Publisher's note: Please join me in welcoming our newest contributor to BCN, Kathy Manos Penn, a native of the "Big Apple", by way of the "Peach City" - Atlanta. Kathy, a former English teacher, authors The Ink Penn blog and is now happily retired from a corporate career in communications.
As dictated by Lord Banjo and transcribed by the royal Mum
When you're a royal dog, you have quite a few people looking after you-not just the royal Mum and royal Dad. I have a royal groomer and several royal critter sitters, and these days I also have a royal physician. Actually, Dr. Beverly may end up with a less pleasant title depending on how long she has me on this new starvation diet. That's right, at her direction, the royal Mum and Dad are starving me.
Ever since I spent two nights at her house, she has apparently been biting her tongue about my royal figure. No matter that our veterinarian has never suggested I'm too big. Mum has asked, but the answer has always been, "No, Lord Banjo's 82 pounds are just fine."
It was just too much for Dr. Beverly when we all went on a trip together. As is my due, she spent lots of time on the floor snuggling with me and whispering in my ear. Immediately after all that attention, though, she declared that I was carrying too much weight. She says she's concerned about the burden my pounds put on my joints. She was so horrified at my royal parents bringing me doggie bags from the many restaurants they visited that weekend, she has laid out a diet plan for me. Harrumph! I have gotten no say in this distressing turn of events.
We had a lovely routine established here at home before her interference. Just picture this:
Mum lets me out in the morning, and I come back in and finish whatever milk is in the cat's dish.
Dad gives me my yummy arthritis pill and a chunk of Canadian bacon as he prepares breakfast and then lets me lick the plate.
Mum lets me lick her plate too, and throughout the day, I finish up the dabs of food the finicky cat leaves in her dish. (Yes, Princess Puddin', I'm talking about you.)
For lunch, I get chunks of ham from Dad and get to lick Mum's salad bowl. A boy's got to have his greens you know.
At dinner, I finally get my big bowl of dry food, with scraps from the dinner plates. Boy, how I love the nights we have salmon or pork chops.
Do you see anything wrong with that diet? I certainly don't. But noooo, the royal physician has put a stop to all of that. I'm on new dry food, and I'm getting a significantly reduced amount of that plus a HUGE reduction in scraps. Really! I get to lick plates but only if they're empty already, no chunks of anything. And, whenever I look at Dad with longing in my eyes, he says, "Take it up with Dr. Beverly."
Not only am I starving, but I'm also concerned I'll lose my regal figure if this keeps up. What would my great-grandparents think if I were to waste away to nothing? Would they think me unfit to carry on the Great Pyrenees lineage as the royal dogs of the French court? Worse yet, might others mistake me for a commoner? I'm tempted to point my royal paw at Dr. Beverly and bark, "Off with her head," but I'm a kind and gentle ruler and will refrain ... for now.