Memoirs of a Fat Girl

People do stupid things to find themselves. I am no exception. In fact, I’d say that my canonization as Saint Whosit Whatsit, patron of all things confusing, is just around the corner.

In a perverse, vain hope to find myself and my path in life, I have recently embarked on several ventures: Back to school, art dealer, entrepreneur of first class doggie products to city savvy pooch lovers. I took these ventures so seriously that this past June saw me at Woofstock, canine festival extraordinaire, peddling over 2300 dog biscuits, made from scratch, by yours truly.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I was swept up in the glamour of being my own boss, even for something that would start out so small. After all, my friend LouLou was backing me up with her awesome products and together, we couldn’t go wrong. It was an awesome partnership begat through awesome ideas. We would take over the world.

That fateful Saturday morning, I started out full of pluck. I was going to sell sell sell, and become a doggie biscuit making marvel.

By Sunday night I was left with my own frustration, and thousands of biscuits to spare. I couldn’t understand where I had gone wrong. Which dog wouldn’t love these biscuits? Which owner wouldn’t want to provide their beloved with the best, tastiest treats in the funkiest of flavours? Sweet potato maple? Honey banana oat? Strawberry pecan? Strawberry?

Nursing a bruised ego and wanting to get rid of my humiliation (and imminent failure), I did what people in denial do best: sweep the evidence under the rug. Whatever biscuits didn’t go into the freezer were rained upon my very happy Bluetooth, and whenever I got the opportunity, gave bags upon bags of them away to friends with dogs, and friends who had friends with dogs.

One of these friends was Lee. Lee was the seamstress of my maid of honour gown for Oli’s wedding, and she also has a gorgeous Hungarian Vizsla dog named Abigail. Every time I had a fitting I’d go armed with heels, strapless bra/corset/deranged cutlets, and a sack full of treats for Abigail. In turn, Abigail would lick my face, devour my biscuits, then steal my shoes.

Our visits tapered off after the wedding, and then soon after, Lee landed a job in China. I’m not sure if Abigail will fall in love with Shanghai, but I’m betting she becomes a huge fan of Kung Pao chicken.

So that was that with Lee, Abigail and my biscuits, or so I thought. I got this message a few days ago:

Hi,

You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Lee’s. She passed your email address on to me, because I wanted to thank you.

My Dalmatian, Kingston, recently passed away. He was old and very sick, and his death was very hard on all of us. The last couple of months were the most difficult, especially when the sickness really took root, and he refused to eat.

I tried everything, all his favourite foods and treats, but nothing worked. He lost so much weight. Then Lee brought over those biscuits you made, and to our amazement, he loved them. Up until he died, those cookies were all Kingston would eat.

So, thank you. Really.

Wow.

From the looks of it, I will never bake dog biscuits for a living. I won’t pretend I’m too broken up about that either, actually I’m pretty relieved. In fact, if I ever do get into the dog business, I’ll just provide someone else with the recipes. Let them slave over the hot stove and dent their fingers with the cookie cutters.

But I made someone feel better. And I made their dog feel better. Even if it was just for a few minutes, some fire hydrant-shaped strawberry biscuits were a touch of relief.

Dog biscuits aren’t my path in life, that’s for sure. I’m no closer to finding myself today, than I was last June. But it’s good to know that just maybe, I went through that for a reason.

Rest in peace, Kingston.