I was taking my big dog, Ellie, to the vet for her shots. On the way in, I met Tony, an acquaintance from the gym, and his lean, lithe greyhound. “You work out?” he asked, looking at Ellie with contempt. “Perhaps you should start with your dog.” He looked at Ellie the way owners of sporty little dogs always look at large, slothful Labrador Retrievers. Ellie and I looked at each other, and then looked at Tony’s dog; his greyhound was sleek and haughty. His greyhound had a waist. His greyhound had ribs.
As it turned out, Ellie had put on some weight, tipping the scales at 106 pounds. “She has big bones,” I offered, without conviction. “She has a low metabolism.” The vet pretended she hadn’t heard. “You work out?” she said. “Perhaps you should start with your dog.” I swear I saw Ellie gulp. “Diet,” she commanded, in an imperious tone; “Exercise!” And we left her office, tails between our legs.
Ellie’s diet began the next day with a half cup of kibble. When I came home that night I found her lying on her side, apparently too weak to move. I knelt down to check her: she wagged her tail once, gave me a look that said “I forgive you,” licked my hand and closed her eyes. My heart beating madly, I begged her not to die.
It took a pan of lasagna, but Ellie decided not to die that night. Putting all thoughts of dieting on hold, I decided that we would exercise together, starting with a brisk run by the sea. “Who needs a treadmill?” I asked her as we drove to the beach. I was seized with a cinematic fantasy: Man and Dog running along the shore in glorious freedom as the breakers kissed the sand and the gulls soared above.
Unfortunately, my fantasy did not include jellyfish, and, barefoot, I managed to step on several hundred almost at once. By the time I had stopped writhing, Ellie was nowhere to be found. It took me almost 40 minutes of hard limping before I found her. She was sitting on a striped beach blanket where a nice elderly couple were feeding her peanut butter crackers. Ellie would not return my gaze as I thanked the couple for their hospitality and declined their offer of a beer.
We drove home in silence. Ellie, literally fat and happy, had her head out the window, eyes closed in canine bliss. She had clearly enjoyed her day at the beach, but she didn’t look any thinner. Was I doing this for Ellie’s sake, I wondered? Or my own? Was I embarrassed at having a chubby dog? Was I really that shallow? I was going to have to learn that there are greyhounds and there are Labs and that no amount of diet and exercise would ever turn one into the other.