River Song Goes on a Diet

One of the worst things that can ever befall a dog happened to me this past week. I was put on a diet!

My parents have been commenting about my weight a lot recently. I considered this behavior to be rather gauche.  You do not comment on a lady's weight. Thankfully, I am a forgiving sort.

Last week I went to my trusted groomer.  She is the one who traveled to Florida and brought me to Massachusetts to live with my forever family.  She is the mom to my paramour, a studly young Griffon who I was once bred with which we an ill-fated attempt to pass my beauty onto a further generation.

While one groomer carried Pocket to the waiting area, my groomer came out, especially to see me.  "Hi there, chunky," she said with a smile.  

I looked around to see who she was addressing, but no one else was there.  When she picked me up, she made and overly exaggerated grunting noise as if my burden was too much to bear.

I was crushed. I also understood why this woman groomed dogs; she probably started in a hair salon. One day a customer came in, and my groomer asked:  "Hey, lard ass! You want a washout and a perm?" After that, she had to work in the dog world where the customers are more forgiving. 

My parents, trying to seem capable, said they were considering putting me on a diet.  Hah! Me on a diet? The thought was absurd
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After a few hours of pampering, I had forgotten the entire sordid incident.  When I got home, my parents showed me the green beans and carrots that would now be staples of my meals.  I blanched.  

I took a nap and dreamed of a visit with Foley.  She told me she had never submitted to a diet in her life. "Don't eat whatever they put in front of you," she stressed.  "After a couple of days of not eating, they will become concerned that you are going to starve to death, they will break and begin feeding you whatever you want.  It's foolproof."

Encouraged, I was inspired to boycott my dinner.  At supper time, slimy green beans and smelly carrots took up half my plate.  I was surely not eating that. I remembered what Foley had said. But then I questioned it. Did Foley mean all the food or just the new food?  She must have meant don't eat the vegetables. She didn't want me to starve. I began to eat the kibble. I must have lost concentration because 32 seconds later, my plate was spotless. 

That night Foley visited me in my dreams. She was angry. She told me I could not eat anything. I had to stand up for chubby for dogs everywhere.  The next morning I was determined to begin my fast. Upon seeing the plate, I turned up my nose. 

Unfortunately, my tongue went down. My plate was clean in 10 seconds. On my next dream visit, Foley told me I would no longer be the chubby dog representative.

That was fine with me.   I didn't like that title anyhow.

The truth is, I love food glorious food.  Food that's good for me, food that's bad for me, food to make me lose weight, food to make me gain weight, it's all good.   I'm not like Pocket, who has to have the exact food arranged the same way on her plate before she can eat. What you plop down, I'm chowing down. 

I am glad I am not a role model for chubby dogs. I want to be that for dieting chowhounds.  If you have a dog, who could stand to drop a pound or two and eats anything put in front of them, then break out the dog-safe fruits and vegetables.  Soon the pounds will shed away. 

Soon I will post another picture of myself.  I hope I look thinner. I am missing my turkey.