[dropcap]O[/dropcap]ne of my friends is a vet. We were good friends as young men. We rooted for the same teams and even liked the same kinds of girls. Which was a big problem.
Because as it turns out, he was the attractive one.
And I was his opening act.
My buddy has more money than Benjamin Franklin. He graduated with a veterinary degree from a certain Alabama university – which shall remain nameless. He’s a very successful vet, and I’m proud of him for earning nine times what I do.
But I’ll admit, I’m even prouder when his college team loses.
I took Ellie Mae to my buddy for a check-up. I drove a long way just to see him. He ran his hands along Ellie’s body, inspecting. Then, he patted her underbelly, examined her ears, and even inspected her tailpipe.
Ellie Mae growled.
Like any good Southern lady would.
After a few moments, my buddy came to a conclusion: Ellie Mae is fat.
I almost socked him in his cow-college kidneys.
“It’s no big deal,” he insisted. “Dogs gain weight. Just like people do. She needs to lay off the carbs.”
He stroked Ellie’s head. “She’s the size of a horse. And large-breed dogs don’t live long. Twelve years max. No more carbs.”
I collapsed in the chair.
“It’s not the end of the world,” he said. “I’ll hook you up, brother. I have some carb free food she’s going to love.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “It’s only seventy-two dollars per bag.”
So, I bought six bags.
I can’t have that fool thinking I’m poor.