Fat Dew goes on a (forced) diet

Before I even returned from the six-week book tour that had pulled me from one side of the country to the other, I knew it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.

I was right.

Dixie Dew had spent the duration of my 27-city tour with Mama. Apparently, she had spent the entire 42 days in the kitchen. She was so fat that she could hardly walk.

As you may recall, Dew is a dachshund, so because of her long back, it is imperative to keep her weight down so she won’t have problems. I am particularly sensitive to this since my last dachshund, the much beloved Highway, cost more money in surgery and vet bills than I have ever spent on myself.

With the exception of my brother-in-law, I am the only person who worries about her weight. Rodney, who never holds back what he is thinking, says regularly, “Your mama is going to kill that dog, if she don’t stop feeding her.”

Halfway through the tour, I had flown home to do media interviews and two book signings. It also gave me an opportunity to check in on Dew’s weight. One look and I immediately knew we were in trouble, so I had a strong talk with Mama.

“Mama, you have got to stop feeding her constantly. This is serious.”

Imperviously, Mama raised her chin up and looked away. “Well, if I’m doin’ such a bad job taking care of your baby, maybe you should just get yourself another nanny.”

Dixie Dew, no surprise, sided with her nanny. As she listened to our conversation, she jumped down from her place next to me on the sofa, ran over and jumped into Mama’s lap. She stared at me defiantly while Mama put her arm across her and smiled triumphantly.

When the tour ended and I returned home, Dew, again no surprise, had gained more weight. She was swayback from the additional weight that made her sink in the middle. Her belly almost dragged the ground. I was heartsick. There was nothing to be done but try to right the situation.

I took her home, put her on a serious diet and an aggressive exercise program. I took her on long walks twice a day. Again, no surprise, but she wanted to run away back to her nanny’s house.

A few days into Dew’s physical reform, I noticed something was wrong with her. Her eyes were extremely sad, she moved slowly and couldn’t jump on the sofa or bed. Worried, I called her vet.

“I think Dew’s having back problems,” I explained. “I have to leave tomorrow for New Orleans and I’ll be gone several days. What should I do?”

“Bring her in now and I’ll wait for you,” Dr. Smiley replied. “If she’s having back problems, we need to act quickly.”

As Dr. Smiley examined her, I explained that she had been with Mama for several weeks and eaten to her heart’s content and beyond. The scales revealed that she had gained almost three pounds, an enormous amount for a small dog.

“Once I got home, I put her on a diet and a strict exercise program.”

Dr. Smiley nodded then gave his diagnosis. “She doesn’t have back problems. She’s got sore muscles from all that walking.”

I had accused Mama of trying to kill her but I, apparently, was doing a better job at it. Two weeks later, though, we returned for a follow-up to discover that Dew had lost two pounds. I was jubilant.

Of course, I knew she had lost weight even before she got on the scales.

I could tell it by the way her clothes fit.