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October, 2009:

Honey, Honey…

When I was growing up, my parents would often reference a 1980’s movie “Fatso”. Perhaps you’ve never heard of this movie? For some, it’s a cult classic about eating, being a part of an Italian family, and watching the lovable Dom Deluise. In one scene, Dom’s character calls his support group over to help him through a crisis. They all gather in his living room and the conversation begins to drift deeply into talking about food. All during their erotic food talk, they are each drinking the hot water with lemon that they are allowed to drink on their diets. Pretty soon the lemon is not enough to satiate their cravings and the Dom character asks his brother for honey. His brother reminds him that the honey is kept behind lock cabinet doors, indicating it is off limits. In an “I mean business voice”, the Dom character orders his brother, “Junior, get the honey!!!” Chaos, mayhem, and the inevitable food orgy ensues…

My parents loved this scene and would often expound upon the “get the honey line” The running joke between my parents would be to suggest that this, or that, food item would be better with a little honey.

Today, after coming home from the vet with my newly labeled “overweight” dogs… I found myself thinking that same line. As I mentally went over what the vet had told me were acceptable snack items:

Carrots, plain. Apples, plain. Canned pumpkins, unsweetened….

I found myself saying, “Poor dogs… I bet this would taste better with a bit honey on it.” But they didn’t laugh…. perhaps they haven’t seen the movie.

I felt I should cover my dogs ears while the vet was expounding on the reasons behind why they were not an acceptable weight. When she leaned down and explained how my dogs had fake wastes, accentuated by their larger than recommended chest section. OUCH! Lola, the heavier of the two, seemed to take all of this in stride, until without even slowing down, or issuing a warning, the vet stuck a thermometer up her butt. Um, the dogs, not the vets.

Lola looked at me with a, “are you kidding me?? are you f*cking kidding me?” Sort of look…. and I thought,”well at least it’s distracting her from all this weight talk.”

It’s embarrassing to answer the questions about my dog feeding habits. Yes, I fill up their bowl whenever it is empty. Yes, I feed them scraps off of my plate. Yes, I will give them treat after treat… because it’s fun to throw it at them and watch them catch it mid air. My dogs eye/mouth coordination is da bomb!

Feedings will now be limited to one in the morning, and again in the evening. The vet suggests that this will be harder on me, the owner, than it will be to the dogs. Yeah, tell that to Lola when she gets her 2 a.m. munchies!

We are now signed up for a small town doggie version of “The Biggest Loser”. My dogs had their weight recorded, their before pictures taken, and instructions on their new diet. As I held the diet plan in my hand, my inner competitor kicked in and I had thoughts of donning spandex and an in-your-face Jillian Michaels like attitude. “I said give me 20! Now lay down! Roll over, repeat!! You’ve got to want it dog!! Roll over, repeat!! You’ll be running laps dog!! Do you want it?!? Do you want it?!? How bad do you want it….”

Ok, maybe she’s not that much of a bitch, it’s been a while since I actually watch the show. But, from what I can remember, she was pretty scary!! More than likely I will channel Bob Harper and just cry WITH the dogs and help show them their true potential… that seems more like the dog way.

Meanwhile, I give the frozen carrots a shot. The vet made the mistake of saying that they can eat these throughout the day. It sounds a bit like the Atkins diet, where you get the unlimited amount of veggies. I take two frozen carrots out of the bag and toss them in the air. My dogs do their magic and in a synchronized fashion they both catch the frozen carrots mid air…. then…. simultaneously they both spit them out! After a little sniffing, they give the carrots another try. They decide like them. I toss them another…. then another… boy, this is fun…

Color Blind….

Have you ever lost something, like…. um… your keys?? You try and retrace your steps and places you might have left them. You close your eyes and picture your kitchen counter and that dish towel that you tossed, ever so carelessly, onto it. “Ah-ha!”, you run to the counter…. lift the dish towel…. and….. it’s…. not there. Hmph! You close your eyes again, this time remembering how you plunked down onto the couch and you vaguely recall the sound of something dropping…. “But of course! Under the sofa!” You then run over to the sofa, get on your hands and knees, and peek under….. but…. nothing.

And so it goes….. you seemingly can SEE your key in your minds eye every single place you can think of imagining it at.

Tell me that your brain does the same thing. Please, let me not be the only one who has a brain with a sick sense of humor!

I bet you think this mind spew is about my losing something again. But it’s not. It’s about colored paper.

Supervisor: This is to be printed out on Goldenrod, you’ll need to print it again.

Me: That’s not Goldenrod?

Supervisor: No, it’s Buff… you need to print it on Goldenrod.

Me: Oh….

Supervisor:
Goldenrod has orange hues in it.

Me: Oh….

And now I’m back to cursing my joke-playing-minds-eye. The copy room is loaded with paper, none of which is labeled. I’ve not memorized the names, nor the shades of each stack of paper. Once they are stripped bare of their wrapping, I am lost as to their identities. When I see them all together, I can , with some effort, distinguish the subtle variations. But, when they stray from that room, like today, my mind cant seem to tell them apart. I feel like I’m going to have to make a cheat-sheet color wheel, like a Mary Kay consultant testing for skin tones… I’ll whip it out, hold it to the paper, and whisper, “yesssss….. this one, no…. wait…. this one! This one is a perfect match. We have ourselves here a perfect shade of Astrobrite Cosmic Orange.”

Meanwhile, I will just have to fake it. I will learn to read my supervisors face… watch for the disapproving facial twitches that suggest my hand move one level up to the next shade of paper…. slowly bringing it down, hoping beyond all hope that I’m not mistaking Merry Mango for Melancholy Melon.

Working class dog…

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

It’s my dog, the quiet one. She doesn’t whine loudly like the other one, she’s a bit more subtle. Though, just as persistent as the other one… the one with the loud voice.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

She’s back, like a 9 month old, who can only give you garbley gook and crying. Though, to be fair, there is laughing too.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

I think it would be easier if she could talk. But, unlike the 9 month old, she’ll never grow into her words. As a result, I’m left to counting down my list of things she might want…

“Outside?? Do you want to go outside??”

“Hungry, are ya hungry girl?? Hungry??”

“Walk?? Do you want to go for a walk??”

Though, I never… under any circumstances…ask about the walk, unless I’m ready to commit. Because, of course, they ALWAYS want to go for a walk. We can come home from a walk and they’ll want to go for another walk, with as much enthusiasm as if they had not been for a walk in a month.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

I checked her food, it’s fine. Her water, fine. That leaves only two things: play time or walk time. The fact that I am running low on energy and have already had a glass of wine poses a big problem. The lack of energy suggests that I could easily not have enough strength to manage two dogs and the glass of wine suggests I might lack the coordination.

The only option left……. house cleaning.

My dogs only leave me alone under one situation. No, not sleep. No, not eating (duh). No, not while I’m talking on the phone. All the afore mentioned situations are not immune to the interruptions of either one of my dogs. The only way…. ONLY way…. I can assure not one interruption is if I’m house cleaning. What the frick? If I want total cooperation from either mutt, I need only pick up a dish, a dusting rag, a vacuum cleaner, or get to work with some kind of scrubbing and all of a sudden my attention whore dogs decide that they need to give me my space. If I had a husband, I would swear that they were in cahoots. But I don’t, so I’m baffled.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

I’m devising a new plan. I’m wondering if they will catch on if I were to sprout a third arm, a mechanical one, complete with dusting rag and unending movement….

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.