I haven’t written about Dip before, because, frankly, I don’t want you getting too attached to her. After all, if (I take that back… when, definitely when) I lose 90 pounds, somebody’s got a date with the fire pit in the back yard.
I’ve been doing some research on sacrificial rites and Brazillian demi-gods and have narrowed it down to Aiomun-Kondi or Huitaca (Sorry, Saracura, Bochica and El-Dorado–better luck next time).
Before you go feeling sorry for this horrid flea-trap, understand this: she isn’t even a U.S. citizen. My wife Anita and daughter Pisa were on a month-long trip down in Mexico last year, studying Spanish, seeing the sights and volunteering at an animal shelter. They befriended a tiny puppy there and called me repeatedly, pleading to bring it back home with them.
“Absolutely not,” I told them. “Under no circumstances are you to bring that dog back with you.”
Imagine my surprise at the airport to see a tiny canine head peeking out of a travel carrier.
“Ummmmm,” said Pisa, sheepishly. “We thought you said it was okay. Look… she’s got two different colored eyes!”
I glared at Anita.
“I forgot,” she shrugged, leaving me to get the luggage while she and Pisa carried the doggy bag.
After a 15-minute non-stop cuss-fest, I relented and took the three of them home, but on the way back, I laid down the law: “The dog is not allowed in the house.”
The next day, I returned home from work to see the pup, now christened Dip, lying in the middle of the living room floor gnawing on one of my best sneakers. I got pretty angry, so I immediately made a new rule: “Okay,” I said. “The dog can come in the house, but she can only go in certain rooms.”
The next day, I came home to find Dip relaxing on the sofa, leisurely chewing on the remote control. I was furious, so I outlined the new canine no-no’s: “All righty, the puppy can go anywhere in the house she wants, but I demand that she stay off the furniture!”
That night, I woke up with hot dog breath in my face and a wagging tail thumping against my privates. Livid, the next morning I issued a proclamation: “The dog is now allowed on furniture, but she is definitely not allowed to sleep with people on the bed.”
The next night, there was a thunderous storm and the pup was whining like crazy. Anita, feeling sorry for her, picked her up and put her between us in the bed. The next morning, I declared a new mandate for the Sh*t household: “The dog is allowed on the bed, but only by invitation.”
The next night, I stumbled from the shower after a particularly intense workout and threw back the covers to climb into bed. I almost laid down right on the wretched creature, who was woozy-snoozing on my side. On my side! The next morning I pounded the breakfast table and made a solemn declaration: “Fine! The dog can sleep on the bed whenever she wants, but not under the covers.”
Things got worse. Me: “The dog can sleep under the covers by invitation only.”
And worse. Me: “The dog can sleep under the covers every night.”
And even worse. “All humans must ask permission to sleep under the covers with the dog.”
People ask me what my motivation to lose weight truly is. Is it the health benefits? The compliments? The possibility of living longer? The increased energy or the fact that you can wear your skinnier clothes?
No, no, no, no and no.
There is a beautiful Sunday morning somewhere in my future, a morning when I step on that scale and see the magic number pop up. I think Dip knows too, because she’s started watching my weigh-ins with a hang-dog expression on her face.
Dip needs to go, and I’m sure that everybody who comments is going to agree with me 100%.
It’s great to know that I’ve always got your support.
