I heard the dreaded D word today. A four letter word. It is not what you want to hear when you are so young.
Diet.
It’s enough to make you want to bury a bone somewhere, anywhere. Emergency chews for a rainy day.
Anyway, I was tucking into my evening bowl – a special treat of some soft chicken which smells and tastes like chewy warm milk – when all of a sudden, after the HAND puts my bowl down, I hear my mistress ask: Do you think she’s a bit FAT?
I continue wolfing my bowl down, pretending not to listen. My ears are pricked.
Not not really, my master says.
Aaaargh, Not really. That’s a pussy cat statement. Indecisive. It just opens the door to…
And then I hear it: The D-word.
We’ll give her a bit less, they agree.
Noooooooo! I ignore them. Maybe they’ll forget by tomorrow morning. After all, they’re only human.
Next morning, however, the bad news. There is less – at a quick calculation, about 10% less – in my breakfast bowl. Not too drastic, I think. But still: I am a growing dog.
I protest in the only way I know how: After finishing my breakfast, I run away and hide in my favourite box (the blue one with a cushion that smells deliciously of me).
No one will find me here. But then the HAND reaches in and lifts me out of my hideout. How did they find me so soon?
As she lifts me for a kiss (the first of the day), I hear something really, really positive.
„I can feel her bones.“
Yes, I am only 12 weeks old…and I’m facing rations already!
„It’s not good to feel the bones of a growing dog. Let’s forget the diet idea.“
And then she looks surprised as I lick her cheeks and ears (mmmm, nice perfume).
„It’s as though she understands what I said.“
Ha, I am put down. My ears are stroked. I roll over for a tummy rub. I stretch my legs in the air and close my eyes.
Victory for Olja.
Olja First 