I need to report a lost dog.
Not really. Don't get all worried.
I've lost the equivalent
of a dog. After 11 weeks of eating better and exercising more, I've dropped 25½ pounds — about the weight of a large Boston terrier.
My brother had Bostons, so I can picture this weight-loss dog in my head. It's got big bug eyes and an underslung jaw. Its fur is patterned like a killer whale, and it looks as if it evolved from one of those deep sea fish with an outsized mouth and rows of needle-sharp teeth. It jumps up at me endlessly, either trying to bite me or convince me to pet it. Maybe both.
Nothing against Boston terriers — or my brother, for that matter — but I never much liked his dogs. And the one I lost?
I don't ever want to find it again.
It'd be easy for me to find. It wouldn't take long.
All I'd have to do is stop paying attention to what I eat.
I could do that without difficulty, because I've done it before.
Several years back, I signed up for Weight Watchers and followed that plan for a while.
It's a good plan. Works for a lot of people. My doctor had recommended it to me.
I did great for about four months. I dropped about 37 pounds, and I had less to lose then than I do now. Every time I ran into someone I hadn't seen for a while, they marveled at my weight loss.
"How'd you do it?” they'd ask.
"The hard way,” I'd reply, feeling smug.