Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Doggone exercise

As previously posted, I'm trying to get the inner skinny biyotch out before she smothers in the post baby weight mastodon I have become.
In order to achieve this goal, I have begun walking during my lunch break and on the weekends.
On the weekends, I make The Man's big dog, Harvey Wallbanger, accompany me, much to his dismay.
Harvey is a 120 plus pound giant Schnauzer who is a qualified AKC good citizen and who knows that he is the stronger of the two of us.
He may be the stronger one, but that doesn't mean he wins when we fight.
Hew, like his master, The Man, rolls over and whimpers, showing off the nice white underbelly and praying I don't decide to eviscerate them.
Twice, at about 8 months pregnant, Harvey did something amazingly stupid, resulting in me waddling out into the front yard, snatching him, flipping him, and sitting on his back, head pressed to the ground while I yelled at him for ten solid minutes.
I had contractions. He peed. The neighbors got a good show, thus proving that, yes, I am white trash.
Harvey has since learned not o mess with me. He appeases me in true doggy style (Not how it sounds! Ew! Yuck! Pervert! I'm a redneck but not that kind!). He is subservient and demure. Yeah right. Just like The Man.
Until we go out to walk.
Then he thinks he's the boss.
And he's out to protect the little woman.
Problem is? Harvey a chicken.
"Cluck! Cluck!"
If it came down to it, he'd leave me in a heartbeat. I keep him around because he looks scary--kind of like The Man.
While a madman murdered me, Harvey would be running with his stubby tail between his legs, looking for a place to hide.
To appease The Man, I tell him Harvey is surely tough and would defend me. I thoroughly expect to have Scooby Doo and Shaggy moment--Harvey getting spooked and me staggering under the weight of a big old lap dog.
I feel safer when I have a Chihuahua with me.
Hell, Saki can't see out of one eye and has a screwed up set of Billy Bob teeth, but he's at least got attitude.
As he spins in circles and tries to get you on his one good side.
Moral of this story? If you drive by and see a woman holding a hug black dog in her arms while a rat wearing a sage green sweatshirt weaves in and out of her feet, you'll know its me.
Wave and smile and move on.
Or pick up the madman whose trying not to fall over laughing.
I guess it all counts as exercise, doesn't it?

1 comment:

Tara said...

I count crawling races as my exercise. How could I argue with lugging a big ole dog around?