This week after dieting for almost two months, I returned to the groomer who, on my last visit, called me chunky and inspired my parents to put me on a kibble green beans and carrot diet.
I was anxiously looking forward to the visit like a human who went on a diet before their class reunions and wants to show off her new body.
The Fates attempted to stop me from my triumphant return. For two days before my appointment, it did nothing but rain. The good news is that the snow was washed away. I am a delicate Floridian by birth. I hate doing my business in the snow. I checked on my iPaw and saw there was no wintry precipitation in the forecast, then went to bed with a smile on my face anticipating my victorious groomer visit and green grass to poop on.
When I woke up, I was stunned to find two inches of snow on the ground, and it still falling rapidly. Daddy had to dig us out so we could get on the road, While he shoveled I nervously waited inside. What if my appointment was canceled because of the inclement weather? I was like Cinderella on her way to the ball, only to be stopped by sewer construction.
`The road was angry that day, my friends. We traveled slowly, occasionally slipping and sliding. A mixture of HBO and non-Lutheran words exploded from the front seat. Foley must have been an angel on our tailpipe because we made it safely.
The owner greeted us, and mommy asked if she noticed how much weight I had lost. She said she did. That made me feel good. Triumphantly I began my spa session.
While we were being groomed, the weather cleared. Like my disposition, it was sunny. When my parents arrived, the woman who had said I was chunky brought me out and remarked how much better I looked. I smiled as much as a frowning Griffon can. Then the groomer said, "but she smells yeasty."
Yeasty? Who are you calling yeasty bitch? You're not precisely a tropical rainforest down there, and I didn't say, Jack Frost. First I'm fat, and now I'm yeasty you feckless Edward Scissorhands wannabe? Sisters don't be calling each other yeasty biatch.
My parents asked if anything could be done. The groomer wondered if there has been a change in my diet. My parents said I was eating green beans and carrots with my kibble. "That's it. Don't let her eat carrots. Too much sugar."
Don't let me eat carrots? Why do you think it was my idea to eat slimy orange carrots? I did it for humans like you to make you happy. No one wants to eat carrots except for that manic Bugs Bunny who, when he isn't down in his hole, mainlining Adderall is strolling right up to hunters like Elmer Fudd and Yosemite Sam because he's too damn high to realize he's in danger the chattering big-eared coat liner.
My parents could see I was getting agitated, and they paid, scheduled my next session of abuse, then brought me out to the car where I stewed in my yeast.
It was until I got home that I calmed down and realized that not having carrots was a good thing. Now, if I can convince them that the green beans gave me a kidney infection, I'd be back to eating The fat food I like.
Signed neither fat nor yeasty River.