I knew my annual physical was coming up as soon as Mike started cutting back my twice-daily rations. Not by a lot, just a few nuggets of kibble every time. He remembered that my personal physician told him to keep an eye on my weight when I somehow had gained a half a pound (!) the previous year, to an all-time high of almost 19 pounds. Mike wasn’t going to let that happen again.
Well, it turned out Mike went a little overboard. When I slid onto the electronic scale in the doctor’s lobby last week, the lights stopped flashing at 16,6 pounds. Mike was shocked. “Maybe her paw isn’t all the way on the scale,” the tech advised. So Mike led me off the scale, turned me around and did it again, with all paws accounted for. The digital display read 16.7. It was official: Since my last physical a year ago, I had lost 2.2 pounds.
It must have been from all that exercise I get from walking and ball-playing fetch with Heather, Mike and Charlie. Dr. Kimmel’s thorough examination showed all my organs working fine and all my vitals stable, so my weight loss wasn’t the result of an undiagnosed disease. My heart, lungs and eyes were all in top shape, and my teeth were, as they always have been, “simply beautiful.” In her written report, the doctor rated my overall health an A- (the minus only because of a slight, lingering infection deep inside my left ear). Under “general appearance,” she wrote, “Cutie Pie,” and drew two cute little hearts! Moreover, her summary comments contained what was for me the most important part of the whole report: “Chloë looks great but has gotten (emphasis added) a bit too slim (when do I ever say that about a dachshund!) Let’s bump up her food by about 20 percent, goal 18 pounds.”
Got that Mike? More food! I have received new license to become the wirehair Oliver Twist. “Please, sir, I want some more,” I will whine at every opportunity. And I better get it, Mike. Doctor’s orders!