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My dog is too fat for TV work.

Let me explain.  Bentley – my dog – is a mutt.  Not a designer breed kind of mutt, but an actual we-have-no-idea-what-kind-of-dog-he-is mutt. Oh, and he has an agent.

No really.  My nineteen pound rescue dog (Petfinders) from Arkansas has an agent who works with him, trains him, and brings him to auditions.  In an only-in-NY story, we had had Bentley only a few days, when a woman stopped my husband (and dog) on the street and said she had a proposition for him. She was a pet-agent, she said.  And our puppy had potential.

My husband, thinking I would refuse, politely declined.  I, however, did not refuse. “We can make money off this dog?!” I said. “Sign me up.”

So now, more than two years later – and after an agent-free year when she wasn’t interested anymore – Bentley is back in business.  Once or even twice a week, the trainer takes Bentley, trains him in a few hours to do things I haven’t been able to teach him in two years – and takes him on go-sees.

A few weeks ago. Bentley booked his first job.  A big job – a Target commercial. We were so excited.  My dog owner friends from the park were jealous.  One even said to me “No offense,” which, by the way, always means they are about to say something offensive “but why Bentley?  I mean, what makes him so special?  My dog is cute.  He could be in a commercial.”

Well, maybe.  But your dog hates people.  He snarls at everyone.  He’s mean.  Cute or not, no one wants to work with a crazy. Just ask Sean Young.  Also – he’s a dog.  It’s not a personal affront. Get over it.

ANYWAY – Bentley – because he is so cute and has such a lovely personality – (take that, woman in the park!) – booked the job.  But then, the day of, they went with another dog.  Why?

He’s too fat.

My nineteen pound dog needs to lose — get this – a pound.  ONE POUND!  People like to see thin dogs, evidently.  A good looking dog has a tuck between his ribcage and his belly. I was given express instructions on how much to feed him, how much exercise he should get.

My dog is too fat for TV work.

At first, I thought it was hysterical. A dog on a diet!  Then, I got depressed.   Even my dog is not immune from body image issues.  Granted, they’re my issues, and the casting director’s, but still.  My daughter, a twelve year old who wears girls size 10 jeans and barely tips the scale at all, has already begun obsessing over her weight. (my fault, I’m sure).  I have wasted a lifetime worrying about every lump, bump, and calorie, and yet have still to lose those dreaded 10 pounds. (Hence my tagline: On Momming and Aging and My 20 Year Quest to lose the Same Ten Pounds) And now my dog will also be saddled with self image issues?  Will he be too embarrassed to go to the dog run with the other dogs?  Will he decline to sit in my lap for fear I’ll notice that he’s gained a few?  Will he insist I don’t put him in the red sweater I knitted him because it makes him look fat?

Will there be no end to the madness?

They say people look like their dogs because they pick dogs they think are cute — and most people think they, themselves, are cute.

So I picked a dog who isn’t fat, exactly – but who needs to lose a few to fit into society’s idea of the perfect weight.  You do the math.

One day, maybe Bentley will write his own blog:  “From Hungry to Heavy…in one owner flat.  On barking, and pooping, and my five year quest to lose that one last pound.”

Hey, he already has an agent.

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The Kids vs. The Dog

Cu bentley I remember the olden days when my children would cry and carry on when I left the house to go out. “Don’t go Mommy! Don’t go!” And when they would rejoice at my return, running to the door to smother me with kisses….even if I had only gone downstairs to get the mail.

But alas, they are only memories.  Now, when I leave, I’m lucky if they look up from their book, or – let’s be honest here – one of their many screens.  Instead of “Don’t go Mommy.” I get something that’s a cross between a grunt and a goodbye.  Kind of a good-grunt. When I return, I wander around the apartment until I find someone. “Um, hello?” I say. Instead of kisses I get…well, I get nothin’.

That’s what dogs are for.

Read the rest of this post on NYC Moms Blog!  Click here.

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I’ve always wondered where the expression “sick as a dog” came from.  Now I know.

Our new puppy, Bentley, has been sick – on and off – more or less since we rescued him.  In the past six weeks, we’ve been through three rounds of medication for Giardia, which is a  parasite common to puppies, especially ones from rescue facilities.  Giardia is NOT pleasant — for me or Bentley.  For him, it means yucky and frequent poops, some vomiting, and not a whole lot of energy.  For me, it means cleaning up said yucky poops and puke, and being glad that in addition to that I’m not chasing after him as he, with puppy-like intensity, proceeds to destroy my apartment.

Yesterday, I went to the vet and dropped off what I hope to be the final, non-Giardia infected “sample.”  (You haven’t lived until you’ve walked down West End Avenue with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a bag of dog poop in the other.) But the whole experience has left me wondering: WHAT THE HELL WERE WE THINKING???????

I remember (and if you don’t have children, skip this part, it’ll gross you out) – I remember, when my kids were babies, picking their noses.  Which ought to be disgusting, but at the time, just felt like part of what you did to keep your baby clean and fresh looking.  I mean, let’s face it, no one likes a baby with snot coming out of his nose.  Of course there was diaper changing, and messy poops to clean up, and puke to deal with.  And never once do I remember feeling utterly grossed out by any of it.

Wiping my dog’s poop encrusted butt utterly grosses me out. Because, let’s face it, he’s a dog, not my child.

Now before you sick the PETA police on me,  let me set things straight:  In the six weeks we have had Bentley, I have wiped his butt, cleaned his puke, cured him of an ear infection, force fed him antibiotics, brushed him, walked him at four a.m., cleaned up more poop, knit him a sweater, spent untold money on grain-free organic, human-grade dog-food, stayed in the room with him until he falls asleep in his crate, and not had a hissy fit when a certain canine single paw-ed-ly destroyed a perfectly good pair of evening shoes.  If that’s not love, what is?

It’s just that while I’m doing all that…it’s grossing me out.  I love him.  I do.  Who could resist that face? And he’s making my kids soooo happy.  But quite honestly, if he doesn’t get well soon, I’m the one who’s going to be sick as a dog!

Someone please tell me that, like the sleep deprivation of the first three months of parenthood, that this, too, shall pass.  Someone tell me that I have not turned into one of those people who talks to their dog like a person, as in “Do you think that was a good decision?  To eat my Walter Steiger pumps?  I want you to go to your crate and think about that young man.”  Someone reassure me that I have not, in effect, added another child to my life.

Well, two out of three ain’t bad, right?  This stage will pass — and I do talk to Bentley as if he has the foggiest idea of what I”m saying, and it is like having a baby.  Just a baby that grosses me out more than my biological ones did.

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bentley in ArkansasAs my kids and I walked to school, they plead their case.

“Please can we get a dog?”

“Mommy, if we got a dog, I promise I would take care of it.”
“Every one else has dogs.”
“Please can we get a dog?”

Aunt Susan got a dog and she doesn’t even like dogs.”
“Please can we get a dog?”
“You never gave us another brother or sister, so you owe us a dog.”

Yes, just about every time we walked to school, that’s what I heard.  For five years. (Although to be fair, my daughter alternated between wanting a dog and wanting to get her ears pierced.)
I might add that walking to school takes a good twenty-five minutes, during which we pass innumerable dogs in Central Park, enjoying the off-leash laws. Thus innumerable chances for them to say “Isn’t he cute?  What about a dog like him?”  And this was when the dogs were mangy, or smelly.  Or resembled my sixth grade science teacher who looked like he never brushed his hair.

Twenty five minutes of begging, three days a week (that’s subtracting for the days when they beg  for ear piercing, or a DS, or an iPod…or even the occasional day off from begging, when we just talk.), starting some time mid-way through kindergarten and lasting until Fourth Grade.  I think that adds up to 4455 minutes of begging.  So a few weeks ago, we finally caved.  We’re getting a dog.

Read more about Bentley by clicking here.

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