"A little chunky perhaps?" they asked. "She IS a muscular girl."
"No, no. FAT." said Dr Dog, with no finesse. "She needs to go on a diet."
The importance of this momentous conversation went straight over my head.
Me, in my Audrey Hepburn days.
When I arrived as an 8-month old, I was a gangly 27 kg.
When I got on the scales at 22 months, and despite my daily boot camp workout, it went up, and down, and up again, and finally settled on...48 kg.
I wouldn't have thought this was an unnatural amount of weight to gain, being a growing girl and all. But what do I know? I'm not a Dr Dog.
Ever since that fateful moment, I get barely enough kibble to line my stomach, hardly any treats. And like Mr Thumper, I only get lean meat and a teeny-tiny bit of gravy, skimmed of all fat. No more vanilla yoghurt. No more cheddar cheese. No more granita bikkies. No more honey in my oatmeal. An egg, just once a fortnight.
My stay-at-home human is constantly poking me in the ribs and squeezing my sides with her fingers to see how much fat I still have to lose. It's very demoralising.
Last week, I got on the scales again at Dr Dog's and am now 45 kg. Hurrah. I hope they're happy.
I'm not sure how thin I'm supposed to be, but I suspect the end is not yet near.
I get the last laugh though.
My stay-at-home human went to see her e.n.d.o.c.r.i.n.o.l.o.g.i.s.t yesterday and discovered that, since they fixed her t.h.y.r.o.i.d problem last July and because she can't exercise with her stinky knee, she's put on 12 kg!
"OMG!" she said, "I've NEVER been this heavy. Boohoo."
The e.n.d.o.c.r.i.n.o.l.o.g.i.s.t gave her a stern and unsympathetic look, and handed her a card for a d.i.e.t.i.t.i.c.i.a.n and d.i.a.b.e.t.e.s e.d.u.c.a.t.o.r.
She's not quite sure what to do with it, so she's hidden the card away.
Now, my stay-at-home human is only allowed to graze little meals. No more savoury nuts. No more praline ones either. No more pan-fried buttered sourdough bread. No more passionfruit tarts or chocolate fondant. No more crusty palmiers with full cream coffee. No more vanilla cream sugarlips.
There IS a God.
P>S> At this very moment, my stay-at-home human is tucking into a plate of feijoada. She doesn't have a hope in heaven.
How is Rufus B Thumper?
Rufus is, we suspect, feeling better!
He's growling at Georgia again and fighting for attention. He managed to walk all the way round the block yesterday, with only one rest stop and no stumbles. He's still incontinent but the puddles are getting smaller. And, dare I say it? His poop is looking good.
But he's still living outside and in the kitchen, and not liking it one bit.