Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Eight: Ma’am has a fluffy potato…

So I took Buddy to the vet for his checkup. There are several veterinarians at the local practice I don’t think I have ever seen the same one twice. Much like the human doctor’s office, you are ushered into the examination room and wait for quite a long time for the Doctor to see you. Unlike a human examination room, there are treats or toys in the veterinary examination room.Which gives me a BRILLIANT idea! Next time I am in my doctor’s office waiting to be seen. I will suggest they have snacks(a hotel mini-bar type of concept if you will,) instead of toys perhaps a laptop with Netflix or Amazon access. I think the doctor would have fewer angry patients waiting to see them for over an hour. A good film and cocktail may help to ease the waiting tension. It’s a win-win on BOTH sides.

Buddy is happy. I have given him a copious amount of snacks and we have played tug with the rope toy. He has slurped from the community water bowl and I wonder just how sanitary that is to have in a vet’s office.

Finally, a good forty-five minutes later, in the breezes a, young girl. At first, I think she is a middle-schooler looking for her pet. But, the white coat and embroidered name declaring Dr. Haskins DVM informs me that she is indeed Buddy’s physician. I wonder if she is one of those child prodigies like a Doogie Howser but in veterinarian form? She smiles and pushes her big glasses up on her tiny nose. She has red hair and wears it in two braids. She reminds me of the Wendy’s girl or Pippi Longstalking.

“Well, hello, Buddy-Cornelius!” she says rather enthusiastically. Buddy is licking his privates and has no interest. She looks over Buddy’s chart. Like when my children were little and we were at the pediatrician’s I would scan the Doctor’s face for a sign while they were reading the chart. I notice her scrunch her microscopic dot of a nose causing her glasses to slip further down. She pushes them back up and clucks her tongue. Uh-oh. Her eyes dart over to Buddy who looks like he is at an all-you-can-eat buffet with his crotch.

I then feel her judgemental eyes burning into me. The sweat begins to trickle down my upper lip. I am suddenly petrified of the middle-school Pippi Longstalking veterinarian. Silence…(except for Buddy’s licking sounds). I hear myself say: “Is there a problem?” She stares at me and then down at Buddy. “Mom can you cover Buddy’s ears she whispers.” I am confused but follow her directions. I attempt to cover Buddy’s ears and now he thinks we are playing a game. He starts to jump up and nips me. The doctor suggests we exit the room out of earshot from Buddy. Now I am concerned. I also want to point out that she could just spell whatever she needs to tell me, as I am fairly certain that Buddy cannot spell.

Outside of the room and before she tells me what BIG thing it is she needs to announce, she looks up and down the hallway. I feel like we are spies and she is about to trade me intel. She low talks with that smile plastered on her face.”Buddy needs to lose weight. He, um, is rather portly for his size.” Not only is this bizarre but I hear Confused Husband bellowing in my head: “What do you mean Buddy has to go to fat camp? How much is it?” She continues:” I didn’t want him to hear you know being fat-shamed.”

Fat-shame him?! I don’t even think he really knows what his name is never mind understanding him being called fat. I try not to laugh, but catch myself as I see how truly serious and distraught Pippi seems to be. I nod in agreement. We head back into the room and Buddy has knocked over the bowl of treats and is devouring them. Pippi gingerly picks up the remaining two treats out of fifty that he had yet to swallow. She lifts him to the exam table making a grunting sound like she is a Sherpa carrying a load up Mt. Everest.

On the table she probs Buddy. She does the normal stuff like eyes, ears, and mouth. She squeezes his belly and clucks her tongue again. There is a knock at the door and in waltzes a chipper young guy. He has on a rainbow tie and unruly hair. He and Pippi are whispering and, once in a while, I see him glance over at me. He can’t be more than Twenty-one if that. I wonder if he has even finished veterinarian school yet. He spins around and informs me he is Abe the dietician. He has a plan for Buddy. I feel like one of those Moms who is reprimanded for smoking in front of her kids’ like I have done something wrong.

