Animal Cruelty?

When Willie was born, he was given the name Tubby because he was in fact tubby.  He was the biggest of the litter and the name surely fit.  No way was I going to have a dog named tubby...that's what I would call the bathtub when the kids were little and it was time for them to take a bath..."Do you want to get in the tubby-tub?"

My two year old Willie...not three...two, has continued to be tubby and has exceeded the Westie growth charts.  Not that there is a Westie grown chart, but I'm sure he's in the 212th percentile for weight.  Westie's don't usually get over 20 lbs...15-17 tops!  Willie is at 25 lbs. now.  Five pounds is A LOT on a being that is less than a foot tall.  I measure out his food every day - he gets 1 1/2 cups of food per day and his treats are limited to only when he does tricks.  How can you not reward a perfect roll-over, play dead or stay?

Now that I think about it...when I am cooking, sometimes he gets some meat scraps.  He wedges himself between my shins and the cabinet...tightly wedges himself there, and waits for something to drop.  If I'm being particularly mess-free then he brings on the begging and the whining that is so high pitch that it doesn't make a sound...just a whisper scream. And then those dark brown eyes and his patient 'sit'.  I cave.

So, maybe, yeah.  It's my fault he's tubby.

The worst part is, and I think this would solve many problems for Willie, is he doesn't get any exercise unless it's chasing a ball around the house or running from front window to back window and back again being on the look-out for cats, and ummmm, periodically chasing friends around attacking their pant legs and shoes (we are seriously working on that one...the post office won't deliver our mail if he's out in the yard...my fierce dog!! BEWARE!!).  And it's too miserable cold outside to climb snow drifts and wade through mud puddles.  So just like his momma, who has to get her...self...to the gym, Willie has his very own treadmill out in the garage.  He was SO MAD after I made him run on the treadmill.  Anytime we would walk near the garage he would stop and refuse to enter.  He even dug his claws in and refused to walk for Will.

And even though I can tell you exactly how the "Dog Whisperer" does it, it didn't work for me.  I could see the look on his face.  He was trying to figure out how he could stop all four feet from moving.  He would get close to the side and get two paws off and then get confused and start walking again.  So what did I do?

I bribed him with white chocolate chips to get him to stay on the treadmill.

But he's a male...I don't think his desire-for-chocolate-drive is intense enough to get him back onto the treadmill.  And then there's me.  My desire-for-chocolate-drive is the reason I am on the treadmill.  Working off calories I have already ingested.

Ring! Ring!

Hello, Spring?

Can you come out and stay?