Hope that passes!

I came home from Winston-Salem yesterday to find my living room floor littered with small bits of paper.

My Jack Russell terriers, Abi and Lucy, are occasionally prone to shredding any napkin or paper towel they can reach that has a remote trace of food on it, so initially I thought someone had left one where they could access it. When I went to pick up the pieces, however, I quickly noticed that it was really paper and the first shred had an endorsement area on it.

OMG! They've eaten a check!

"WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I blurted, the two dogs, previously eager to see me after my outing, tucked their ears and huddled on the back of the loveseat. One made a dash for the bedroom before realizing the door was still closed.

Another piece of debris revealed that the check was the weekly payment for my daycare pup, which had been delivered to me that morning with a baggy of food and a piece of a chicken treat. I'd tucked treat and check into my jacket pocket.

I turned to where I'd carelessly tossed my jacket on the back of an armchair, there it lay, a large hole chewed in the lining and the pocket pulled through the hole. The pocket itself had several holes chewed in it.

I quit scolding the dogs and blamed myself. I usually hang the jacket up. Had I done so, it would have been safe, even with a pocket smelling of chicken jerky. It was basically my fault, and I know terriers are a tenacious lot and once they have a scent they like they will find a way to gain access to it.

My first JRT, Lucy 1 (not to be confused with Lucy 2, one of my current pair) had already demonstrated that fact to me years ago. (As an aside, Lucy 1 died nearly 10 years ago. Lucy 2 had a coincidence of name when I groomed her for her previous owner, which led me to share Lucy 1's story. When Lucy 2's owner had to move, he offered her to me and, of course, she found a new home.)

When Lucy 1 was about a year old, having been a Christmas puppy, "101 Dalmations" (the remake) was a hit with kids. There was a candy bar that year that was white chocolate with milk chocolate chips to resemble a dalmation, and both children had one in their stockings. My daughter's stocking was hand-knit and long, hanging nearly to the floor from its position on her bedroom door.

That morning, when the children dumped their stocking loot, my son had a candy bar. It appeared my daughter did not, so we went back for a closer examination. We found the wrapping of the candy bar wadded in a wet mess in the two of the stocking, which we noticed was wet and smelled of chocolate. Evidently, Lucy had spent Christmas Eve sucking the candy bar through the knit. Candy was history, and Lucy didn't appear the worse for the experience.

Life with JRTs has given me other instances of their apt cleanup, such as the toddler's lunch disappearing from her high chair tray (which would involve one or both standing on their hind feet in a kitchen chair and doing some extreme stretching), chewed items that I'd have sworn were properly put away, and lessons learned about leaving nothing edible on a flat surface less than counter high.

After the check cleanup, I shared the story with the check's original owners, who considered it properly "voided," so now I only have to make sure the Jack Russells do the same.

A fat person waiting to get out

"Heavy" is my guilty pleasure. I DVR it and watch it in the afternoons while there's no one around but me. "Hoarders" has much the same appeal, but for totally different reasons.

Hoarders I don't understand. If I had my dogs, my photo albums and possibly my new laptop, my house could vanish and I wouldn't be distraught. Even the treasured heirlooms from my grandparents, while they couldn't be replaced, would receive only the appropriate amount of mourning. It's just stuff and, in general, stuff can be replaced. The attachment to everything and inability to throw away even trash is beyond me.

The people on "Heavy" are a different story. There, but for the grace of God, go I.

You see, I'm fat. No, it's not a joke if you know me. In my head, I'm a big person. All 5'6" of me, which weighed in this morning at 128.8 lbs. Even in loose size 6 jeans, my ribs visible through a small knit shirt, I'll never see myself as skinny. I understand the addiction of food and guard against it like an alcoholic working his 12-step program. When I fall off the wagon with a box of Krispy Kreme chocolate covered creme filled donuts, or a Papa John's pizza on occasion, I "pick up a white chip" and start over.

When I watch the morbidly obese people on "Heavy" trying to figure out how their lives got so out of whack and how to get them back, that's a pain I understand. But unlike many of them, I know the source of my food issues. I just can't get rid of them.

In my early school years I was an average and often sickly child. I spent the summer between the third and fourth grades sick with tonsilitis and the measles. Just before school started, I had my tonsils removed. Before that school year ended, I was bigger than everyone in my class but two girls. I couldn't stop my growth or my early puberty, but I hated it, and it couldn't have come at a worse time. Just at the age when I'm forming my own body image, I'm big, even if only for a few years. Add to this that my dad's new name for me was "Tubby" and I often wonder how I avoided becoming anorexic. Probably just because the bathroom was too close to the kitchen and my parents' room for any sneak purging and clean your plate was still the golden rule.

Instead, I languished through middle school and most of high school, outside the social loop. I made my own clothes, cut my own hair, was a total nerd and had few friends. By the sixth grade the only boy who wanted to be my boyfriend was shorter and far heavier than me. It seemed boys were nothing but a painful fantasy. By high school, I was a grade ahead of my peers and knew virtually no one. I was enough of an outsider at school that the lack of popularity seldom bothered me, and I never really knew what the popular kids might have thought of me. If a boy had expressed any interest in me, I'd have never seen the signals after being an outsider for so long. I was a senior before I had a boyfriend and even then I was playing the game without knowing the rules.

Somehow, I never really noticed when the other kids caught up or even passed me. Although thinking back I remember not being tall any more, I still remember that I felt bigger, fatter than the people around me. Looking at old pictures, however, I can see that wasn't really true. Even pictures from those most painful years, seen from the distance of age, reveal a kid who doesn't look like I thought I did.

Watching "Heavy," I see people who struggle with some of the same issues I did, but with such a different outcome. I cheer for their success at the same time that I wonder how they ever veered so far into territory that they probably at some point feared. I strengthen my resolve never to go down that path.

Walking miles each day, mixing Zumba, weights and yoga with my daily activities, and monitoring my diet with an energy that would exhaust less driven people may mean that becoming morbidly obese isn't likely to be part of my future. At the same time, understanding the seduction of food means I know that there could be a danger should there be a big change in my life.

And it means that while you may see a small person, needlessly obsessed with her diet, or imagine a person who can eat anything, my reality is a little different.

Somehow, I'm containing a fat woman who's waiting for the first sign of weakness to get out.