My Frenchie Almost Died

I had never felt panic like that before. One minute, Shaggy—my goofy, lovable French Bulldog—was lounging on the couch, snoring as usual. The next, he was gasping for air. It was a typical Sunday afternoon, and I honestly wasn’t doing much when I noticed his breathing sounded different. Raspy. Shallow. His little chest heaved in a way that sent alarm bells ringing in my head.

I rushed to his side, trying to soothe him, but his breathing only got worse. Within minutes, he was struggling, his eyes wide with fear. I called my roommate, Nelly, who was out with friends. “Something’s wrong with Shaggy,” I said, my voice shaking. “He can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do.”

Nelly’s voice was calm but urgent. “Take him to the vet, Zoe. Right now.”

I grabbed my keys, scooped up Shaggy, and drove to the nearest emergency vet—about 20 minutes away. It felt like the longest drive of my life. My hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles turned white. Every few seconds, I’d glance at Shaggy in the backseat, hoping to see some sign that he was getting better, but his breathing was still shallow and erratic.

When I arrived at the vet, they rushed us into an exam room. The wait was excruciating—30 minutes before a veterinarian finally came in. The vet seemed distracted, almost rushed, like we were just another case in a long line. “He’s having trouble breathing,” I said, my voice wavering. “I think it might be something serious.”

The vet barely looked at Shaggy before saying, “It’s probably just a respiratory infection. We’ll give him some antibiotics. That should help.”

I wasn’t convinced, but I was desperate, so I paid the $250 bill and left with a prescription. Shaggy didn’t seem any better. In fact, by the time we got home, he was worse. His breathing was even more labored, and his little body was shaking. I called Nelly again, barely holding it together. “This isn’t right,” I said. “I don’t think they know what they’re doing.”

“Let’s get a second opinion,” she said. “There’s a 24-hour emergency vet about an half-hour from you. I’ll text you the address.”

I didn’t hesitate. I wrapped Shaggy in a blanket, carried him to the car, and drove as fast as I could to the second vet. The drive felt endless, and my mind raced with all the horrible possibilities. Was Shaggy going to die? Had I waited too long?

When we arrived, I rushed Shaggy into the clinic. This time, things were different. The vet on duty was calm but serious. She listened carefully to everything I said and immediately took Shaggy for an x-ray. “It looks like his airway is severely obstructed,” she told me after reviewing the results. “This is common with French Bulldogs because of their flat faces. Sometimes their soft palate can swell or collapse, making it impossible for them to breathe properly. He’s in distress, and we need to act fast.”

Hearing those words felt like a punch to the gut, but at least now I knew what was wrong. “Can you help him?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “But we need to get him into surgery immediately.”

I signed the papers, my hands trembling, and they whisked Shaggy away. I was told the surgery would cost about $2,000, but at that point, I would have paid anything. Nelly met me at the clinic a little while later. She wrapped her arms around me as I tried not to cry. “He’s going to be okay,” she said, though I could tell she was just as scared as I was.

After two agonizing hours, the vet came out with a tired but reassuring smile. “Shaggy is out of surgery and breathing much better. We were able to clear his airway. He’ll need to stay overnight for observation, but he’s going to be just fine.”

Relief washed over me like a wave. I couldn’t believe we’d made it through. That night, I drove home, my heart lighter but still shaken. Shaggy was my little shadow, my constant companion, and the thought of losing him was unbearable. The next day, when I picked him up, he was groggy but alive—my little fighter.

I’ll never forget that feeling of helplessness, or the lessons I learned that day. Always trust your instincts, and when it comes to your pet, never settle for less than the best care.

-Zoe