Wednesday, 24 February 2016

Hey fatty boom boom...

Words from a Bird.  Day 55

This time last year, I was at the vet's with Percy for his annual jabs and health check.  All was going well, until she got Percy onto the scales, at which point she turned to me and said, 'Miss R, your dog is fat'.  Now, I could not have been more upset if she had said that my kids were ugly, and I took this really personally.  It was like facing a member of the Spanish Inquisition, albeit in latex gloves, as she fired questions at me about how much, how often, and what I was feeding my poor dog. Dutifully chastised, the poor dog was put on starvation rations until some semblance of waist and hips reappeared (a bit like me after Christmas).

So you can understand my trepidation as the texts started pinging through, reminding me that Percy was due his annual check.  The appointment was today.  I took the husband with me, as I am unable to lift Percy onto the vet's table because of the broken rib (not because of Percy's weight).  On the way there, the husband starts talking about how I am going to have to do the same walk of shame as the lady who puts on 4lbs in a week and has to face the scales at a Weightwatchers meeting. I think he's talking about me again.

I had this covered though.  'I can't lift him on the scales, and I haven't got my varifocals with me.  You'll have to weigh him, and tell the vet'.  He wasn't impressed, I can tell you.  I did suggest that we lie about what the weight was, but the husband is convinced that the vet's receptionist can see from behind the counter, and we would be denounced as LIARS of the worst kind.

So lovely Alex was our vet today.  Percy got a full MOT, and then came the question we were dreading.  'Did you weigh him when you came in?'  Well, you could almost see the tumble weeds scuttling across the wipe-clean floor, the silence went on that long.  'It's not been a good few weeks for us, and he's been staying with Grandma'.  'Ah, enough said', says Alex.  I went on to explain that my mum had asked me last week how many dog chews Percy was allowed in one day.  'Half a one' was my reply.  'Oh..' was her's. 

This might explain why there were only 12 left out of a box of 48.  It would appear that my mum had been doling these out like sweeties, not realising that Percy was never, ever going to say 'Oh, I really shouldn't, I've already had three today.  Do you not understand what they do to my figure?'

So the lovely vet gave us a free pass on the scales this time.  Percy is on a diet, and those chews have been relegated to the back of the cupboard, away from temptation. 

It's similar to the red wine in January I suppose...

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