My Dog Salvy

 Salvy had a "weighing"; his dads had entertained high hopes that a new green-bean diet would do the trick. In fact, Salvy had not lost any weight. He had stayed exactly the same.

My husband--ever the optimist--pointed out that this news was really a victory. "Given the trajectory he was on, just the fact of not-gaining is something to celebrate. If he had stayed on that old trajectory, he would now be the size of a U-Haul."

My husband then did a thing he tends to do; he assumed the character of Salvy, and began speaking in a high-pitched dog voice. "I don't want to discuss this," he said. "Just hand me the cookie dough, and leave me alone...."

Strangers sometimes comment on Salvy's weight. When this happens, I have to pause the Sondheim tune on my iPhone--and I have to pretend to take an interest in neighborly discourse. "Salvy has two toddlers in his life," I murmur. "And he tends to eat whatever gets left on the floor..."

More than once, a neighbor has given me a stern, sober look, and has said: "Food that is left out will get eaten. This is not the fault of the dog."

"Thank you for that," I whisper. "Thanks so much...."

My own body is not something that would be a cause for celebration within the pages of Men's Health. When asked if I exercise, I find myself tensing up. "I take a walk in the morning," I say, and I'm tempted to add a lie. "It's a really high-impact walk....It's almost a run!"

I return home to Salvy; we sit together, and we each have chips. This wasn't on the agenda. Oh, fuck. One more chip. An additional handful of chips, but this means I'll skip a drink on Saturday. Or I'll have wine, just wine, and I'll limit myself to 5 ounces. I'll definitely do that. Saturday will be my chance to atone...