|I wrote you a song. It's called, "Stop feeding the dog Pop tarts."|
I'm taking a brief timeout from a horrendously unsuccessful nap time to say hello and confirm the fact that, yes, right now, playing in traffic sounds delightful.
Thanks for asking.
But enough about me and how tempting the liquor's looking before 3pm. I need to tell you how awful am as a dog owner, as well. I know what you're thinking, "Paige, how can you be a horrible dog owner, when you're so great at raising children via chicken nuggets and half-listening to everything they say?"
How, indeed. It was brought to our attention this weekend, that the dog is overweight. By fifteen pounds. Which, as I've been informed, is a lot. Husband let me know when he brought Flea huff puffing back from the vet.
"So, he was very well behaved, but he's also fat."
I stopped making the bed. "That's good."
"That's actually bad."
"I've always taken it as a compliment."
Husband looked at the dog. "I bought him diet food and a new bowl on the way home. We just have to keep a close watch on how much he's eating."
"Are you saying he won't be available for after dinner cleanups?"
"What about breakfast and lunch detail?"
"No. He'll have to find some other way to volunteer."
I sighed and began tucking corners back into the quilt. "Being healthy, whatever that means, is all well and good, but this is going to leave me short of a kitchen floor cleaner and mangled Pop tart-eater. Do you know how hard those are to replace?"
"I know that the dog is fat."
"Weren't his parents just really big dogs?"
"They were also fat."
When I'm fifteen pounds over my ideal, no one cares. When the dog tips the scales, it's "responsibility" this, and "don't feed the dog butter" that. Blah blah blah.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Until Next Time, Readers!