I’ve recently been presented with a new situation that is slightly concerning. This situation is unchartered territory for me and at this point I’m not entirely sure what steps I should be taking to avoid this complication.
My dog is scared of my exercise pants.
Due to the extensive rain and colder weather this winter I have been doing the majority of my exercising indoors. On any given day I could be “shredding” with Jillian, “cheering” with the DC Cheerleaders, “sweatin'” with Richard or “walking away the pounds” with Leslie. And, since we’ve recently acquired a flat screen plasma television neatly mounted above our fireplace in the front room (yeah…definitely Jer’s doing) I have been gettin’ my workout on in there. (Because, everyone knows, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders just don’t look quiteattractive enough on a standard screen without high definition.)
Now, normally, Lewis (the dog) is attached to me like a fly to a pile of poop. Wait. That would make me the ‘poop’. Bad analogy. Um, how about this one. Lewis is attached to me like candy to a fat kid. Dangit. Okay, you get the picture. He’s attached. Moving on.
A couple of weeks ago, I had just talked myself off the couchandLeslie Sansone was in my brain willing me to Walk Away the Cheezits.I headed toward the bedroom and my good ol’ sturdy exercise pants, my little buddy trailing closely behind me.
This is when I was faced with the new situation.
As Ibegan pulling up myexercise pants I noticed Lewis looking at me…his furry face riddled with fear.
“What’s up, buddy?” I asked.
He started backing away from me, slowly.
I stood there, my winterized legs (in terrible need of a shave) glowing brightly in contrast to my black lycra pants. I suddenly felt very vulnerable. Was it the sight of me in these less than attractive pantscausing his sudden trepidation? Were my white legs causing his imminent panic attack?
Watching him back away from me, I pulled my pants all the way on and reached down to quickly shove my feet in my Nikes.
That did it.
The little puff-ball beat feet and dove under Jer’s desk. If the dude could drive I’m pretty sure he would have been halfway across the country before I figured out what was happening.
Jer, who I forgot was at his computer and had sat there watching the entire exchange, said,”That was weird.”
“Um, yeah. What’s his problem?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. He’s under my legs though and I don’t think he’s moving,” Jer said.
“All I did was put on my…Oh. My. God. He hates my exercise pants.” Of course! Wait…what?
“Mindy, he doesn’t hate your exercise pants. Why would he? That makes no sense.”
“Um, I don’t know,Jer. But as soon as my leg slid into these things the dog freaked out. Okay? I need to go work out. We’ll figure this out later.” I stomped out, slightly affronted over my dog’s apparent prejudice against athletic apparel.
I started my workout, trying to shake the image of my little dog’s fear-filled eyes, shivering helplesslyunder my husband’s legs.
About halfway through my sweat-fest I noticed Jer had entered the room, laughing.
“What, Jer?” I huffed.
“I figured it out. I figured out what’s wrong with Lewis!”he answered, between bouts of laughter.
“Okay, what is it?”
“Every time you take a step on that hardwood it sounds like elephants are partying it up in the living room. The pounding is resonating through the house.” Jer was standing there, shaking his head. Proud of his discovery.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Did you just compare me to an…elephant?”
“Um…huh?” Jer asked, his voice suddenly modulating like a pre-pubescent boy.
“An elephant, Jer? Really?”I asked.
So, as you can see, I find myself in a new situation. I apparently will need to approach my dog’s needs with more sensitivity. At the very least I should be working out with a lighter step so as not to resonate an elephant-like stompthroughout the house. Thanks a lot for that, Jer.