I'm not fat!
Things are glum at La Maison Mook.
I have not been writing because Mook A hasn't turned on his computer in a while—so depressed and messed up is he. He's been getting nothing but crap news from his nurses and when my beloved visits on Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays, it certainly isn't the same old happy-talk coming out of that bedroom. Indeed, I don't know what atrocities are being done in there, but he does not sound like the carnival is in town.
I'm a bit worried about him—as much as I worry about any human—because after losing Frank I don't want to go through the tiresome process of training another one. So I am keeping a close eye on this one—staying glued to his ass and when I notice his mood shifting I close in and cuddle him up. (We dogs all have that art of being sympathetic down pat—it's a survival tool.) Problem: he's a little weepy these days and there is nothing I hate more than a wet head.
One place I like to follow the Mooks is to the bathroom. They think this makes me a little wacko but it is the place where I feel the most comfortable and in control. When I lived with Frank I would spend hours in there while he was "reading" and sometimes I would just go in there because the floor was always cool and I could get some real darkness if I needed to sleep. But the Mooks do a wide variety of bizarro crap in there besides "reading" and, especially with Mook A, I like to see all the gadgets and bandages and such which go into the routine.
When A went back to the computer and to that game he plays—World of Warcraft—I knew that the hard times were passing and, more importantly, I'd have access to my blog while he was occupied elsewhere (as the computer is always on). But with the good mood came the renewed attention to his fucking diet and that, my friends, is where things truly went bad.
This morning was weighing day. He announced that he had lost another pound and then he picked me up and I thought it was for a little hug of joy. Nope. "Mother fuck!" he bellowed. "What! What! What!" Mook B yelled back. "This little porker has put on seven fucking pounds since we got him. From a healthy 17 to a grotesque 24!"
Well, even to me this was a shock. I mean, that's the size of a tubby chihuahua with a teacup terrier on its back. This means I am not quite the tight little war machine I thought I was! Mother fuck is right! But what to do?
They were talking diet almost immediately but I was thinking: they feed me dust as it is—3/4 cup of dry with two or three tablespoons of wet, twice a day. I am still so frigging hungry when I'm done with it! Where the hell can you go from starvation rations?
Clearly, smaller portions are on the way because these two certainly won't be getting off their arses to exercise me more—that's clear. But I do like my food and I do like my sleep and it is sooooooo hot out today.
Wouldn't it be nice if dogs could barf?
I mean more than we already do.
