The Dog Diet: The Bark Alarm (Rejoicing in the morning)

Excerpted from
The Dog Diet: What My Dog Taught Me About Shedding Pounds, Licking Stress and Getting a New Leash on Life
By Patti Lawson

I was so grateful to this little dog for my eight-pound weight loss. My mission was to discover exactly what role she had played in making these pounds evaporate. By examining what we had been doing together, I'd reveal the secret and continue to become the skinny me I had longed to recapture for years. In the process, we'd become like Lassie and Timmy-great friends, forever. However, our bonding was not so easily accomplished.

The morning after the parvo scare, her shrill barks filtered up through the laundry chute. Her pennie was still in the basement where, I hoped, her barking would eventually become so faint that I wouldn't be able to hear it in my second-floor bedroom. Each night I was optimistic as I handed her a bribe in the form of a Milk-Bone, locked her in the crate, put her television on timer-Animal Planet of course-and trudged up to the second floor to begin my own bedtime ritual. I had stuffed the laundry chute with old pillows in a feeble attempt to muffle her endless barking. She weighed only eight pounds at this time, the exact amount of weight I had lost, and I still marvel at how she could produce such a high volume with her barks. I felt like someone who had just been handed a life sentence and sees "This is the first day of the rest of your life" scrawled on the prison cell wall.

I've never been a morning person, and all I wanted was to sleep in just a little bit longer. The previous evening had been a joyous celebration of her good health and my jeans fitting. But now, in the cold light of day, I had to get up because she wanted to go out. Her barking grew louder, and I hauled myself up to see what was so urgent.

It was at times like these, when things seemed unbearable between us, that I'd hold her in front of the mirror imagining the eight pounds back on my body. It made me grateful, and having a lively, wriggling, eight-pound example to show myself exactly what I'd accomplished was great.

I realized I needed to give her a name. I made a list of all the dog names I'd heard before, but none of them seemed right. At her vet's office, her records still said "New Puppy." Each time we went for one more of what seemed like endless puppy vaccines, they gave me curious looks and could not understand why I had yet to produce a name for this dog who was a favorite at the clinic.

She was so cute that she garnered lots of attention on our walks, and everyone's first question was, "What's her name?" My answer that I hadn't given her one yet was fine for the first few weeks, but grew embarrassing after that.

Rodney, my neighbor/ex-boyfriend (those of you who have had the misfortune to experience this combination will appreciate my dilemma here), had several suggestions that were impossible. He thought she was a jubilant little dog, which she was, and wanted me to call her Jubil. I couldn't do it. It didn't fit. He started calling her all sorts of stupid names, and she'd respond to any of them.

It was in these early weeks that I had to leave the dog with Rodney for several days. I'd reserved and paid for my annual after-tax-return trip to Hilton Head Island long before the dog came into my life. In the past, whether a property allowed dogs or not had never been a factor. But, like everything else in my life, this was now different. Dogs were strictly forbidden where I was going, and unless I wanted to be at the mercy of my ex-husband who lives on the island and leave the dog at his house, I couldn't take her with me.

So, promises of many dinners and breakfasts got Rodney to agree to care for her while I went off to the beach. I was so relieved and, more than anything else, looking forward to finally sleeping in. During my week at Hilton Head, I slept uninterrupted. The lovely sound of the ocean replaced the dog's morning barking. It was heavenly. I felt a few pangs of guilt for abandoning her so soon during our residency together, so as I was leaving the island, I stopped in at a pet store. I returned to Charleston rested, loaded down with dog gifts and surprised by the joyful reunion we had.

I certainly wasn't prepared to hear from a neighbor, "Hey, you finally gave her a name, but how on earth did you ever come up with the name Buckwheat?"

I wasn't one bit amused to learn that in my absence, Rodney had decided to try not one, but two names out on the dog. Buckwheat was bad enough, but the other name was Booger. I might not have been able to select a name, but his were outrageous. To make matters worse, she was starting to answer to either one of these ridiculous names. I was also afraid that she'd soon think her name was "Shut Up"-that's what I yelled down the laundry chute every morning as I tried to get a measly fifteen minutes more of sleep.

I couldn't believe that Rodney had taken it upon himself to get involved in the naming crisis in the first place. The day I brought her home from PetSmart, Rodney was the first person I showed her to. In my panic at actually having the dog in my possession, and overwhelmed with the thought of being responsible for another living creature, I had offered to make her a "joint dog."

We could share her-and the care of her. He had politely refused, saying that he couldn't handle the care of a dog, but thought she was cute and she would probably be good for me.

Why was I not surprised by this attitude? Rodney and I had dated for ten years. He'd also had other long-term girlfriends, but none of them, nor our relationship, had resulted in marriage. We tossed the idea around many times over the years, but neither one of us seemed to have the same thoughts at the same times, so, while the romance slowly fizzled out, we remained friends.

I was surprised, however, at how often he was now coming over to see "the dog." He played with her, took her riding in his convertible, got her all excited before bedtime and then went home. I had to do all the work. Once, when we had dropped by to visit him, she ran into the bedroom and peed on his bed before I could stop her. You would've thought she demolished the entire dwelling to hear him rant on about it. I had to haul the comforter across the street to my house to wash it immediately. There I was, with an unnamed dog pulling me along with her leash, while I struggled to hold on to a king-size comforter as we made our way through the parking lot and across the street. Maybe she did deserve one of those horrible names.

But, in the end, it was Rodney who finally came up with her name. Out of the blue, after I had considered more names than first-time parents most likely ever do, he casually said to me, "My grandmother's name was Sadie. She was so sweet and had such a kind disposition and lively spirit, and her name really fits this dog."

Sadie, I thought, as I looked at her sitting there looking at me. I tried it out. She jumped up on me, which, of course, meant nothing because she seemed to answer to anything by this time, but in that instant she became Sadie. It simply fit. The name brought on an avalanche of cute little nicknames, both endearing . . . and otherwise. She seemed very pleased that she was finally being called just one name, and in her own way rejoiced. I called her vets office and told them. They approved.

Now that she was named, it was time to settle down and figure out this diet mystery with her. The fact that she now had a name, though, had no bearing on her continued early risings. Instead of yelling "shut up," I'd yell her name. Same effect-just more barking. The situation was getting critical. She always wanted out of the crate at an ungodly early morning hour. I was suffering the new-parent nightmare of sleep deprivation, and I didn't even have any doting grandparents to pawn her off on so I could sleep in just one morning. I longed to be back at the beach. My Sharper Image sound machine's weak faux ocean waves were no match for Sadie two floors below me.

This new obsession with sleep-or lack thereof-made me think back to one of my stretches of fitness fanaticism, when I had learned that to lose weight you needed to get eight hours of sleep. Although I never really grasped the technicalities of this phenomenon, it sounded good to me. To my dismay, the program didn't mean that you could sleep in. The personal trainer I was working with at the time insisted I meet her at the gym at 6:00 A.M. I spent twelve weeks shivering in the predawn West Virginia mornings that winter in hopes of a better body. It worked for a while, but like all my other efforts, it didn't last. My finances and my discipline both seemed to run out at the same time.

A different personal trainer, Dave, devised a regimen for me that unintentionally required a very early-to-bed plan. His rules didn't allow any eating after 7:00 P.M. That meant in order to obey his mandate I had to go to bed about 8:00 P.M., to avoid the inevitability of my eating something. I bargained at length with Dave about this, but, he assured me, this was essential in order to reach my goals. I never was able to completely abide by it. I simply could not go to bed early-or hungry.