Ever since Owner brought me home from the Shelter, she has been good about giving me yummy food to chow down on. And, being the fierce badger hunter that I am, God knows I love to eat. She also has been generous with the treats. Until now.
In the past, if Owner were trying to get me to do something—say walk nicely on leash or sit—she would happily dispense incredibly tasty beef- or chicken- liver treats when I successfully fulfilled a command.
Although I’ve been aware that I haven’t been getting as many treats as in the past, in the last few days I have noticed that Owner was not treating me at all. When we go walking with some of the other owners and dogs in the neighborhood, I see her talking to the other owners and then pointing at me and making hand gestures like something is getting increasingly big. What, exactly, is she saying? That I’m losing my girlish figure?!
Still, my desire to look good for the Maxes and Karls of the world are overridden by the fact that I really, truly love beef- and chicken- liver treats.
I talk over this turn of events with Sassy, who wastes no time in rubbing it in that she still gets treats from her owner just for being her adorable fluffy, lean self. “Well, you obviously must have done something to piss your Owner off. Why else would she stop treating you?” Sassy says.
“But I haven’t done anything bad lately!” I insist. “I’ve practically been an angel. No outrageous barking, I’ve sat there on the sofa incredibly patient while she works, I haven’t even chased any cats around! I think it’s because she’s thinks I’m fat.”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you…”
“Shut up. I’m charmingly zaftig.”
Still, two can play this game. If Owner won’t give me any treats, then I won’t eat the regular food she gives me twice a day in my bowl. Or at least much of it, since, hey, I don’t want to get carried away. That’ll get her.
For a couple of days, I work this tactic. Owner constantly looks at me during mealtime with concern on her face when I only ate a little bit then went off on my merry way. I am quite proud of myself although I am also starving.
But then, this little plan starts to backfire on me. One morning Owner is on the phone and also examining me rather extensively, checking my paws, my tummy, my head. Then she leashes me up and we get into the moving contraption. We end up at the place I hate the most—where the person who really examines me and gives me shots lives. I hate this person. Everything he does offends my dignity.
Owner walks into the building and practically has to drag me with her. The mean guy looks me over but then miraculously does nothing else. Yay! No shots, no big pills. We walk out of there, with me all but prancing.
I have learned my lesson though. Playing games makes Owner overreact and brings on the mean guy. When we get home, I rush straight to my bowl and eat the remaining food.
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