You know every blue-blooded family worth a
damn has got skeletons in the closet. Mine’s no different.
Imagine finding out your great, great uncle, Brutus,
made his living as a bull baiter. To be fair, we were all bull baiters back
then. Bred to be plopped in a pit with a live bull. We tried to yank it’s nose to
the ground before it sprayed our entrails all over the crowd. Used to be England’s
national pastime till they found out cricket was a bigger thrill.
But after 300 years of bull baiting, they decided it might be a touch cruel.
Big relief? No. Now we have no purpose. Almost went extinct. That was in 1800.
God, did we ever think that looked good. The narrow stance, rudely pointed face,
functional legs. But we were rescued by a tiny group of artisans.
And after 200 years of selective breeding, behold. Of course,
standards this high come with challenges. They say I have vision problems,
which I just can’t see. Anyone who’s anyone has hip dysplasia,
but I have chronic respiratory issues. And when I run, I overheat,
get a blood clot in my brain, and die. They told me, “We need to mate you with
some other breeds to force some genetic diversity back in.” I thought, “Ooh.
German Shepherd? Siberian Husky?” No. Turkey baster. My hind quarters have
been so sculpted, I can’t mate or give birth naturally. Thank goodness.
Spared a lady’s two greatest labors. I’ve heard rumors that we’re doomed.
Far too inbred to save. But people love us. How could you not?
I have the body of a Shetland pony and the head of a potato. The teeth of an English
man, and the eyes of a Dickensian orphan. But it’s so much more than that.
I’m offering absolute dependence. Every hobbling step and rattling breath
screams, “I need you.” It’s funny. It all goes back to those bull baiting
protesters 200 years ago. Their stand against animal cruelty made
me. Must be doing something right. ♪ [music] ♪