Chloe’s Crown
Maybe we should just do away with this “annual physical” thing. I feel great, and yet every single time Dr. Aimee, my personal physician, manages to find something wrong with me. Usually it’s an ear infection, but Heather has been trying hard to keep them clean, which means weekly swabbings and more cheese treats for me. At my previous annual physical, she discovered the chipped tooth that led to my shiny titanium crown. This year, she zeroed in on my skin, dry and flaking in spots.
But that was hardly the worst news to come out of this yearly exercise. Even harder to take than the heartbreak of psoriasis was the mandatory weigh-in, which did not turn out well from my standpoint: 20.13 pounds, a gain of more than three pounds in the past year, which does seem like a lot. Maybe the scale malfunctioned, just more fake news.
Poised and ready for the doctor
But I ask you: Do I look heavy? Personally, while I am forced to admit that a few gray hairs sprinkle my back, I’m not seeing any signs of middle-age paunch down below. In fact, I’m leaner and in better shape than most dachshunds half my age. Maybe I’m just starting to take after my brothers Frank and Stanley, a late bloomer into the imposing physique of a big-boned gal from Washington State.
Hospital anxiety
Dr. Aimee, who a year ago set my target weight at 18.5 pounds, told Mike and Heather that we’d consider 20 pounds or so as my new normal. Even with that reassurance, however, Mike immediately cut back my twice-a-day rations: Now I get 5 of the special Hills Oral Care “meatballs” instead of 6 at each meal. “At least until things stabilize,” he promised me, anticipating my opposition to this latest menu change. We’ll see how long it lasts.
Diary of a Wiener Dog 