July 18th 2006

Tuesday. An argument almost broke out in the waiting room today. One of my crazy (but lovable) clients walked in with Heidi, a well-fed Dachshund well into her graying years.

Heidi is not really fat, just a bit paunchy. She could use a few pounds off her frame, but mom is well aware of the trade-offs and manages her weight more responsibly than most, I must admit. Heidi would be obese if she had her druthers.

So now Heidi is safely installed in mom’s arms when client number two walks in. Client says: “How cute! Is she pregnant?”

Mom and the receptionists have a good laugh and client number two is a little embarrassed (as well she should be—in my opinion you no more ask if a dog’s pregnant than ask the overweight woman standing next to you in line at Starbucks).

Then client number two walks in an—you guessed it—she asks the same darn question. Lightning can strike twice, it seems. And now everyone laughs except Heidi’s mom.

Heidi’s mom walks into the exam room and tells me the story. You can tell this unflappable owner is really angry. She says, “Can’t you tell my dog is just plain old and pot-bellied? What’s wrong with these people? I just wanted to ask her (client number three) if she was expecting.”

Smoke is coming out of her ears as she explains the lengths she goes to keep Heidi slim. “It’s just not easy to be an old dog in Miami.”

“Ain’t it the truth.”

Don’t you know poor Heidi’s probably going to get at least one less treat tonight.