Eleanor In Her Ergonomic Chair
If you know me (even a little bit), you know that I love my dog. And I don’t mean just a little. I
really love my dog…more than solid-colored t-shirts, Mexican food (including margaritas), and homosexual sex scandals exposing Republican Party hypocrisy. In other words, I’d give anything for my little girl.
In fact, I feed her a diet of that exceeds the quality of food that I, myself, consume. The flavored rubber bones she chews are only available from a boutique pet store in NYC, so I have them shipped to Chicago a few times a year. I chew on her jowls (they’re irresistible) and wipe her toosh with baby wipes after she does her secondary “business.” Meanwhile, I use a sandpaper-like single ply. In my house, her birthday is more celebrated than Baby Jesus’. My point? Eleanor Louisa May Alcott Natale (her middle names honoring her co-authoring of Little Women) is LOVED.
A few weeks ago, a postcard arrived from the vet reminding me that Eleanor is due for a checkup. Unlike when post cards arrive from my dentist, I made her an appointment. I floss, after all.
That appointment was yesterday.
I must say that I love Eleanor’s vet. Not as much as I love Eleanor, of course, but if both Dr. Georgeson and solid-colored t-shirts were imprisoned by North Korea and I could only negotiate the release of one of them (because Bill Clinton had a previous speaking engagement), I would probably sacrifice solid-colored t-shirts for Eleanor’s vet. It depends on what fabric blend the t-shirts were, but still. She’s a great vet.
Beyond Eleanor’s vet, I like this particular animal hospital for other reasons. Well, one reason. Oprah. Adding more evidence to the argument that the world really does revolve around her persona, I love the bragging rights that Eleanor goes to the same animal hospital as Oprah. (And by Oprah, I mean her dogs.)
Little did I know going into yesterday’s veterinary appointment that Eleanor had more than an animal hospital in common with the Queen of Talk. Eleanor, like Oprah, has weight issues.
Maybe you’re looking at Eleanor’s picture thinking, “um, duh.” Well, pardon my French, but go f*ck yourself. She’s an English Bulldog. Most of the “your dog is fat” comments I get come from the hoodlum youth that loiter in my neighborhood. They’re also afraid of Eleanor, as they’re used to dogs bred for fighting. These kids have neither any experience with dogs nor any knowledge of breeds. Plus, Eleanor’s a lover, not a fighter.
The reason for both my defensiveness and shock over the news that my 63lbs. dog needs to lose 8 or 9 pounds is pure embarrassment. Since yesterday, whenever I look at myself in the mirror, I see a mom in a mini van stationed at the Wendy’s drive-through, contributing to my litter’s childhood obesity. I judge parents who disregard their children’s health more harshly than I do guys who wear ankle-high socks. Now I’m the one over-feeding my child while wearing ankle-high socks. (Okay, the sock part isn’t true…I haven’t lost myself completely.)
At any rate, the days of using the “big boned” excuse for Eleanor are over. I refuse to shame my family by over-serving my daughter. Even though she looks so damn cute curled up in the ergonomic black chair in the living room, we’ve got to hit the pavement a little more and eat a little less.
As one friend put it, “Stop feeding your dog YOUR emotions!”
Sad, but [possibly] true. Unlike her dad, Eleanor’s emotions are pretty straight forward: treats are happiness, alone time is sadness. You do the math. With my help, however, Eleanor Louisa May Alcott Natale will return, once again, to being a little woman. Oprah, on the other hand…
