Buddy, it turns out, is a quite healthy dog-thing, and I ain’t feelin’ too bad myself.
He has clearly prospered under five months of my loving care, something you could likely have gotten reasonably good odds against when we all got our first glimpse of him in a photo sent me last February by the rescue group from which I purchased him to entice me into the deal:
We went in for some update shots and a checkup on Tuesday morning and all signs are good, aside from his cataracts, which we can’t do anything about. Most impressively, a reasonably strict diet (can’t always ignore those pleading eyes) and lots of exercise has dropped three pounds off the rotund body he brought to this humble domicile.
Doesn’t sound like much, I know, but that’s 15% of his total body weight. Put it this way, if a certain, totally imaginary, aging writer lost the same percentage, then he, if he were real, would be back under 180 lbs, at his old college weight, when he was young and pretty. The entirely made-up character could not hope to regain those latter two characteristics, obviously, but imagine all the clothes he could fit in once again. If he were real…
In any case, we are celebrating the good news (admittedly, he still shows a tendency to weakness in one of his rear legs now and then which concerns me) as well as another—we desperately hope—landmark event. Yesterday I put his in his cage and went out for 20 minutes to the bank. Not a peep as I left and nary a sound when I returned. This may be an anomaly, but we are hoping it portends a slow fading of his separation anxiety craziness.
And, oh yeah, this is how he looks at this very moment: