Not content to ruin her own life with empty New Year promises, She put me on the radar last night.
There I am minding my own business in front of the fire, doing the dutiful dog thing, Happy Last Day of 2017 and all that, when I hear her say, “Mungo needs to lose a couple pounds, he’s starting to look like an old Lab.”
Way to ruin a perfectly good evening Jillian Michaels.
I didn’t even need to look up – I knew She was flipping through the latest issue of True Grit magazine, staring at page after page of JRT super-whatever-champions with their rock hard loins, action-dog stances and six-page pedigrees. She’s always been a sucker for a good looking working dog.
Normally, I divert that body-shaming magazine right into the trash bin before either of Them can see it, but I’ve been preoccupied with some high-level napping this month, and this issue slipped by.
Look, I’ve got at least two pages of pedigree and an action-dog stance (just ask Molly), but even if I had rock hard loins you wouldn’t see them under my wiry action-dog coat. Plus, you can’t even go for a pee in this Mid-Atlantic winter without risking death by exposure. I need all the protection I can get out there. Nobody tells baby seals they’ve gotta give up the carbs.
I looked across at those cold blue eyes of Hers peering over the top of Her reading glasses in my direction and sucked in my stomach. She raised her eyebrows in a very unpleasant way.
She was obviously also thinking about pulling out all my hair like they do to those chiseled, stuck-up, possibly-genetically-modified centerfolds in that stupid magazine. This torture is called ‘stripping’ and it’s probably against the Geneva Conventions.
Normally I wouldn’t worry. I’ve got Him wrapped around what’s left of my dew claw. It’s a simple matter of nuzzling into His legs a bit deeper and letting off a couple well-timed sighs of pure contentment.
He subsequently responds as trained and scratches my head protectively against Her control freak tendencies. Later, I will get all the chunks of cheese I need by submitting to one of His random “training sessions” for a new trick and within a week She’ll be distracted by one of the 56 million things she eventually gets distracted by and forget about the entire thing until the next time I forget to trash that magazine.
Except this time, He patted His own stomach and looked at me a little sideways. He likes to keep fit and He’s been feeling it lately.
“You’re getting old, Ratdog – getting fat.”
Wha – WHAT? That is NOT how this goes.
“Gotta get fit again. Lose a couple.”
I looked over at Her again, peering at me with those beady little eyes. She was smirking. I swear she knows what’s going through my mind.
Damn. 2018 is not starting well.