I’ve been wrestling with this for a long time, and I finally decided I needed to get it all off my chest. I shared a short post about it recently, but it felt so incomplete. I’m here now to pour out the full story, hoping that by putting it all in one place, I can maybe find some clarity—and maybe give some of you a chance to chime in with your thoughts.
So, this is the situation: My dog, whom I love with all my heart, is overweight. Really overweight.
I’m not talking about just a couple extra pounds. I’m talking about a situation that has gotten so out of control that people openly comment about it whenever we’re out for a walk. I used to ignore it at first—maybe give a little laugh or shrug it off. But it’s become harder and harder to pretend it doesn’t bother me.
It’s not just strangers, either. Friends and family have started to drop hints. Some are gentle about it, suggesting that maybe we go for extra walks or that I try a new diet plan. Others aren’t so subtle, flat-out asking, “Is your dog okay? Are you sure you’re feeding him the right amount?” or “Have you taken him to the vet lately?” It all comes from a place of concern, I know. But after a while, those questions start to feel like accusations. It’s as if they’re implying that I’m neglecting him or doing something wrong.
And then there’s the heartbreak I see in my dog’s eyes. Yes, I know he’s a dog, and maybe I’m projecting too many human emotions onto him. But I can’t help it. When we’re at the park, and other dogs run up to him and then run away to chase each other, I see him trying so hard to keep up. I see the moment he gives up, panting, exhausted, and defeated. Sometimes he just stands there, watching the others run, and it tears me apart. He looks at me as if to say, “I’m trying, but I can’t do it.” It breaks my heart in a way I never expected.
I shared a brief update on social media, writing something along the lines of, “No one likes him just because he’s fat,” which was maybe a bit dramatic. But in the moment, that’s how I felt. It was an outpouring of my frustration and sadness. I’ve been told it was harsh and that it made people uncomfortable. But that’s sort of the reality of it. It is harsh, and it is uncomfortable.
Let me go back to how we got here, because I don’t think I ever explained it properly before.
I adopted him a few years ago. At first, he was a little chunkier than the other dogs in the shelter, but I didn’t care. I was instantly drawn to him. He had these big, soulful eyes, and he just looked at me with such trust and hope. I remember sitting in the shelter lobby, filling out the adoption papers, while he plopped down beside me, content as could be. I’d glance over, and he’d be watching me, almost as if to say, “Are you sure you want me? Because I’m all yours.”
Over time, his weight started to creep up. He wasn’t a puppy, but he still had plenty of energy, and we’d go for walks around the neighborhood. At first, we were both pretty active, but life happened. My work got more demanding. I started coming home later and later. Sometimes, when I was too exhausted to cook a proper dinner for myself, I’d just order in and give him an extra treat to keep him happy while I tried to deal with emails or phone calls. And slowly, those treats became part of our routine. He seemed so happy when I gave him those little rewards—like we had a ritual just for us.
Before I knew it, the pounds piled on. I felt guilty, so I’d feed him more treats because, in my messed-up logic, it was the only time I saw him truly excited. I told myself it was a way to make up for leaving him alone too often. When I finally realized how big he’d gotten, I panicked. I tried to scale back, but he’d whine at me with those eyes. The guilt would wash over me again. I’d cave and give him more.
This cycle continued until the vet basically had to stage an intervention during one of our checkups. She looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and concern, explaining that his weight was putting him at risk for a whole slew of health problems. She gave me a plan: specialized dog food, measured portions, a strict feeding schedule, and daily exercise. I promised I would follow it to the letter.
For a while, I did. I set reminders on my phone for feeding times. I tried to limit treats. I scheduled walks, even if it was late at night or early in the morning. We saw a little bit of progress, which felt great at first. But it was so easy to slip back into old habits. One stressful week at work, one minor crisis, and suddenly the routine fell apart. I’d find myself tossing a treat here or there to keep him occupied while I got on a conference call. Before I knew it, we were back to where we started.
It doesn’t help that people around us haven’t been particularly kind about it. At the dog park, I’ve overheard people making comments like, “Oh, that poor dog,” or “How could someone let him get that big?” I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it does. And every time I hear something like that, I’m reminded of how I failed him. I know he’s not “just a dog.” He’s a living being who depends on me for everything. His health and happiness are my responsibility. And I feel like I’ve let him down in the worst possible way.
