog he'd have been put to sleep a long time ago. I am not sure why they would think I care when everyone is happy with the current arrangement. It is an interesting observation when I hear it though. He's got a more finely honed bullshit detector than anyone I know - people that aren't right with themselves are never right with my dog, and the slightest hint of phoniness sets him off. He's very gentle and meek with kind souls, although he may demand that they take him for a drive in their car by getting into the passenger seat and stubbornly refusing to get out. But thats a sign that he likes someone.
By the end of the first month he occupied the couches and under the tables of the first floor. He liked small nooks and crannies, and chose the best hide and seek hiding spots that we used as kids as his lookout points. After a month and a half, he had worked his way upstairs and slept on a velvet pillow in the middle of the bed in the master bedroom. After a few years and a few too many flatulent nights, he wound up getting sent back downstairs. But his message was clear: this is no basement dog. He decided early on in his life that he'd never tolerate being locked in a garage and treated like some junkyard dog. He has always been at the forefront of any action in the house, breaks his usual lazy routine when anything exciting goes down, sits upright in a chair at the dinner table when guests come over, leads the tours through the garden like a brindled fat rolling lion.
He grew into his name, skulking about the house like a nomadic spirit. When you pull into the driveway he perches stoically in the windowsill like a sentinel, with great dignity. He urinates on rare exotic trees and shits by a pond with weeping willows and reeds. He gets bathed in a sunny rock garden amongst irises and lilies and rustling imported bamboos. His greatest pleasure is an enigmatic blue ball that mysteriously appeared in the backyard one day, with which he passionately consorts with on the grass for hours. He takes his yearly vacation to Lincoln Park, where he explores the alleys and parks of the city and commands crowds of pedestrians and strangers, whose attention he benevolently tolerates. He's got the karma of a boddhisattva.
As touchy as he is about things like personal space and eye contact with strangers, he has no problem with being dressed up like a doll. My mother, sister and I share the clotheshorse gene and have not been able to resist outfitting him in the cutest dog clothes in his size. So its a good thing he's so photogenic and loves to model for the camera. He has a denim vest with a matching motorcycle cap that makes him look like the Village People's short bodyguard. He's got all kinds of versions of the classic bulldog studded collar. The best was when we found in an old pile of doll clothes a pair of white shorts that someone squeezed him into. I got him a taffeta Christmas collar with bells that has saved many tense and awkward Christmas reunions with the sheer comic relief of the sound of a jangly lumbering little reindeer dog. Mostly though he prefers a simple bandana around his neck, a look adopted from my older brother, who also likes to decorate the white fur of his head with every flavor of kool-aid.
He's kept up with his fighting skills throughout the years and its nice to know that he's not so spoiled that he's gotten soft. He used to love to chase cars and faced down every car that passed the driveway, until the day he got hit by a car. We all had to admit through our tears that he'd brought it upon himself and acknowleged truthfully that he had been asking for it, but he took the impact like a soldier. Actually, more like a tank. My older brother did not take it like a tank at all; he carried him in a panic to the local vet and demanded immediate medical attention. It was a state of emergency. He is quite a sturdy dog - upon examination, he was found to be a little bit bruised but not at all broken.
Now he just sticks to challenging geese, raccoons, deer and cats. He absolutely despises little kids, another effect of his early miserable life as Nelson. They always want to pet him and kiss him, but as they soon become terrified and start running, I couldn't honestly call it a fair fight. He loves other dogs, the only species that he instantly warms up to. Last winter he lost an altercation with a skunk under the car which left him traumatized. He ran berzerk around the house, rubbing himself against every surface of the interior before he could be doused with tomato juice. Sometimes at night he escapes the house for solitary adventures and comes home panting and covered with feathers. He also, very cutely, attempts to hide the bones that he gets under a pile of blankets on the couch, acting upon his primal instincts. As dogs go, he's a formidable wrestling partner. At 75 pounds he has a lot of weight to throw around. What he lacks in height though he makes up for by trying to use his teeth and bite, a dirty cheating technique that I used myself when I was a little kid. I don't mess with him anymore; I'm a lover not a fighter, and I definitely lack a boy dog aggressive mentality. I would rather lounge with him, brush his hair, scratch his neck and sing along to him as we listen to old school soul music and r+b, Quasimodo's favorite rhythms.
Quasi demands attention and affection more effectively than anyone I have ever loved. He just sits on my feet and whimpers until I hug him. Then he splays out contentedly like a frog at my side until its time to do something else. No emotional blackmail, no passive aggressive poutiness, no dramatic antics or weird mind games. That shit is for cat people. When he needs a hug or a kiss, he just tells me. I always take time to make him feel like the most charming cute dog that he is. I'd never hold it against him for being needy, he taught me that it is a natural animal thing to want attention and to be loved.
There's something comforting in knowing that a creature you love so much can fend for itself and not be vulnerably subjected to the whims of anything else. He's a survivor and a tenacious scrapper, definitely not easily defeated. Once he even bit a Burr Ridge cop and got away with it. He's carved out a space in this world, which I'm lucky includes me and my family, that he protects loyally like Cerberus.
