A Bad Month

Snoozing

Did you ever have one of those months?  You know, one of those months where you suffer from two different injuries, one hot spot, three trips to the vet, a dead air conditioner in a heat wave, a bath, and then find out that you haven't even reached the lowest point yet?

No?  Well, that's been my month.

Let's recap briefly.  In the injury department, there was that leg injury Sister caused when she took me outside to play and a week after that my neck started bothering me which resulted in a trip to the vet and some medication (a strain possibly brought on by the leg injury).  Prior to both injuries, I ended up with my first hot spot (an itchy oozing sore on my neck) which  took a shave, medication, and two separate trips to the vet to treat.  The central air conditioning system out east is dead so I spent the last two weekends out there in a perpetual state of hot and sweaty which resulted in Ma and Sister giving me a bath on Sunday afternoon when I got home.

But like I said, I haven't even reached the month's rock bottom.

What, you ask, is worse than multiple trips to the vet, multiple injuries, no AC, and a bath?  It's truly dreadful.  Nightmarish one might even say.  Maybe even chilling, grisly, hair-raising, hellish, traumatic, and alarming.  You see, according to the vet, yours truly has packed on a couple of pounds over the last few months and something needs to be done about it.

Now, right off the bat, I have two issues with this diagnosis.  First, I question the validity of the vet's scale.  Either the scale's calibration was way off or he was leaning on the table when he took my weight.  Second, how can I be overweight when I'm fed so infrequently?  I mean, all I get each day is my breakfast kibble, two pretzels, some cereal samples from Pa's breakfast, some blueberries, a giant Milkbone cookie when Pa leaves for work, a small Milkbone cookie when Ma leaves for work, my dinner kibble, grass from the backyard when no one is looking, a cookie to leave the humans alone during their dinner, a cookie for going out and doing my business after the dishes are cleaned, a PB&K, a sampling of my family's dessert (I love ice cream!), another cookie to get me up for my final business trip of the night, and a liver treat on my pillow when I go to bed.  And to make up the difference between the aforementioned approved food sources and the empty areas in my tummy, I rely on the scraps I find when my family cooks or snacks and those "good dog" treats I earn for acting cute and coming when called.  So basically, I'm wasting away as it is.  How could I possibly need to lose weight and what could I possibly cut?

Well, Ma stepped in and declared that I wasn't going to get nearly as many "good dog treats" (Pa, trying to help, took to replacing my "good dog treats" with Cheerios which I can't entirely say is worth the trouble of being good for) and that my two daily bowls of kibble will be a little less full.

But that's not all.  Now I'm being subjected to nightly walks!  I hate walks.  I've hated them since I was a little pup being taken on punishment walks (long walks around town with the purpose of wearing me out so I wouldn't be such a bitey, jumpy, miserable-to-live-with-juvenile-delinquent at home).  I'd much prefer to be romping around the backyard, chasing squirrels and digging holes rather than pounding the pavement.  And speaking of pounding the pavement, my family has decided that these walks, like the punishment walks, need a catchy and descriptive title.  Right now, the front runners are "fat dog walks" and "pudgy pooches pounding the pavement walks."  I don't approve of either of them.  The only good thing with this arrangement is that if my family wants me to go on walks then they have to go on walks.  If I have to drag about town in the sweltering heat then they do too.  I'm hoping their better judgment, not to mention their love of air conditioning and general laziness, wins out and soon.