It's my fault my dog's a fattie

I have a dog named Squishy. And I'm realizing that the Squisher's story has paralleled my own in certain ways.

I used to be a Step Master at the gym (see below), and the Squish used to be one of the fastest sprinters at the dog park. I used to be smaller around the middle (and everywhere else), and so did my sweet, fluffy girl.

Here's the difference: I chose to sit on my rump and eat Cheetos. The Squish, on the other hand, stared me down every day of this long winter with the same plea in her eyes. "Ma, I'm begging you, take me to the damn park so I can run." Technically, yes, those same eyes begged me for bites of cookies and spoonfuls of ice cream and the last bites of burgers. But it was my decision to indulge the latter request and not the former.

Squishy would have loved nothing more than to run for as long as I would let her at the park. She would have been so happy to take a cold walk outside and burn off some of those calories. But laziness and a deep hatred for winter on my part kept her indoors, where she got fatter and fatter.

A dog park friend I hadn't seen in a few months couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Fatty Doughnut, which is our nickname for her, waiting for him at the gate.

But, the past couple of weeks, I've made a point to get her out of this house. She's not as fast as she once was, but she's still running her tush off.

So I guess you can say both of us girls are on fights to be fit these days. Maybe by mid-summer we'll both have things under control. Although, personally, I think the recent pleas in Squishy's eyes are for me to bring back some of her favorite people foods she hasn't seen in a while. If she had it her way, she'd still be eating ice cream and cookies. I guess we can't give 'em everything they want.