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BY JENNIFER SILVERMAN
PRETTY PLEASE, DON'T CALL MY DOG "FAT"...
Petunia, my West Highland Terrier canine companion was born a Southern Belle in Mississippi.
She joined me in Manhattan as a puppy and quickly became a doggie New Yorker.
Despite her rather ladylike dog name, Petunia seemed to effortlessly develop a thick, New York skin.
Practically overnight, she went from a pooch who had never seen a leash to a cosmopolitan pup who strutted down Park Avenue like she owned it.
Petunia ruled the dog park and seemed to declare dominance upon arrival. No other canine big or small dared defy her.
Like all puppy parents, I fully admit that I am utterly biased when it comes to my fur baby’s many attributes.
I find her doggie smile captivating, her personality adorable, and her intellect par excellence.
During playtime, when I suddenly realize that I am the one doing the fetching - much to Petunia’s glee, I admire her cunning.
When she refuses to see off a visiting friend who had declined a furry sleeping companion the night before, I appreciate her tenacity.
When she routinely informs me it’s time to play with her puppy pal next door, and later that it’s time to go home, I respect her decisiveness.
Although I welcome constructive criticism about myself, I’ve always drawn the line at the canine.
When Petunia first grew from a puppy into a full-size, twenty-ish pound Westie, my Upper East Side New Yorker neighbors began imparting doggie commentary on the regular.
For some reason, the pedestrians I encountered suddenly felt compelled to inform me that Petunia was “really big for a Westie.”
Translation?
These canine critics were (not so diplomatically) calling my dog, "fat."
The encounters were not isolated incidents courtesy of one or two rude passersby. They were in fact continuous occurrences perpetuated by a smorgasbord of strangers.
Was Petunia actually “really big for a Westie?” Maybe, I don’t know.
I’ve certainly seen much smaller Westies, but I’ve also come across doggie specimens of more substantial stature than Petunia’s.
Nonetheless, body shaming and "fat shaming" is never cool. That goes for both the human contingency and the pooch "pupulation."
I just couldn’t imagine why so many sidewalk commentators felt compelled to blast their observations.
I'm well-aware that it's totally silly to be offended by a harmless and likely well-meaning remark, but it really got my goat.
I never knew how to respond.
I considered retorts like, “Yes, because she eats little dogs like yours for lunch.” or “She is not big. She’s curvy.” or “Don’t you know it’s impolite to discuss a lady’s weight?”
Of course, I usually said nothing. I just glared, blinking - mostly because I had no words.
After all, the bulk of folks on the mean streets of New York don’t directly comment on anything unless they’re whistling at you, yelling at you, or about to rob you.
Just imagine if I told my parents that they should do something about their cockatiel’s bald spot.
Or, what if I informed my uncle that his tabby cat was in dire need of kitty Listerine?
How about if I spotlighted an unfortunate haircut on a neighbor’s pooch?
I would never say any of those things, as I have no desire to inflict offense with futile commentary about a beloved pet.
As it happens, I had not thought about those New York sidewalk encounters in many moons, that is until last week.
During a peaceful stroll with Petunia around our current Florida home, a stranger approached.
Surprisingly, she was not seeking directions, a chat about my weekly Curious Columnist newspaper column, or friendly banter.
Her remark? You guessed it...“Your dog is really big for a Westie.”
One might think after all these years that a brilliant comeback would be on the tip of my tongue.
Nope – I just glared and blinked, again.
Then I glanced down at Petunia, who was on her belly in the sand, far too enamored with the view and sunshine to remotely care about anything else.
Hey, I don’t call her brilliant for nothing.
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