Pippi exits the room and says she will be back after our consult with Abe. I notice he has a rather generous belly himself and I ponder if he really is a good example as a role model for Buddy. He has charts and goes over Buddy’s body mass with me. He loses me after he says something along the lines of Buddy’s self-confidence. (Buddy doesn’t seem to be waning on self-confidence in my opinion. I mean do dogs even have any?) Abe explains that Buddy is already squat and stubby, so any added weight on him isn’t a help. (Whoa! There, I like his squat, stubby-ness!) He is not a gazelle or Grey Hound Abe! What about you Mr. Pre-teen dietician and your bit of squat stubby-ness I think? He gives me instructions and a plan to follow for Buddy. I ask out loud, “If this plan would work for middle-aged, muffin-topped, menopausal women as well?” Abe chuckles and I want to share I wasn’t joking. I quickly look over the plan. There are a few things I could do but not the eating of, low-cal canned dog food. I also don’t know if I could skip “No treats”. I could do the no eating after 5:00 pm. It doesn’t mention anything about wine or cheese here, so I assume that is still okay for me to have. This plan may be difficult for me to follow let alone Buddy.

Abe suggests I get a scale. I don’t have one in the house because I don’t need a scale to tell me that I am fat. I already know this. Also, I don’t see Buddy hopping up on the scale for me to weigh him. Abe says he can offer me suggestions weekly via email and we can chart Buddy’s progress. I nod enthusiastically thinking: “Um.. nope that won’t be happening. I can barely return regular emails, yet am expected to email Abe? He tells me to just fill out the chart weekly and email it to him. That way he can track Buddy’s progress and tailor it accordingly. He mouths(we don’t want him feeling insecure.) I look over at Buddy who again is going to town on his crotch, he doesn’t look insecure to me.

I smile politely and he says that Pippi will be back to add anything else she feels Buddy needs to assist in his progress. He then attempts to high-five me and I awkwardly high-five him back. He pats me on the shoulder and dramatically says: “No worries Mom we got this!” I don’t know what “we got” but I nod.

Abe rubs Buddy’s head and says in a baby voice:” Buddy before you know it you will be bikini ready.” (Bikini ready? I would pay to see Buddy in a bikini.) He exits and a few minutes later Pippi returns. She smiles sympathetically at me and says:” I know you are concerned(I am?), you may be feeling disappointed in yourself(well, now I am!), but we are all rowing in the same direction for the sake of Buddy.”(I am waiting for Jerry Lewis to burst through the door in his telethon tux belting out: “You’ll never walk alone!” What the heck?!

She stares at Buddy and I wait. Then she scribbles something on her pad and hands it to me. I am praying it is a prescription for Ozempic and guess who will be taking them? NOT BUDDY!!! (I wonder if they will be the same ones as humans use or are there canine ones? Must Google) It is a chicken scratch scribble and I feel like I am decoding hieroglyphics. All I can make out is Buddy and a word that looks like Gout. OMG does Buddy have Gout?! I ask her to translate; She clears her throat like she is about to recite the Gettysburg Address. “Buddy’s weight growth is about half a pound a month. We would like to see Buddy lose 4-6 pounds. The personal plan created by the dietician and the veterinarian must be followed to achieve this goal. After a session with Mom(a session? like therapy?), we feel that she is on board to make this happen. Our plan is to send weekly chart emails tracking Buddy’s progress to address any concerns. Go, Buddy! Is written out in big letters. I don’t have the heart to tell them that Buddy can’t read.

I am GOBSMACKED! I feel like I am watching a middle schooler play Doctor. (Go, Buddy!) Honestly, what is happening? Have I just been Mom-shamed by Pippi Longstalking? I look down at my fluffy potato(a moniker coined by my friend Jen). It’s not like he is the Goodyear blimp or Free Willy. Papers in hand, I skulk out of the vets with my portly potato and mull this over. We pass the ice cream shop and Buddy pulls me towards it for one of his blueberry flavored pup-cups. I ask Skippy behind the counter if he knows how many calories are in it. He scratches his head and sighs. “I have no clue.”(Of course, you don’t.) I watch Buddy devour his pup cup and then lick his chops. Looking up at me, he wags his tail. I ask Skippy if he thinks Buddy is fat. He thinks I am asking him if I am fat. He looks extremely uncomfortable and says: “Umm, well how old are you?” WTF Skippy??? I ask him what my age has to do with Buddy’s weight. He scratches his head furiously and says: “Oh! I thought you meant you!”

I have no patience for Skippy, Abe, or Pippi Longstalking. Slowly I walk home with my Fluffy Potato. I decide I am not going to share with Buddy that he is fat. Ignorance is bliss. My Fluffy Potato will continue, sniffing other dogs’ butts, licking his crotch, and devouring any food item that is not nailed down. The day he comes to me and says: “I am not bikini-ready”, is the day we will begin his weight loss journey. Until then, may he continue being the Fluffy Potato that he is…