Courting Public Opinions

One of the best thing about fat camps for dogs is you don't have to wait until summer arrives to ship them off.

When my friend emailed me the article about the brilliant new service available for those of us either unable or too lazy to keep our dogs' weights under control, I could think of no better use for the loose change piling up in my piggy bank (no pun intended). The double wide can wait.

Manny barely had a chance to woof out an objection before I had his little duffel bag packed and the car gassed up. He's no dummy. He knew something was up when I failed to fill up a little ziplock with treats for the trip. (I don't know where the nearest camp is, or even if there is one within driving distance, but I am ready to go at a moment's notice.) Images of doggie ellipticals and four legged aerobics classes and lectures on why people food can kill you danced in my head. I explained to Manny that this would all be for his own good. He gave me a skeptical head cock, then rolled over and played dead.

If only he could accept the fact that I know what is best for him, life would be so much simpler. I know how he feels; there are lots of well meaning folks out there who think they know what is best for me, and I often wish I could roll over and play dead as effortlessly as Manny does. My promotion dilemma has elicited all sorts of well intentioned advice, and, to be fair, it is all solicited. (Manny's a lot smarter than I am; he never asks anyone's opinion.) Being busy is good for me; I am wasting my brain; it will be a good challenge for me; why would I waste my time on a job a monkey could do? All valid points, I suppose, but none of it helps me to figure out what I actually want to do. And, being an adult human as opposed to a dog, I, unfortunately, am the one who must ultimately decide. I wonder if the powers that be will agree to let me sleep on it a little longer, maybe, say, two years.

If fat camp for dogs turns out to be a bust, Manny can at least point an accusing paw in my direction and bark a smug "I told you so." If my latest career decision turns out to be a bad idea, I'll have nobody to blame but myself. And depending on where they stood, my posse of advisers will either offer up smug nods or throw their hands up as if they had never encouraged me to screw up.

There is, of course, a bright side. Manny and I, kindred spirits always, will both want to drown our sorrows in food, and when I tell him I'm off to pick up a pizza, he will flash his pearly underbite and wag his tail. He will know, somehow, that this is no car ride to fat camp, and he will shimmy his fat butt into the car with the speed and grace of a greyhound.