Hi. My name is Zippy, but I’m not. I’m an immensely fat dog. I spent the last few years sitting on the couch, me and my person tossing back fried chicken (I got the skin) and Cheetos. My person fed and fed and fed me. And I loved it. He died a couple weeks ago. I miss him…and the chicken skin. Since then it’s been shelter, shelter, kennel, vet, and now a foster home.
My foster seemed OK when we first met. She scratched my ears on the long ride in the car. She didn’t laugh when I tipped over the first time I raised a leg to pee. I ignore her references to Tippy Zippy or Zippy the Zeppelin. I look away when foster dad jokes that I look like a beach house on stilts. A six bedroom, four bath beach house with screen porches on two levels.
I know my weight is a problem. I don’t feel well. I pant after walking half a block. I wanted to prance into my foster home, but when I put my front paws on the second step, I fell back on my butt. My foster dad has to carry me up the steps every time I go out to pee. There is some talk that I am the fattest dog ever to come to OBG. I know this is a problem.
And yet, I hate it that they are feeding me bad food. At mealtime I waddle into the kitchen, sniff the dreck I am offered, and ignore it. I’ve given hints—circling the dinner table, snarfing down a piece of potato that hit the floor—but the fosters aren’t very swift.
I’m so fat I don’t want to show my face. As you can see, even the back view is pretty scary. But I’m not ready to commit to the awful food my foster is offering.