Minnyzou

tuesday: the day of phoebe, one fat ween

this is the end. again.

hold your breath and count to ten.

the vet told me i was fat. again.

not fluffy. not voluptuous. not a generously proportioned sausage of exceptional beauty.

fat.

and apparently, the answer is exercise.

exercise.

i beg your finest pardon.

i am a delicate flower. a rare jewel. a tiny, emotionally fragile victorian widow trapped inside the body of a slightly overstuffed bratwurst.

i was not built for such barbaric activities.

my legs are decorative. my paws are for demanding snacks. my body was designed for horizontal excellence.

the end is near, my friends.

the exercise is the end, my friend.

first, they reduced my treats. then they questioned my portions. and now they expect me to walk? on purpose? without a cheese-based incentive?

what fresh circle of hell is this?

i have endured unspeakable suffering in my short, beautiful life.

breakfast arriving three minutes late.

a blanket that wasn't properly preheated.

being told i'd already had a treat when clearly that treat was from an entirely different emotional era.

and now this.

my own family has joined forces with the veterinary establishment to destroy everything i hold dear.

i fear i shall not survive the journey from the couch to the kitchen.

should i collapse after seven steps? please do not weep. remember me as i was: majestic, round, and magnificently snack-motivated.

tell my blankets i loved them.

tell my heating pad it was my greatest romance.

tell the cheese drawer that every moment we shared was real.

and tell the squirrels. they have won.

i shall now retire to my orthopedic throne, where i will stare mournfully into the distance and contemplate the cruel injustice of being an extremely beautiful ween in a world obsessed with waistlines.

please respect my privacy during this difficult time.

unless you have snacks.

then come immediately.

tuesday. a tragedy in seventeen emotional breakdowns, three dramatic sighs, and one medically recommended walk.🐾

phoebe, the fat ween
survivor. victim. misunderstood icon.
currently accepting condolences in the form of cheese.