Not content to ruin her own life with empty New Year promises, She put me on the radar last night.

There I am minding my own business in front of the fire, doing the dutiful dog thing, Happy Last Day of 2017 and all that, when I hear her say, “Mungo needs to lose a couple pounds, he’s starting to look like an old Lab.”

Way to ruin a perfectly good evening Jillian Michaels.

I didn’t even need to look up – I knew She was flipping through the latest issue of True Grit magazine, staring at page after page of JRT super-whatever-champions with their rock hard loins, action-dog stances and six-page pedigrees.  She’s always been a sucker for a good looking working dog.

Normally, I divert that body-shaming magazine right into the trash bin before either of Them can see it, but I’ve been preoccupied with some high-level napping this month, and this issue slipped by.

Look, I’ve got at least two pages of pedigree and an action-dog stance (just ask Molly), but even if I had rock hard loins you wouldn’t see them under my wiry action-dog coat. Plus, you can’t even go for a pee in this Mid-Atlantic winter without risking death by exposure.  I need all the protection I can get out there.  Nobody tells baby seals they’ve gotta give up the carbs.

I looked across at those cold blue eyes of Hers peering over the top of Her reading glasses in my direction and sucked in my stomach.  She raised her eyebrows in a very unpleasant way.

She was obviously also thinking about pulling out all my hair like they do to those chiseled, stuck-up, possibly-genetically-modified centerfolds in that stupid magazine. This torture is called ‘stripping’ and it’s probably against the Geneva Conventions.

Normally I wouldn’t worry. I’ve got Him wrapped around what’s left of my dew claw.  It’s a simple matter of nuzzling into His legs a bit deeper and letting off a couple well-timed sighs of pure contentment.

He subsequently responds as trained and scratches my head protectively against Her control freak tendencies.  Later, I will get all the chunks of cheese I need by submitting to one of His random “training sessions” for a new trick and within a week She’ll be distracted by one of the 56 million things she eventually gets distracted by and forget about the entire thing until the next time I forget to trash that magazine.


Except this time, He patted His own stomach and looked at me a little sideways.  He likes to keep fit and He’s been feeling it lately.

“You’re getting old, Ratdog – getting fat.”

Wha – WHAT?  That is NOT how this goes.

“Gotta get fit again.  Lose a couple.”

I looked over at Her again, peering at me with those beady little eyes.  She was smirking.  I swear she knows what’s going through my mind.

Damn. 2018 is not starting well.