Hog days.

14 Jul

“But he can smell it!”

This is what my mother says as I protest to her filling up a bowl with a full-grown-man sized serving of goulash and puts it on the floor to feed my dog, whose bowl is already full of a Great Dane portion of Beneful. I returned to Iowa for a couple months for the wedding this spring, and discovered that my cute bouncing corgi had evolved into a giant furry blimp. He went from a prancing and agile canine to a fat hairy sausage that can barely jump onto the sofa. From a dog to a whale, just like that. Evolution even disagreed with what happened to him.

“Mom, Alan does NOT need an entire bowl of goulash. He does not need goulash, period. He is a dog. A fat dog. You need to stop feeding him human food,” I persisted.

“But he can smell it!”

“Of course he can. He has a nose. I can see the money in the cash register at Hy-Vee, but the cashiers aren’t handing it over, like, ‘Okaaay, you saw it. You win. Here you go.'”

My mom is in denial. She loves our dog so much, that she expresses it in every way possible: hugs, kisses, treats, entire New York Strip steaks. She’s like the mother of the kindergartener who at the green age of six is already tipping the scale at 85 pounds. “She’s just big-boned, and I can’t deny her her Double Stuf Oreos—-they’re her favorite!”

Yes, I’m sure she can smell them, too.

Ugh.

Ice cream cake, KFC, casserole, goulash, macaroni and cheese, steak and mashed potatoes, strawberry pie, you name it, my mom serves it up on a silver platter to our corgi right after dinner. Corgis are supposed to weigh, at a maximum, 28 pounds. Alan probably weighs 42 pounds. I researched the amount of dog food they are supposed to be fed daily. The answer? Total, less than 1 cup. Preferably 2/3 of a cup per day. I immediately stole and hid the giant metal scoop from the giant bucket of kibbles in the pantry and replaced it with a 1/3 cup measuring spoon, and gave my mother strict instructions to resist her instinct to fatten my dog up like a corn-fed black angus.

I hate fat dogs. I cannot allow my own dog to become as grotesque as Reba, the 70 pound corgi:

Not good.

We have made some dietary changes to Alan’s food pyramid, though. He’s on the fast track to America’s Next Top Model. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll kill Tyra Banks while he’s there.

Time to do roofs.

—–

“I am never more angry during the day than when I have to get up in the morning. There are times when I cuss to myself as I lay in bed because I am so upset.”

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