Not no, but hell no. Pardon the double negative—sometimes emphasis is necessary. Sadly, for me (and by extension my entire household), something is new about my life. I am on a diet. Let me be clear: this diet was not a decision of my own making. As you may already know from previous articles—or personal acquaintance—I am a chowhound. Food is my love language. I am no mere consumer; I am a connoisseur. Fine meats, soul food, trashy food, cheeses, and sweets speak most directly to my soul. Or they did. These pleasures are now off-limits. Let me explain how this culinary hell came to pass and what form it has taken.

It Started With an Itch

It began a few months ago when my humans noticed excessive itching and scratching—on my part, not theirs. I had a brief flea incident over the summer that sent the whole house into chaos. I was constantly sitting and scratching. The tubby human informed me this behavior was not ladylike. Upon hearing this comment—delivered in a tone I know far too well—I responded as I always do when confronted with nonsense: I ignored it. When my itching and munching became excessive, I was popped on the nose or the caboose. Nose-knocking is the worst. I glare at whoever inflicted the indignity, usually the chubby one. That fat bastard should know actions have consequences. Revenge will be served. I digress.

The Poof Incident

I was simply trying to scratch fleas. This was lost in translation until one morning when the spare human—my favorite, truth be told—examined my poof. The poof lives under the bed. The main human (aka Tubs, Fatty, Chubs, etc.) thinks it’s ugly and hides it from view. That’s fine. I prefer my bed under the bed. Maybe it reminds me of my animal heritage. Who knows? I love soft surfaces. In winter, I sleep on a Rococo Revival settee upholstered in Brunschwig & Fils because I deserve the best. Summers in Mobile are brutal, so I retreat beneath the bed where it’s cooler, resting on my poof. On this particular morning, the spare human noticed it was covered in fleas.

Baths, Betrayal, and Chicken Legs

The humans went into cleansing overdrive. My bed was tossed. My beautiful circular bed—with the perfect indentation for my head—was placed in the trash. Still reeling from this betrayal, I was thrown into the bath. One bath became many, week after week. I continued to scratch and lick my hindquarters like a madwoman. Tubs had the nerve to call me vulgar. How dare that bastard. I am a lady, assface. Concern escalated when I chewed the fur off my legs. The spare human described them as “chicken legs.” That’s when I was taken to the vet.

The Diagnosis Nobody Wanted

The vet is a nice lady, though I’m not a fan of the examination process. One look and she identified the problem: food allergies. The solution was a very strict diet. No people food. One single dog food only. For a roaming gourmand like myself, this is hell on earth. No steak scraps. No cheese. No pup cups. Suddenly, the itching didn’t seem that bad.

Kangaroo. Sweet Potatoes. Australia.

You will not believe what my new food is made of. Brace yourself: kangaroo and sweet potatoes. Yes. Marsupial and yams. That is my life now. Shockingly, I like it. The food comes all the way from Australia, which officially elevates my status as a high-maintenance bitch. When the first shipment arrived, my human thought it was only a sample because of the price. He nearly had a stroke. I live for those moments. Dogs can laugh. I do—often at his expense.

The Results Speak for Themselves

Meat and potatoes aren’t so bad. Kangaroo is good eating. Will I start hopping around like those giant Australian rodents? Possibly. I already bounce from room to room, especially when the humans come home. They find it endearing. Sweet potatoes are new to me, too. Tubs loves them. His ever-expanding waistline proves it. George Washington Carver championed them, and as an Alabama girl, I support all things local. Best of all, the results were almost immediate. The itching stopped. The munching ended. My luxurious sable-like coat is back in full glory—just in time for winter. I suppose diets aren’t the worst thing in the world. Now, if only I could put the bigger human on one.

Cartledge Weeden Blackwell III, “Cart,” is a historian and a curator. Blackwell was born in Selma, Alabama. He obtained an undergraduate degree from the College of Charleston and his graduate degree from the University of Virginia. He authored Of People and Of Place: Portraiture in Alabama (1870-1945): Reconstruction to Modernism for the Alabama Chapter of the National Society of Colonial Dames of America (NSCDA). His second book, Of Color and Light: The Life and Art of Artist-Designer Clara Weaver Parrish, is to be published by the University of Alabama Press in the winter of 2025.