The Day the Bacon Died

TO: Residents of Fordeville

FROM: Señor, Head Household Pet & Chief Bacon Officer

RE: THE DIET.

DATE: November 21, 2013

______________________________________

Thanks so much for that extraneous trip to the vet last weekend. That was fucking awesome.

Did I need vaccinations? No.

Was I sick? Uh, negative.

But you just had to take me in for a bi-annual Senior Well Visit {Who names these things? Where is the sensitivity, for God’s sake?}

First of all, where was the nice woman you took me to see in the past? What do you mean she left to have a baby? Is that all you damn people do is produce more small crying humans? I liked that lady. She fell victim to my charms and was willing to overlook certain lifestyle shortcomings, like my bad breath and growing waistline. I had her in the palm of my paw.

Not this new guy. Who was this sonofabitch?

He was all, “This dog needs to brush his teeth more” and, “This dog needs his ears cleaned.” Fine, fine, fine. If he wants to be all picky and medically technical. Although it’s good to know that you and I were on the same page about his offer to clean my anal glands. Uh, hell no.

But then. THEN. The weight conversation took a stark turn from previous chats.

I’m accustomed to the twice-yearly, “Just watch his weight. He can’t gain anymore at this age.” 

At this age. Nice.

But this new guy was all, “We need to get Señor on a diet, right away.”

HOLD THE FUCK UP.

And then: “He needs to drop from his current 24.5 lbs to 20 lbs.”

I don’t know if they teach these guys math in vet school, but that’s 20% of my body weight.

I SAID TWENTY PERCENT OF MY BODY WEIGHT. IS THIS GUY FOR REAL? Why was I not born with bigger teeth to tear into this guy? Where is my inner mastiff?

I hate this jackass.

I know I’ve put on some weight, but I just figured we’d scale back a little and watch the pounds fall off.

What do you mean, it doesn’t work that way? All the celebrity dogs in Us Weekly do it that way. Speaking of which, why can’t I be toted around in a luxe handbag too?

We’re going on more walks? Oh please. That would cut into my 22-hours-a-day sleep schedule.

I can see you’ve already reduced my doggie treat intake. Fine, since you feel all accountable and guilty for my alleged weight problem. I didn’t see you blinking when you needed a buddy to help you discard of those BBQ scraps all summer. Or when you frequently referred to me as your Swiffer.

Wait, what? That’s over too? Come. ON. This is starting to not be funny.

But we’ll still have Sunday bacon scraps right?

I SAID: WE’LL STILL HAVE SUNDAY BACON SCRAPS, RIGHT?!!

OMG.

NO BACON?

People: I am 10 years old. Would you tell a happy 70 year-old human to give up smoking?

You would? Fuckkkkkkk.

Well, I’m glad you got so damn conscientious now that I’m in my twilight years and addicted to the scraps your kids drop on the floor. It’s the only satisfaction those small people give me.

Sorry.

{Not sorry.}

Anyway, this prescription diet food is bullshit. Are we juice fasting next? I’m old. I’m ornery. I don’t adapt well to change. Remember when you moved my bed like four feet and I chased my tail in circles? Yeah, well now we’re talking about my sacred pork products. You’ve crossed a real line here.

Thanks a lot, you guys. First the new baby, and now this.

Oh and don’t expect to get any more vet appointment reminder cards in the mail. I will eat them upon receipt.