I must admit it feels awfully good to have a man in my bed again. A snoring, farting, musky (or maybe musty) beast who will lick my toes without even having to be asked.
A break is nice once in a while, but a combination of guilt and pure longing impelled me to fetch Manny a bit early from his free and quite unanticipated extended stay at the spa. Whenever I leave town, I pack up Manny's things (that would be his food) and have no trouble getting him into the car when I tell him we are going to visit Sue, his second favorite middle aged woman. (Hmm, I bet he tells her she's the favorite, but if a little white lie gets him a bit more attention I get it.) Sue runs a strict but loving dog sitting service out of her house. For Sue, it is all about the dogs who are for her, as a species and with few exceptions, far more appealing than humans. When you get to Sue's house, you do not ring the doorbell and risk disturbing canine slumber. You do not hold it against a first time lodger who pees and poops on the "furniture" in the greeting room; in polite dog society, it's what you expect. You call a mom in the middle of the night when her short, overweight pup has somehow gotten a freshly baked, boxed chocolate cake off the high counter in the kitchen and eaten the better half of it, not to complain or seek reimbursement but rather to weep uncontrollably because you think your negligence has endangered his health. And when you realize, much to your relief, that the dog will survive yet another chocolate binge, you grab a fork and dig in to the other half.
Manny has struggled with weight issues for most of his adult life, and, more than once, on walks in the dark of night, has been mistaken for a large, mutant potato on a leash with toothpicks sticking out of the bottom. The sudden onset of blindness has done nothing to impede his uncanny ability to sniff out hidden treats, and his girth has done nothing to impede his athleticism or ingenuity in helping himself to whatever forbidden fruit has been placed safely out of reach for your average pooch. Oddly, he will miss a morsel of steak offered up right under his nose, but distant and tightly packaged delicacies somehow turn him into a Houdini-esque treat grabbing homing pigeon. Impressive.
And very unhealthy. Which is why Sue the dog sitter decided to make Manny into her "pet" project for the ten days I was in Japan. For love and no additional charge, she wanted to put him on some special diet dog food ("I hope he'll eat it," she said; I looked at her as if she had gone mad, as if Manny would ever not eat anything!), increase the number of meals while decreasing the portion size of each (again, "do you think he will he be upset about the small portions," as if he could possibly know when no matter how much is in the bowl he will gulp it down in one swallow), and double up on his walks. Okay, that might not go over so big with a fat, lazy ass dog who just likes to eat and sleep, but that's where little diet dog treats would come in.
Somehow Sue is able to ignore Manny's pathetic head tilt and incessant whining for food, and, by the time I returned to retrieve him, he was down five pounds. She begged to keep him, free of charge, for a bit longer so they could finish off what they had started. She wanted two months but would take four weeks. I agreed to a week, with an option to extend. Manny seemed a bit confused that I had stopped by and not taken him with me (coming or going is always preferable to staying, wherever you happen to be), but again, that's what little diet dog treats are for.
Manny is back home, as disoriented as a bumper car after his extended spa vacation, and seven pounds down. Well, maybe back to only five, after our little midnight cheese and cracker snack. He looks as handsome and fit as I've ever seen him. I'm going to try very hard to stay with the program, maybe even join him in a little healthy living.
But it's going to be awfully hard to say no to him, that most loyal and adorable beast who licks my toes without even having to be asked.
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