Years ago, I worked as a management consultant, a job simultaneously fascinating and jejune. Colleagues kept catch-phrases in their pockets: "What Have You Done To Make Sure It Never Happens Again" (commonly known by its acronym. Really.) "Fake it until you make it." "I'm in the weeds."
My favorite was, "Eat your own dog food." When a high-tech client's internal IT was a mess, or when the CEO of a gadget empire refused to buy the rubbish he was selling, or when employees did not wear safety goggles when manufacturing safety goggles, one of us had a come-to-Jesus meeting and told them to eat their own dog food.
Today's example includes an actual dog.
My morbidly obese neighbor takes her small black dog for a walk every day. Except she doesn't actually walk the dog. She bundles up and sits on her motorized buggy (note: not a wheelchair) with a saddle blanket draped over her thighs, and she drives the neighborhood at full speed.
Her dog is not the leader here, and by the time she reaches my house he is running hard to avoid strangulation via leash.
Is pitting a single horse-powered motorized buggy against a tiny mutt a fair race? Wouldn't both of their lives be vastly improved if she walked him? Even fifty yards at a slow walk would be good for her health, and would give her poor dog a break. Or perhaps she could just tether herself to a treadmill and set it to 6.5.
I blog rarely, because I'm writing books. When I do blog, I focus on writing, friendship, family, and books. Because my family's best nicknames are private, I use their birth years for shorthand: