I went to visit my favorite gambling aunt this morning, to drop off some Chex Mix. She loves that stuff. Now that she's retired, I don't run into her at work. She's always full of the best information, though. She's like the Hedda Hopper/Louella Parsons/Rona Barrett/Army Archerd of Hillmomba. She knows the lineage of the populace better than all the microfilm stored in the Granite Mountain Records Vault.
She's what you might call a cat lady. I think she only has four right now, but hosts two from down the street for lunch and supper every day. Her dog came out on the porch to greet me. Let's just say he's unlikely to perish from starvation during the apocalypse.
"I know. Don't tell me how fat he is."
"Huh. Like I would comment on a dog's weight," I said as I greased myself to fit through her front door. "I was only going to say it looks like Sparky is still enjoying his daily cheeseburger." She used to get him one every day.
"Oh, I don't give him cheeseburgers now. It's his thyroid."
"Yeah. That's what I say."
Sparky looked like a pony keg. Or a pot-bellied pig. I'm not sure of his mix, but he kind of has the fur and face of a gray miniature poodle without the poodle cut. He weighs 61 pounds. Still, at 13 years old, it would be cruel to put him on a treadmill.
I have a feeling he will not get a share of the Chex Mix.