For all those Bulldog Addicts, here are some very cool Bulldog related gift ideas. Make your own Bulldog Origami figure or book marker.
Did you know that Origami (折り紙) means: ori is “folding”, and kami meaning “paper”. Here are some creative Bulldog Origami tutorials ranging from beginner to pro.
Did this blog inspire you to start folding your own Bulldog? Share your art work in the comments.
I am your dog, and I have a little something I’d like to whisper in your ear.
I know that you humans lead busy lives. Some have to work, some have children to raise.
It always seems like you are running here and there, often much too fast, often never noticing the truly grand things in life.
Look down at me now, while you sit there at your computer. See the way my dark brown eyes look at yours?
They are slightly cloudy now. That comes with age. The gray hairs are beginning to ring my soft muzzle.
You smile at me; I see love in your eyes. What do you see in mine? Do you see a spirit?
A soul inside, who loves you as no other could in the world?
A spirit that would forgive all trespasses of prior wrong doing for just a simple moment of your time?
That is all I ask. To slow down, if even for a few minutes to be with me.
So many times you have been saddened by the words you read on that screen, of another of my kind, passing.
Sometimes we die young and oh so quickly, sometimes so suddenly it wrenches your heart out of your throat.
Sometimes, we age so slowly before your eyes that you may not even seem to know until the very end,
when we look at you with grizzled muzzles and cataract clouded eyes.
Still the love is always there, even when we must take that long sleep, to run free in a distant land.
I may not be here tomorrow; I may not be here next week.
Someday you will shed the water from your eyes that humans have when deep grief fills their souls
and you will be angry at yourself that you did not have just “One more day” with me.
Because I love you so, your sorrow touches my spirit and grieves me. We have NOW, together.
So come, sit down here next to me on the floor, and look deep into my eyes. What do you see?
If you look hard and deep enough we will talk, you and I, heart to heart.
Come to me not as “alpha” or as “trainer” or even “Mom or Dad,” come to me as a living soul and stroke my fur and let us look deep into one another’s eyes, and talk.
I may tell you something about the fun of chasing a tennis ball, or I may tell you something profound about myself or even life in general.
You decided to have me in your life because you wanted a soul to share such things with. Someone very different from you, and here I am.
I am a dog, but I am alive. I feel emotion, I feel physical senses, and I can revel in the differences of our spirits and souls.
I do not think of you as a “Dog on two feet” — I know what you are. You are human, in all your quirkiness, and I love you still.
Now, come sit with me, on the floor. Enter my world, and let time slow down if only for 15 minutes.
Look deep into my eyes, and whisper to my ears.
Speak with your heart, with your joy and I will know your true self.
We may not have tomorrow, and life is oh so very short.
English poet JC Squire John Collings Squire much loved World War One Poem “To a Bulldog” . The Poem was first published in 1917 and dedicated to his friend killed in the great war Captain William Hammond Smith (52nd Bde, Master of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge and Annie Smith, He was educated at Faith’s School, Blundell’s School and Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge where he gained a BA in Classics. He later studied at the Royal Academy and the Slade School of Art. He was KIA 12th April, 1917).
Sir John Collings Squire (2 April 1884 — 20 December 1958) was a British poet, writer, historian, and influential literary editor of the post-World War I period. JC Squire was born in Plymouth, England on April 2 1882 and died in Rushlake Green in Sussex, England on Dec. 20 1958. He was a leading poet of the Georgian school, a journalist, playwright, and an influential critic and editor. He was educated at Blundell’s School and then at Cambridge University (St. John’s College). He was appointed literary editor of the New Statesman in 1913, and acting editor in 1917.
To A Bulldog..
We shan’t see Willy any more, Mamie,
He won’t be coming any more:
He came back once and again and again,
But he won’t get leave any more.
We looked from the window and there was his cab,
And we ran downstairs like a streak,
And he said, ‘Hullo, you bad dog,’ and you crouched to the floor,
Paralysed to hear him speak.
And then let fly at his face and his chest
Till I had to hold you down,
While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat,
And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne.
We went upstairs to the studio,
The three of us, just as of old,
And you lay down and I sat and talked to him
As round the room he strolled.
Here in the room where, years ago
Before the old life stopped,
He worked all day with his slippers and his pipe,
He would pick up the threads he’d dropped,
Fondling all the drawings he had left behind,
Glad to find them all still the same,
And opening the cupboards to look at his belongings
. . . Every time he came.
But now I know what a dog doesn’t know,
Though you’ll thrust your head on my knee,
And try to draw me from the absent-mindedness
That you find so dull in me.
And all your life, you will never know
What I wouldn’t tell you even if I could,
That the last time we waved him away
Willy went for good.
But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug
Sleeping in the warmth of the stove,
Even through your muddled old canine brain
Shapes from the past may rove.
You’ll scarcely remember, even in a dream,
How we brought home a silly little pup,
With a big square head and little crooked legs
That could scarcely bear him up,
But your tail will tap at the memory
Of a man whose friend you were,
Who was always kind though he called you a naughty dog
When he found you in his chair;
Who’d make you face a reproving finger
And solemnly lecture you
Till your head hung downwards and you looked very sheepish:
And you’ll dream of your triumphs too,
Of summer evening chases in the garden
When you dodged us all about with a bone:
We were three boys, and you were the cleverest,
But now we’re two alone.
When summer comes again,
And the long sunsets fade,
We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two
That since the war we’ve played.
And though you run expectant as you always do
To the uniforms we meet,
You’ll never find Willy among all the soldiers
In even the longest street,
Nor in any crowd; yet, strange and bitter thought,
Even now were the old words said,
If I tried the old trick and said, ‘Where’s Willy?’
You would quiver and lift your head,
And your brown eyes would look to ask if I was serious
And wait for the word to spring.
Sleep undisturbed: I shan’t say that again,
You innocent old thing.
I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa,
While you lie asleep on the floor;
For he’s suffered a thing that dogs couldn’t dream of,
And he won’t be coming here any more