These dawgs was made for walkin'

There are three dawgs in this story.

The first two are the ones connected to my ankle bones (at least that’s what I learned from that classic Vacation Bible School song 60 years ago when I was a wee Methodist). The third is this magnificent goof.

The dog is the goof. Jack is also a goof, but not the subject of this essay

For years I have been calmly rationalizing away or outright ignoring my physician’s yearly tut-tutting that I really could stand to lose a few (OK 40) pounds. Periodically I’d go on some kick or another — keto, intermittent fasting, eating nothing but hard boiled eggs and grapefruit. A temporary improvement on the scale would be gained at the expense of holding household mealtimes and road trip foraging hostage to my inflexible food cult. After a bit I’d shrug my shoulders and go back to eating and drinking carelessly and sitting on my butt most of the time. I was impervious to medical guilt-tripping on my own behalf.

Then the veterinarian fat shamed my dog.

At first I went the same route with Orville. “He’s half Labrador — of course he eats too much and has a wide ass! He’s just big boned!” But finally I admitted that the only ribs I could detect on this dog were the ones he was trying to steal out of the trash bin. And I myself was in no better (and possibly worse) shape than I’d been in at least five years, although the vet was kind enough not to mention that. At least to my face.

So. Four weeks ago Orville got his kibble ration cut 10%, I started eating from the “food that has actual food names” menu, and we both started walking twice a day.

There has not been a radical change in either of our physiques yet. I have lost eight pounds and he no longer has vampire toenails.

What has changed is my perception of my town and my neighbors. The view from 5.33 feet at0 3 mph¹ is different but there’s nowhere to express my new insights. Dog walking etiquette demands a quick nod and “Good morning”/”Good evening.” There’s so much more I could say to them that I can’t — so I’ll say it here.

Yoga Lady in the Pretty Yellow House: Your yard is beautiful. I love the “no grass” aesthetic and I’m really sorry I didn’t appreciate it soon enough to stop Orville peeing on your hostas that first morning. Truth be told we’d done a mile and a half at that point and he’d been airinating since we turned north on 2nd St. I also apologize for trying to say hello. I realize now I was interrupting some vital ritual involving the sun coming up next week. It won’t happen again.

Redneck Dude on Randolph St: I would sooner place a bet on every single one of your neighbors hating all twelve of your insane hounds than on a solid gold 20:1 to place at the Preakness.

Slightly Less Redneck Dude on Sunnyside with the “Invisible Fence”: I’m not one for suggesting government regulations, but I think some mandatory labelling might be in order here. I’m really glad you were there to shout, as your insanely muscular pit/boxer mix was charging full tilt, “It’s OK — he’s got a shock collar!” And a good thing too — you might have needed to MacGyver it as a makeshift AED if things had gone on a couple of seconds longer. Maybe dogs enclosed with electronics could wear blue party hats or something?

Lady also with an Invisible Fence which contains an elderly female Labrador: I thought up the blue party hat because your dog was in no way intimidating but I was afraid she was going to run in the street to sniff Orville and get hit by that HVAC van. I’d like to know she was safe but I didn’t want to profile her.

Drivers Waving Me Through Intersections Contra the Right of Way Rules: You probably don’t know this, but a short woman standing on the sidewalk has a 5% chance of actually seeing you in your gigantic SUV/pickup truck with the drug-dealer tint windows. All I can see is reflected sky. If I haven’t already entered the intersection it’s because doofus is busy eating squirrel poop or decrypting the secure pee-mail on the nearest shrub. Drive on.

Town Planning and Codes: Ok dudes, I now know where all of you live, since town rules allow you to take the trucks home at night. I see how you all maintain your properties. Expect pushback the next time I get grief about shit spilling out of my carport.

1. Hey, hey, hey. I could walk faster than that, but the dog needs to stop to smell things and pee — or pretend to — at least twice in a city block. (Even a lab/husky mix does not have an infinite supply of piss, which surprised me just a bit.)