Who's the Master of the House?

It's no secret that Joe and Dina put me on a diet starting the New Year. The goal is to get me back down to fighting weight, i.e., under 30 pounds.

What they don't know is that when they put me on a diet, they started a war with me...a mental war. And folks, I'm glad to report that I'm winning. Here's what happens. They instigated the fight by serving me 1/2 a cup less of kibble (that brown circular stuff that tastes like cardboard). I've retaliated with a full-out, full-force, aggressive attack on their guilt. That's right, people. I don't care whether the guilt is Catholic, Chinese, or Jewish -- guilt is an effective weapon.

I whimper at my bowl. I cry. I beg with my pleading beagle eyes. When they sit down for dinner, I sit by their leg. I paw at them, repeatedly, just to let them know I'm there. If they sit down at the couch for a snack, I jump up and sit right there next to them. My soulful eyes burning their meager walls of resistance, until they let me lick the bowl or give me a tiny morsel. Oh Mommy, oh Daddy, what's a tiny little piece of your bread going to do? I can't gain that much weight from just one grain of rice, can I?

That's right folks, I may have a clementine-sized brain and they may have their fancy Ivy League degrees, but who's got the skills?

Case in point: My 300 calorie Valentine's Day gift.