Meet Lulu, the Exercise Equipment

She is eight weeks and one day old today. Four of her siblings died. The foster mom sent us this picture. Isn’t she cute? Then again all puppies are.

We have a soft spot for brindle dogs. Our Norman, we lost him four years ago at the age of 17, is still mentioned regularly in our home. He was a black brindle pit bull mix, also a rescue.

What we don’t need is another dog.

We have Patches—remember her? I introduced her on my blog back in 2015 when we got her as a puppy. Hard to believe she is now eleven years old. And then there is Mr. Vader, our hound-doberman mix (4), the star of the family. He is the kindest dog I have ever met. Sensitive, too.

Vader is fat. Well, that’s not what the veterinarian said—they call it obese, which means exactly the same thing but sounds nicer.

Vader gained weight after his accident. Last year, while we were hiking, he jumped into broken glass that had been left behind by careless people. It hurt him badly. He couldn’t walk much for months; the whole experience traumatized him. The injury itself and me dragging him back to the car. The endless drives to and from the veterinarian that were necessary afterward. Our car is now permanently associated with the veterinarian’s office. A place he doesn’t like anymore.

He still follows me to the side door, but the moment he hears the little beep from the remote that unlocks the car, he stops, walks away, and sits down at a safe distance. He is making it clear to me that he has no intention of going anywhere. And I haven’t forced him—yet.

He is a rescue, too. Someone left him behind in a sink in the maintenance room of a large apartment complex. He was only twelve weeks old and already had three scars on his little body. You don’t force a dog who has been through trauma. You just don’t.

Last winter was brutally cold, which didn’t help the situation either. I continued taking my walks alone, and still do. His paw needed time to heal. His mind needed healing too. The paw healed. His mind? It doesn’t seem like it.

A couple of months ago, I gave the dogs some ham because, well, that’s what we do in our house. We spoil our dogs with special treats—also known as human food.

Vader developed pancreatitis.
Off to the veterinarian we went—again.

The scale read 88 pounds. He had gained nine pounds, and I am the one to blame.

Feeding the dogs is entirely my responsibility. I choose their food, order it, pick out their vitamins, decide on the treats, create the feeding schedule, and determine who gets how much and when. That’s all me.

I failed him.

I ordered a new dog food with the wonderfully appealing name Fat Dogs. Supposedly, it keeps dogs fuller longer, so they eat less. It worked. They hated it. They ate less. It does make me wonder why we humans don’t use the same marketing strategy. Imagine if chocolate, cake, cookies, and pie all came labeled Fat humans. How appealing would that be?

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To be honest, it broke my heart. I had never seen either of them approach a food bowl with so little enthusiasm. They both looked up at me as if asking, “Are you serious?“

I managed to stick with it for about three weeks. Then I caved. The goal is to help them reach a healthy weight. That doesn’t mean they have to be miserable or feel like they’re starving. So Fat Dogs is officially off the menu.

We ordered a different weight-management food, and they absolutely love it. I feel better too.

The truth is, Vader simply doesn’t get enough exercise right now. Humans and animals, it’s the same math: calories in vs calories out (burned). It looks like we’re in for a very hot summer, so long walks aren’t an option except early in the morning or late in the evening.

Our Vader is bored.

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He is obsessed with balls and wants us to throw one for him all day long. We’ve thrown so many balls every single day that our shoulders have started aching. What can I say, we aren’t spring chickens anymore. Patches has absolutely no interest in playing. So, it’s him and the balls—a ton of them.

We want to do right by Vader.

So…

He gets a puppy. 🙂

Puppies are a lot of work, and since I’m the alpha dog in this household, most of the training falls to me. I’m not exactly looking forward to interrupted sleep. Then again, at my age, I wake up several times every night anyway, so I might as well pick up a puppy and head outside. What else is there to do in the middle of the night?

I am terrified.
I am excited.

The playpen is set up. A tiny collar is waiting. The veterinarian appointment is already scheduled for Monday for her first vaccinations and deworming. We have a baby crate, toys, puppy pads, a new heartbeat puppy (Vader sadly destroyed his old one), and all the other wonderfully silly things proud soon-to-be puppy parents buy. $150 was spent quickly (Amazon made me).

Wish us luck.

And strength.

And patience.

We pick her up tomorrow.

Goodness…

It’s like waiting for Christmas.

Or a tornado.