Hey everyone, I’ve been lurking here for a while but never thought I’d actually post something this personal. I guess I just need to get it off my chest. I hope it’s okay to unload like this. Let me just jump right in.
I have a big, lovable Golden Retriever named Buddy. He’s been my best friend for the past six years, ever since I adopted him from a local rescue shelter. When I first brought him home, he was all energy and wagging tail, constantly bouncing around the house. I remember feeling so excited, like I had finally found the perfect companion—he was sweet, affectionate, and always ready to play.
But over the years, life got complicated. My job started demanding more of my time, and I moved to a new city where I barely knew anyone. Suddenly, Buddy’s walks became shorter, my own diet went downhill, and the two of us started forming some not-so-great habits together. I’d share bits of my takeout meals with him, thinking it was harmless. I’d lounge on the couch instead of taking him out for a long run. Before I knew it, he had packed on a lot of weight—and I hardly noticed it happening.
I guess I was in denial. People would come over and say, “Whoa, Buddy’s gotten… big,” or “Wow, he’s looking chunky!” and I’d just laugh it off, saying something like, “He’s just fluffy!” But deep down, I knew they were right. I could see his breathing was heavier, and sometimes he’d struggle to get up from his bed, which just broke my heart. But did I do anything about it? Not really. I told myself I would “start tomorrow,” or “once I have more time.” That’s the lie we all tell ourselves, right?
Anyway, I think it really hit me the other day when I walked Buddy to a nearby dog park. We hadn’t been in months. The moment we arrived, I noticed how Buddy just sat there, panting, while the other dogs ran circles around him. He tried to chase after them, but after just a few steps, he gave up. I don’t know if dogs can feel shame, but the look on his face… it really got to me. It was like he realized he couldn’t keep up, and he just sort of slunk off to a corner of the park. My heart twisted in a way I didn’t expect. It felt like I had failed him.
When we got home, Buddy went straight to the backyard, which is unusual because he typically rushes inside for water or to flop onto his favorite spot on the couch. I followed him outside, curious about what was going on. That’s when I saw him just sitting there, looking down at the grass, ears drooping. And I swear I heard the faintest whimper. Maybe I’m imagining things, but it really did sound like he was sad.
I felt like a total piece of trash in that moment. How could I let my best friend get to this point? I remember kneeling down next to him, running my hands through his fur, and telling him, “I’m sorry, Buddy. I’m so sorry.” He looked at me with these big brown eyes, and I just lost it. I started tearing up right there in my backyard, hugging my dog. If any neighbor saw me, they probably thought I was losing my mind, but I didn’t care.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying everything in my head. Buddy used to be so active, so full of life. And now he’s overweight, probably depressed, and I’m the one who caused it. I tossed and turned, thinking about how to fix it, how to make it right. Should I switch his food? Start an exercise routine for both of us? Hire a trainer? My mind was racing with a million questions.
Then the next morning, something happened that I can’t stop thinking about. I was out walking Buddy, determined to start making changes right away, even if it was just a short morning walk. We passed by a neighbor who was walking a small, very energetic terrier. As soon as the terrier saw Buddy, it started barking. But then the neighbor said something under her breath—something like, “Poor dog, he’s so fat he can hardly walk.” She said it quietly, but not quietly enough. I heard it. I’m sure Buddy heard it, too, or at least sensed the negativity.
My face went hot with shame and anger at the same time. I wanted to snap back, but I didn’t. Instead, I just hurried Buddy along. After that, I couldn’t shake this mix of rage and guilt. I was mad at the neighbor for judging us, but mostly mad at myself because her words were kind of true. And if it’s true, then how can I blame her?
I decided I had to do something, so I spent a few hours online, researching diets and exercises for overweight dogs. I read about portion control, healthier kibble options, raw diets, even homemade meals. I found out about dog-friendly fitness regimens, new ways to incorporate exercise into daily life, and so on. It was overwhelming, but I felt this surge of hope that maybe I could turn things around.
But the thing is, I’ve tried making “lifestyle changes” before, not just for Buddy but for myself, too. And I’ve failed. A lot. So there’s this nagging voice in the back of my head that keeps whispering, “You’ll never stick with it. You’ll mess it up again.” I hate that voice. I’m trying to push past it, but it’s there, and it’s loud. I know Buddy deserves better, though. I owe it to him to at least try—really try this time.
Anyway, I started implementing some small changes. First, I’m measuring Buddy’s food now. No more random scoops. I’m also making sure he gets two decent walks a day, even if it means I have to wake up earlier or skip some Netflix time in the evening. And I’m slowly cutting out the table scraps. That’s been hard because Buddy’s eyes practically melt my soul when he begs for a bite. But I know it’s for his own good.
Here’s the thing: he’s not thrilled about the smaller meals. He’ll finish eating in, like, two seconds, then stare at me as if to say, “Seriously? That’s it?” It tears me up inside because I feel like I’m starving him, even though I know I’m actually feeding him the right amount. Sometimes I cave and give him a healthy snack, like carrot sticks or apple slices. He’s not a huge fan of carrots, but he’ll munch on them if that’s all he gets. Apple slices seem to be more of a hit.
Over the past couple of days, I’ve noticed Buddy’s energy level picking up, just a little bit. He’ll actually trot a bit on our walks now, instead of just plodding along. It’s nothing dramatic, and we have a long way to go, but it’s a start. I catch glimpses of that old spark in his eyes when he sees a squirrel or hears a weird noise. That gives me hope.
At the same time, I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll get lazy again or stressed out by work. I’m scared I’ll fall back into the same patterns and let him down. Part of me wants to quit my job, move somewhere with a huge yard, and just devote all my time to Buddy’s health and happiness. But that’s not realistic. I have bills, I have responsibilities. So I’m trying to find a balance.
I also feel weirdly self-conscious walking him around the neighborhood now. Like people are staring at us, judging me for letting him get so big. I know some folks probably don’t care at all, but it’s in my head. And that makes me want to avoid going outside. But I know that’s the exact opposite of what Buddy needs. So I force myself to put on my shoes, grab the leash, and go.
The good news is that some neighbors have actually been supportive. One guy who jogs every morning waved at me today and gave me a thumbs-up when he saw Buddy and me out for a walk. That simple gesture meant more to me than he’ll ever know. It felt like someone was silently rooting for us. That’s the kind of motivation I need right now.
Yesterday, I had a moment with Buddy that I can’t get out of my head. We were in the living room. He’d just finished his measured dinner, and I was feeling guilty, wondering if he was still hungry. He waddled over to me and put his head on my knee. I looked down at him, and for the first time in a while, I didn’t just see an overweight dog—I saw my best friend, the one who’s been by my side through breakups, career changes, and lonely nights in a new city. I realized that if I don’t change for me, I have to change for him.
I got down on the floor and started petting him, telling him how much I love him. He licked my face and gave a little tail wag. It wasn’t a full-blown tail tornado like when he was a puppy, but it was something. It was like he was telling me, “It’s okay, I forgive you. Let’s do this together.”
So that’s where we are right now. I’m not going to pretend like we’ve magically fixed everything. We still have a lot of work ahead of us. Buddy is still overweight, and I’m still struggling to figure out a solid routine that I can maintain long-term. But I’m feeling more determined than ever. I’m looking into meeting other dog owners who are on a similar journey, maybe even forming a little accountability group so we can all keep each other on track.
I don’t want to promise some fairy-tale ending because I know life isn’t that neat. I know there will be days I slip up. I know Buddy might still have moments where he’s sad or uncomfortable. But I’m also seeing these small glimmers of hope—like the slight wag of his tail, or that moment when he actually broke into a little trot on our walk. And that’s enough to keep me going right now.
I just wanted to share this because it’s been eating me up inside, and I figured maybe someone out there can relate. If anyone has any advice or words of encouragement, I’d love to hear it. Or even if you just want to share your own story about your pet’s weight struggles, that would help me feel less alone in this.
I’m holding onto the thought that with patience, consistency, and a lot of love, Buddy and I can get through this. We might not be there yet, but we’re starting down the right path. And maybe, just maybe, the next time we go to the dog park, Buddy won’t have to sit in the corner feeling left out. Maybe he’ll be able to run around like he used to—or at least close to it.
But for now, I’m just taking it one day at a time. And that has to be enough.
Thanks for reading, everyone. Wish us luck.