Day 1: Today is the day I meet my foster humans. I hope my snack schedule has been relayed.
Day 3: Clearly I’ve gotten the shitty end of the deal in this foster home situation. While I am a personable floofball of charisma and scintillating charm, my new family are cold, heartless people who do not know what the word ‘snacks’ mean. Is this not a universal term? How are they not falling for my snackie face – I have perfected it over the years and it’s been foolproof until now.
My humans say this is for my own good, as I have reached 20 kilos. As they have all the internet access (no one even offered me the wifi password, rude!) they Googled my ‘ideal weight’ and are trying to get me down to 16 kilos. And turns out they were as serious as a heart attack about it too, which they said could happen to me should I keep gaining weight. (A patronizing, sing-song voice was used while relaying this information to me as if I were a child. Nerds.) This, they say, is for my own good. They have made my weight loss program their goal, and now I am walked around the compound and neighborhood like a prisoner, under sweltering heat or under the rain in a ridiculous raincoat — it doesn’t matter. Walk I must.
Day 5: If I am a good boi —a ludicrous notion as I’ve always been an exemplary Corgi— they give me a ball filled with kibble. You’d interpret this as an act of kindness, but I must roll this ball with my nose around the house until the little treats fall out, one by one. I’m sure this is a torture tactic hatched at CIA black sites.
Day 8: I dream of food. I dream of smoked ham, of ice cream, of steak. I dream so much that I munch on invisible feasts in my sleep and wake up in a pool of saliva. Here, no food scraps fall from the table, though I wait in bated breath at their feet during each meal, panting and smiling and pulling my snackie face.
Still, I passed a mirror the other day while searching for food in this godforsaken place, and I did see — dare I say it — a whisper of a waistline? A hint of hips? I looked… curvy. Very strange.
Day 12: Off to the trainer again. My human was so excited for me to get weighed. I step on, and… 20.5 kgs flashes on the screen.
“Machi!” she howls. “How did you manage to gain weight?” Oh boy, what a TREAT! I was grinning from ear to ear at her embarrassment, watching her plead her innocence and confusion to the trainer.
And then she goes for the gold. “That’s probably just pee,” she says to assure herself and the people around her. That was all I needed to hear to start peeing on the scale.
Send help. And snacks.
Currently listening to: