My dog is on a diet

I've been told by my vet to place my little mutt, Dusty, on a diet.

She's getting up there in years. Since she is a rescue hound, we aren't really sure of her age. By the vet's best estimate, she could be anywhere between 10-13 years old

We acquired Dusty a few months after we had to euthanize our beloved black Lab, Molly. Almost immediately after Molly's passing, I began to spend hours on Lab rescue web sites, picking out the dog who would be our next pet. I submitted our application to several places, and sat down to wait for someone to contact us.

In the meantime, I got lonelier and lonelier for another dog. One summer day, after finding a few shelters that all proclaimed there were Labs available for adoption, I loaded my kids into our car and took off to browse for dogs.

The first "no kill" shelter we visited was an hour from our home, out in rural farm country. The building was tired and old, and we were assaulted by the smell of urine and doggie waste immediately upon walking in the door.

The folks in charge of the shelter left us waiting for at least 15 minutes at the front desk. The man who finally talked to us was missing a few teeth, and rarely made eye contact during our conversation.

We explained that we were looking for a new Lab for our family, and he showed us to the room where the dogs were kept.

In what was the saddest excuse for a dog shelter I have ever seen, we were introduced to at least 20 dogs who all resembled Labradors, but were in various stages of filth and mange. All of the dogs barked and growled furiously as we passed by their pens.

Finally, we asked if we could "meet" what appeared to be the cleanest and calmest looking dog. Without a word, our guide leashed the unfortunate canine and ushered us into a foul-smelling room where we could bond with our intended pet.

The first thing I noticed were the dogs eyes. They were filled with both wild abandon and unbridled fear. The pup roamed the room, sniffing and crying, and would not come near either me or my children. She never stopped moving, as if looking for the easiest escape route.

I could tell by the looks on my kids' faces that this was proving to be a horrible experience. We are all animal lovers. I couldn't stand having them exposed to this.

We asked to have the dog returned to her pen, and left as quickly as we could. On our way out, we overheard a man in the lobby practically begging the shelter people to take an unwanted litter of kittens. "Certain death" was all I could think as we hurried to the car.

My kids and I were in tears. I wanted to give them another experience with animal shelters before we went home. Even though I imagined that this shelter was probably opened with the best of intentions, I didn't want them to be left with only this memory. Those dogs could haunt a person's dreams.

We drove to a well-known shelter in the town next to ours. While I knew from constant perusal of their website that they didn't have any Labs for adoption, I was at least familiar with the well-run and clean operation.

Our trip through the dog runs was much more pleasant. We saw big dogs and little dogs, lots of wagging tails. We read each sign detailing why this particular dog had found himself up for adoption. Some were too big, some jumped too much, some had owners who'd had to move, some were merely lost and had been brought to the shelter by a kind soul.

About half-way through the room, my daughter pointed at a medium sized brown dog who appeared to be smiling. Smiling and with happy eyes. Really.

The sign on Dusty's cage introduced her as "Dusty - Australian Shepherd." Hah. Having seen Australian Shepherds before, I saw nothing about this pooch that even vaguely reminded me of the shaggy, brindle-coated breed she was purported to be.

Dusty is a cut-and-paste dog. She is barrel-chested with thin legs and very petite paws. Her head is just too small for her body, although her eyes are quite beautiful. The piece-de-resistance is her tail. Sometime in her past, it was clubbed. And I don't mean clubbed as in a little knob protruding from her behind. Her tail is about 4 inches long and resembles a well-done bratwurst. We've speculated for hours on how this happened, and have never come up with a credible answer.

Anyway, we led our soon-to-be family member into an empty room. Did we bond immediately? No way. She completely ignored us. Her most constant action was shivering, as if the temperature had suddenly fallen about 50 degrees.

We fell in love, even though Dusty displayed none of the people-pleasing characteristics that I had been told to look for in my copy of "Rescue Dogs for Dummies." We took her home that day.

Dusty has been a constant source of hilarity for our family, mostly because she has eaten just about everything one can imagine, and never suffered even a moment of indigestion.

Moldy pizza from the trash can at the curb? No problem. A package of menthol cigarettes that my brother left on our porch? Gone in minutes. Pencils, crayons and markers? Faster than the average six year old can consume a bag of M&Ms.

Dusty loves coffee. I will never forget the first time I came into our kitchen to discover her ON the table, lapping up the cup I had just poured myself. She can lick a 12 oz. mug dry in a matter of minutes. All visitors to my home have been warned - never leave a cup of coffee unattended.

Gum and mints (and toothpaste when she is desperate) also reign supreme on Dusty's list of favorite consumables. I will never forget the day when a friend, who also happens to be a diabetic, left her purse on our outdoor deck. After making sure that we were engrossed in conversation, Dusty dove into said purse snout first, nosed aside several vials of insulin and syringes, and emerged victorious with a package of Altoids. She managed to open the tin and was greedily swallowing mint after mint when we looked in her direction.

Embarrassment in this proportion doesn't occur too often in life.

The greatest experience of Dusty's life has been, I am certain, the day of the Potato from Heaven. It was either Thanksgiving or Christmas, and I was unhappily peeling and slicing 10 pounds of potatoes for our meal that day. As is her habit, Dusty sat at my feet, generally sniffing the area and reminding me of her presence. Suddenly, one of the damp potatoes on my cutting board slipped under the knife and sailed, in a perfect arc, into Dusty's open mouth. Three chews, and it was gone.

Flash forward to the present day. Dusty has not only survived all of her potential food poisoning experiences, but has thrived as part of our family. Despite my husband's repeated warnings that he's not paying thousands of dollars for surgery should the dog ever have a perforated bowel due to eating, for example, a ball-point pen, Dusty has a firm place in our hearts.

I can tell she's getting a bit wobbly. She can't jump up to my face to give me a kiss when I walk in the door anymore. Now, I bend down to receive her slobber. Her legs seem a little weaker, and her back is beginning to sway. Some mornings, she rises slowly. She's put on some weight, making it harder for her to move. Hence, the visit to the vet.

"How on earth do you put a dog on a diet?" I asked. Canine weight watchers? Is there a doggie gym that we need to frequent?

"Forced starvation," was the reply.

Hmmm...

In thinking about Dusty's consumption of food, and non-food, over the years, how can I force a dog who considers bubble wrap a delicacy into a state of non-eating?

But, we're doing our best. I have cut her daily food intake in half. In response, she has discovered our pantry, where potatoes are stored in bins on the floor. She has taken to licking the furniture and the fireplace stones. She spends hours staring imploringly at me, just waiting for a repeat of that potato miracle. She's hungry, but I'm hoping that we can give her a few more years of good life. If shedding a few pounds helps, then I'm all for it.

Gotta go now....Dusty is eating an onion.