Quick recap: Our bulldog, Wonderbutt is on a diet. He does not like the new food. So, now he is texting me his displeasure.
He is Not Satiated – And May Soon (Well, Maybe One Day) Be Emaciated – Meaning I Have Definitely Not Ingratiated Myself to Wonderbutt
Wonderbutt is not pleased with me right now. It’s quite possible our leather furniture, which has lasted over a year according to our countdown widget, may be in jeopardy.
We recently took him to the vet, and he weighed a whopping 77 pounds. Technically, he is supposed to be around 50 pounds. So, he is now on new food that is, ironically, called, “Satiety.” And he DOES. NOT. LIKE. IT.
My first clue was when I woke up this morning, and he was waiting forlornly in the hall for me. Cap’n Firepants gets up long before me on the weekends, and was already out and about. I went into the kitchen to get some breakfast, and Wonderbutt tagged along. He walked straight to his food dish, and nosed around it.
I heard food moving, and looked at the dish. If the Cap’n had already fed him, then the food should have been long gone. Wonderbutt never leaves food in his dish.
He looked up at me, as if to say, “Look what that idiot fed me this morning. Can you give me some real food now?”
I tried mixing some of his old food in with the new.
Nothing doing. Of course, there are other things I could add to the food to make it more palatable, but that would kind of defeat the calorie reduction purpose of this whole enterprise.
The Cap’n seems to think Wonderbutt can stand a couple of days without eating, and that he will eat the food when he gets hungry.
I am absolutely certain Wonderbutt will eat when he gets hungry. The problem is – I don’t think it will be the food.
It’s pretty bad when a dog who has no problem eating a carpet padding, books, hair barrettes, dead geckoes, and the foam of several sofa cushions refuses to eat his kibble.
Our bulldog, Wonderbutt, seems a bit put out lately – possibly because we have been restricting his food intake the last couple of weeks. Note that I said, “food intake”. If you know anything about the history of Wonderbutt, you won’t be surprised to learn that his intake of everything but food has not decreased at all. You can see from the widget on the left that he has miraculously made it almost a year without devouring our new living room furniture – but I’m not sure his self-control will last much longer.
It’s hard to explain to a dog why you are feeding him less, and that binging on beds with no nutritional value is not a healthy habit.
The oldest piece of clothing that I own, and still wear occasionally, is a pair of shorts that I don whenever I am painting. Every once in awhile, I throw them on even if I’m not painting, because I might be a bit behind in laundry. Yesterday was one of those days. For some reason, I got the lame-brain idea that it might be fun to take the Dog Who Poops as he Walks out for a spin around the block, and those shorts were the only pair that were not in the hamper. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I cared if I was wearing clean shorts or not, considering the fact that I spent 3/4 of the walk carrying a hefty bag of stinky dog poop.
Those shorts are a size 10. I hadn’t worn them in a few months, and I was a more than a little discombobulated by the fact that they suddenly seemed to be tight around the waist. I will be the first to admit that I’ve gained some weight. But not enough to pop a button in size 10 shorts. There was no denying, though, that I felt like there was a boa constrictor wrapped around my stomach when I was finally able to fasten them. According to Painter Shorts, I need to be doing a lot more strolls with the Dog Who Poops as He Walks before I turn into the Girl Who Rolls Down the Street.
My size 2 skirt, purchased 2 days ago, begs to differ. According to that hot little number, I have nothing to be concerned about. I should be strutting my stuff more often just to give other people the opportunity to feast their eyes on my lean, slender physique. The Dog Who Poops as He Walks should be grateful that he is accompanied by the Girl Who Struts Beside Him with Plastic Grocery Bags.
This is what we’ve come to, my friends, a 43-year old body that, ON THE SAME DAY, fits into 2 sizes that should be as far away from each other as Obama and Romney. No wonder we all have distorted self-images.
Painter Shorts tells me, “This is what happens when you get too big for your britches. Now, let’s do something before you burst.”
Hot Number Skirt flatters me, makes me feel like a cover model, and pooh-poohs the idea that I might need to cut back a little on the carbs. It also tells me to ignore the fact that there are Size 00 and Size 000 skirts on the racks that raise their eyebrows in alarm if I even dare to take a peek at their tags.
I’m pretty sure I’m not fat. And I’m very sure I’m not thin. I suspect, despite the size 2’s in my closet, that I am somewhere in between.
What would happen, do you think, if we stopped putting sizes on clothing – just stuck them on the rack from smallest to biggest, and shopped for the size that looked like it would fit (instead of the size we hoped or thought would fit)? Should we start a Size Revolution now, or just wait until the first day we spot a size -1 on the rack?