My name is Mosby. I'm 8 years old and I've always been a big guy. Even when I was young and fit I was tall and hefty. I didn't have to work at it, I just played with my brother and did the stuff you do when you're young. And I ate whatever they put in front of me!
I was comfortable and happy in my home, even when they had me and my brother declawed (I'll get to that in another post). Then, seven years into what I thought was a great relationship, my world turned upside down.
My people, the ones who raised us and loved us, abandoned us. We found ourselves homeless and living in rescue (better than the shelter, yes, but still not home). By then, I was up to 18 pounds. I was hefty, but I could still play and get around easily. But this, this upheaval, left me shattered. Like many of you, I turned to food.
Food made me happy. Food made me feel better. Food didn't go away. So I ate.
We went into a foster home with loving people and interesting roommates. There was always food there, too. This time it was "weight management" food. Great! I thought. It's light! I can eat as much as I want! So I ate. A lot.
Before my foster family knew it, I'd packed on nine pounds! They moved the wonderful food so I had to climb to get it. I climbed. I ate. I ate a lot more.
The nice foster people adopted me and my brother after a year. They're wonderful, kind, gentle, and really care about us. They're very worried about me. I don't move around well. I breathe heavy. I'm constipated. They tried other foods, but what I really want is kibble. They're nice, they give me a few pieces with every bowl of moist food. But my wonderful food, my constant companion, is out of reach.
I'm on a diet, kids. I'm not happy about it. But I really have no say. We went to the doctor, ran all kinds of tests. More on that in the next post.