I guess that’s why I wrote that post saying that nobody likes him because he’s fat. It was raw and unfiltered. I was tired of hearing the comments, tired of feeling judged, tired of seeing him struggle to move or play like he used to. It felt like nobody else could see the sweet, loving soul that I see every day. They just see his size. And it kills me.
But here’s where the story takes a bit of a turn—something I didn’t mention in that short post.
A few weeks ago, I noticed that he seemed to be breathing heavier than usual, even when he was resting. I took him back to the vet. After some tests, she discovered that he has a thyroid issue. It’s not an extreme case, but it’s definitely contributing to his weight gain. It’s not just about the treats or the walks or my schedule. There’s a medical component, too. When the vet explained this, I felt a wave of relief and guilt all at once. Relief because there’s a chance we can help him with medication and proper management. Guilt because, for so long, I believed it was all my fault. I’m not saying I’m off the hook—far from it. But at least there’s something we can do beyond just diet and exercise.
We’ve started him on the medication, and the vet is optimistic that we’ll see some changes. But it’s not going to be an overnight transformation. It’s a process. I’m still dealing with people’s comments, the stares, the judgment. Part of me wants to scream at them, “He has a thyroid problem, okay? It’s not just me feeding him too much!” But I don’t. Because I realize now that it’s not about what other people think. It’s about what I can do for him.
Every day, I try to remind myself that he’s more than just a dog who’s overweight. He’s my companion, my friend, the one who’s always there when I walk through the door. He’s the one who’s been patient with me through every late night and every missed walk. He’s the one who sits by my side when I’m too tired to do anything else. And yes, he’s the one who gave me those eyes that I could never resist.
So, that’s the situation I’m in right now: A dog who’s overweight, a guilt-ridden owner trying to do better, and a newfound medical complication that explains a lot of what we’ve been struggling with. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading. I know it’s a lot, and I’m still trying to figure it all out.
As for what comes next… I’m not entirely sure. We’re going to keep up with the vet appointments. We’re going to adjust his diet. We’re going to work on a new exercise plan. And I’m going to try my best not to give in to those sad eyes quite as often. It’s not going to be easy, but at least now I feel like we have a real path forward.
I also have to address my own feelings. I need to let go of the shame I’ve been carrying. Yes, I played a part in his weight gain, but now that I know there’s a medical component, I can approach this with more empathy for him—and maybe for myself, too. I’m determined to help him get healthier, but I also want him to keep his big, goofy personality. The last thing I want is to see him lose that spark that makes him so special. So I’m going to work on a balance, finding a way to help him be the happiest, healthiest version of himself, without stripping away everything that makes him who he is.
In the meantime, I’m still worried about how people perceive us. I know I shouldn’t care so much, but it’s hard. I don’t want to be labeled as the owner who “let her dog go.” I don’t want him to be the dog everyone points at and whispers about. I want people to see him the way I see him: a loyal, wonderful companion who’s just going through a rough patch.
So yeah, I’m in a strange place emotionally. I’m relieved, I’m still worried, I’m hopeful, and I’m also exhausted. But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I love him more than words can say. And I believe in him. I believe that, with the right support, we can both get through this.
That’s basically where things stand. I’m not entirely sure how it will all play out, but I do know we’re not giving up. We’ve got a long road ahead, filled with diet changes, medication, vet visits, and definitely a few more tears along the way. But there’s also this small flicker of hope that’s been growing in me since we got the diagnosis. It’s a hope that maybe, just maybe, we can turn this around.
And for anyone who’s been following our journey, I promise I’ll keep sharing updates—good, bad, or somewhere in between. Because no matter how tough this gets, I know I’m not alone. And maybe someone else out there is going through something similar. If that’s you, please know that I get it. And I’m rooting for you, too.
So that’s it. That’s the whole story. Or at least, as much as I can share right now. Thanks for taking the time to read. It means more to me than you know. And for what it’s worth, my dog appreciates it, too. Even if he can’t say it out loud, I see it in those big, beautiful eyes.
For now, we’ll keep pushing forward, day by day, pound by pound, until we find our footing again. And maybe—just maybe—one day we’ll look back on this and see it as the turning point we needed.
I’m holding on to that hope. And I hope you will, too.
(End of post—still figuring things out, but feeling a spark of hope.)