Scales

I understand that I’m unusual in that I enjoy going to see the vet. I spent months living with one back in the land of warmth and I got to enjoy all the sniffs, the constant coming and going of other woofs and the adulation of all the staff who (understandably) think I’m adorable. There’s also always the chance that another dog turns down a treat and I’m there to ensure that it doesn’t go to waste.

I’m now starting to reconsider this perspective, you see, it turns out that vets in the UK have scales and insist on using them on every visit. Prior to my first visit, senior staff member was making constant jibes about my waste-line, so once I was weighed in at 9.2kgs and told that I was an acceptable weight I was a particularly smug woof. I felt good about myself and knew that eating everything that I could get my paws on was the path for this dog.

A few weeks later and we’re back again. This time I managed to vacuum up a stray treat that someone else had dropped outside, delicious. Smugly I hopped onto the scales and 9.4kgs popped up on the display. Hmm, an increase of 200g, that must have been a very heavy treat I inhaled there I thought. Still, my coat was growing in and all that luxury adds weight, so maybe my true weight had actually dropped. Whatever the case there were no comments from the vet staff, so all good.

Today we popped in again. It was a disappointing start as despite my best searching skills I was unable to find any tasty morsels to clean up on my way in. I gave the machine a sideways glance upon entry, letting it know who was boss, just in case it felt inclined to cause trouble. Not on this dog’s watch I told it. Unfortunately its ears must have been blocked as when I stepped on it showed 9.5, so I moved 9.6, moved some more and the numbers hopped around. Aha I thought, I’ve got this sussed. Alas junior staff member, yes him, started holding me down 9.8, 10, 10.2, I froze, this couldn’t be true. He removed his hand 10, 9.9, 9.8, 9.7, 9.6, 9.6, 9.6 it stayed.

There were a number of cheap jibes at my expense, which I took in good humour as everyone still treats me as royalty and commends me on my appearance, so what do staff know? We head on through to visit with a vet, there I am on the table waiting for my compliments, when she drops the “he is a bit over weight” bombshell. Nnnnnnnnnoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! I can’t remember the rest of the visit, nor leaving the premises, it’s all a blur. I think I have PTSD.

I have hazy memories of a walk, but how far we went, or what we sniffed I cannot tell you. There were conversations around reducing my food, removal of all treats, more walks, all the things a handsome pooch doesn’t want to hear, so I didn’t. My first clear memory is of the time we approached the car: There the car was, just a few dozen dog lengths along the street, when an adoring fan approached smelling of treats, after saying nice things about me she was about to hand over a goodie, I could taste it melting in my mouth, the flavour, the texture, it was glorious… “he can’t have any treats, the vet just said that he is over weight”. Senior staff member uttered those words and my world fell apart.

As you know, I am a happy Chapi, in fact I am the Happy Chapi, but for that moment I confess my smile did droop a tiny bit. I was lost for words, couldn’t say a thing, still can’t, which is why I am typing this now. Please comment below on how I can report this example of animal cruelty as I am new to this country and don’t know how to proceed. Thinking of your help brings the smile back to my face, as shown in this “please feed me” photo. Until next time.