Overhead conversations between my handlers alerted me to
forthcoming changes. High pitched
happiness (which usually precedes dog-park outings) coincided with the phrase “Buster’s
going to school!”. OK, I’ll bite. Sounds
interesting.
If only I’d known.
A short car ride (I prefer the window down even in the
coldest weather) resulted in the bonanza of all dog-parks – indoor, with a
playground, populated by several dogs of varying shape and sociability. We were given 10 minutes to extract vital
biochemical olfactory information from each other’s butts - an enjoyable
activity that terminated in the appearance of She Who Must Be Obeyed. There are people who can travel through
dogdom without even disturbing the air around them and there are those who reek of Power and leave the Smell of Fear in
their path. Her first words to my handlers are “What does this dog eat?”
Female handler replies jocularly “The usual: fresh bread and butter.” No laughter. Male
handler quickly explains my dietary regimen to which She Who Must Be Obeyed
replies, “Starting today he’s on half-rations.
After two weeks, give him half of that.”
As she speaks, the word Noooooooooooooo escapes from me and
I see myself lunging in slow motion to stop the calamity unfolding before
me. Except I couldn’t lunge because I
was in a Stay. As my head slumps to the
ground I know my life in its present incarnation, is over.
As the offspring of trailer park parents there is nothing in my genetic
code that would allow me to find merit in starvation. Others of my breed are scrawny and nervous, the
legacy of endlessly herding sheep with the occasional reinforcement of
consuming one. (The ultimate Uh-oh). I, however, enjoy my food. Pizza nights, fresh artisanal bread, those
little bits of burnt fat from steaks.
Not that it comes easy, but with stealth and intelligence, much is
possible. As a result, unlike the others
canines in our neighborhood, I have accumulated an impressive layer of fat; a
symbol in the animal kingdom of success - nay - victory. I have achieved my present state not through
chance but through cunning and guile, the genes for which, sadly, will die with
me. Damn you Darwin.
The tactics I use to accumulate calories range from simple
trolling to applied physics. Superior mass
gives me free rein to elbow my way to the cat dish. Feline protests, though painful, are rare. The creation of elaborate distractions
provides opportunity to inhale tender morsels of Rollie Roll that are intended
for my toothless Rescue Dog Roomie cowering under the table. The occasional lapsed
attention of my handlers can result in untended butter dishes on the counter
that somehow fall to the floor. (I am
saved from consequences by the accepted dogma that disciplining after the fact
when there is no longer a clear link between cause and effect, is
pointless. At this I laugh maniacally.) Another tried and true scam is the “I haven’t
been fed yet” con. Playing one handler
against the other, inserting the wedge and with the full force of emotion, eliciting a second feeding. Brilliant. Drive-by feeding is another under-appreciated
source of calories. Plates left untended
on the coffee table, tasty morsels thrown by undisciplined toddlers over the
side of the high chair, garbage left by the door…. The opportunities are
infinite. In short, a dog that settles
for rations lacks imagination.
One month and 10 pounds later, I reassess. Admittedly I’ve lost my waddle. I can jump and run with more speed. Ok, I can jump and run. The cats have more reason
to fear me as starvation has heightened my senses, making me a more worthy
adversary. In agility class I am earning the grudging respect of She Who Must
Be Obeyed. Yesterday I found myself
walking the spine of the couch - something that would have led to disaster one
short month ago. As a leaner meaner
version of myself, my eyes are wide open. However, when I close my eyes, I can still
smell the fresh bread emerging from the oven.
A dog can dream.
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