Fat-shaming the dog

Ava, our German Shepherd, has put on some weight.

It’s not her fault.

She’s been on steroids.

Even before the steroids, she has always been a big boned girl, with the vet commenting quite frequently on her size.

“She’s big boned,” I insist.

“She’s extra-large, especially for a female,” the vet will respond.

“Big boned,” I repeat.

“She’s huge, no other way to say it,” the vet states. “She’s not overweight, but she is a big girl.”
There you have it – Ava has a medical diagnosis of being a big girl.

Problem is, Ava doesn’t know how big she is.

In her mind, she is still a small puppy, yearning to cuddle.

Granted, she wasn’t small when we got her; she was 11 months old with a lanky, large frame begging to fill out.

But she still thinks she should be able to fit in a lap or in the crook of our arm, not realizing her massive size.

She was big before but like the best of us, specifically me, she has put on a few pounds.

The steroids are actually to treat a systematic allergic reaction that was triggered by a gluttonous binge eating episode of cat food.

She apparently dove head first into a 16-lb. bag of cat food and only came up for air to make sure we weren’t waking up to catch her.

Two vet visits, steroid shots, shampoo treatments, and a prescription for steroids later, she is still binging but only on her specialty food.

“You get two breakfasts, lunch, and two dinners,” Lamar tells her as she paws at the feed bin.

Ava whimpers her protest. It’s been two hours since her last meal. Can’t he see she is wasting away to nothing?

“No,” he tells her firmly. “No more. You’re getting fat, Ava.”

She lets out a loud wail in protest and even flattens one ear down as if to say they are falling off for lack of food.

“Ava – you are huge. No more food for you.”

She runs – well, ambles at a somewhat fast pace for such a big animal – to me, leaning against my legs as she looks up to me for support.

“Quit fat-shaming my dog,” I tell Lamar.

“She’s fat. Look at her.”

I did. Her soft, big, brown eyes begged me for food. Just a kibble, a tiny nibble, maybe a bite?

“She is not fat.”

“She is too!” Lamar said. “She can barely jump up on the bed now.”

True. But she has always had to do a few laps like an ice skater preparing for a triple Lutz.

“She is just big-boned,” I protested.

“Fat.”

I shush him. I don’t want my dog getting some kind of complex or feeling bad about herself. She gets scared when it storms and gets in the tub to hide; as soon as she comes out, she needs a snack. Maybe the over-eating is just her way to cope.

Even if she is happy about something, she runs to the bowl to ding it, as if she wants to celebrate.

I can relate. When I am sad, I eat. When I am nervous, I eat. When I am happy, bring on the cheesecake.

“You see how she came to me when you called her fat?” I asked.

“Yeah, because she thinks she can hustle you for some food.”

“No, she thinks us chubby girls have to stick together. She is coming to me for support.”

“You’re not –” he caught himself before he said anything else.

He realized I was right. I’m always right but this time it sunk in before he said something he shouldn’t.

“Every time you call her fat, she runs to me. She probably thinks my name is ‘fat.’”

I have probably called myself fat so many times in the last few years, the pup may be associating it with me. And, she has made the connection that I call myself fat, then I get upset, and to console myself, I eat some chips and guac.

She thought Lamar calling her fat meant I was going to break out the snacks. Maybe for both of us.

“I’m not calling you fat though,” Lamar said, hoping to clarify things before it went horribly wrong and became a huge molehill. “I am calling Ava fat and she is. Look at her. She is kind of a long furry cylinder.”

Ava looked back up at me and wagged her tail, smiling her doggy smile.

“She’s still pretty though,” Lamar added.

“Next you’re gonna say she has a great personality, too.”
“She does. She has the best temperament of any dog we have had.”

He completely missed the point.

I sighed. “Just quit calling her fat. She can’t help it; she has a medical condition.”

A few hours later, she dinged the bowl again.

“No more food, Ava, you’re –” he caught himself. “You’ve had enough today.”

She dinged again, and another time. After being told no three more times, she sighed and got on the couch. Granted, it took her a few seconds to get up there, but she did.

At least she wasn’t called fat again.

Now, if I can stop calling myself that, maybe she and I both can feel better about ourselves.

 

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Journey of 10,000 steps

I wish everything was as easy as gaining weight.

Seriously, I am the only person I know who can literally gain five pounds overnight because of a rogue crouton the was hidden under a piece of ranch drenched romaine.

But there has been a lot of those pesky hidden breadcrumbs over the last few years and I have gotten quite pudgy.

It’s one of those things that creeps up on you. Or in my case, you realize you’ve put on a few pounds but have every intention of getting the weight off as soon as some holiday passes.

Then, you look at the calendar and realize your husband and Mama have their birthdays just days apart, so there will be cake – twice.

Even though I may not see Mama on her birthday, I still want to celebrate.

And then the child’s birthday is right there at the beginning of October, which kicks off candy month.

It has been four years of finding reasons to put my regular, formally healthier way of eating on hiatus.

Did I mention I have suspected celiac or at least some kind of severe gluten intolerance that should make me avoid anything that tastes good?

Over the last four years, I have not only gained weight, I have always pretty much spent most of my days sitting on my tater.

Throw in the fact my hormones are all out of whack and guess what you’ve got?
A middle-aged woman wearing a lot of leggings, that’s what you’ve got.

I knew I was no longer fitting in my former smaller sized clothing, but I didn’t realize how out of shape I had gotten.

Not that I was running triathlons or anything before, but I was a bit more active.

I walked a few times a week at the park and did yoga, even though I usually fell asleep on the yoga mat with my Border Collie more than anything else.

Sitting for the majority of your day for four years takes it toll.

Apparently, it is as bad for your health as smoking, something I gave up several years ago and promptly gained five pounds.

When I started my new job several months ago, I was worried about having to walk two flights of stairs.

Yes, there is an elevator.

It’s at the other end of the hall where I go in and I am too lazy to walk that far to get on it. And elevators have always freaked me out a little bit, too.

My biggest nightmare was finally getting to the landing and having to have an actual conversation with someone.

I was grossly out of shape.

One of my dear friends who has supported my fluctuations in weight had encouraged me that having stairs in my work place would be a sure- fire way for me to lose the weight.

Not if the only reason you are going up and down the stairs is to get to the candy bowl on a friend’s desk downstairs.

I didn’t lose weight; I thankfully didn’t gain either, despite the frequent trips for bite sized 3 Musketeers and Almond Joys.

And then, something serendipitous happened.

We had a FitBit Challenge.

I am not competitive with other people, but I do love having a goal for myself.

Since I clearly didn’t reach the 10,000 recommended steps a day, I was worried I would be able to do this.

The first day, I had under 5,000 steps.

Same the second day, but I did notice I got more steps in when I went to the grocery store, especially when I was on one side of the store and realized I needed something that was on the other end.

“I’m sore and I barely walked half of what I am supposed to,” I whined.

I didn’t really get much empathy.

Then, a miraculous thing happened on Day 3.

I decided I needed to do some cleaning, rare, I know.

Within a few hours, I had racked up quite a few steps.

It motivated me to keep going until, the little wristband erupted in fireworks, telling me I had met my goal of 10,000 steps.

“I will be skinny tomorrow!” I squealed.

More than likely it won’t be tomorrow. But the journey there begins with the first 10,000 steps.