Wherein poundage is shed most violently...

I'm losing weight.
Not through any particular exercise regimen of my own, although I've been labouring harder than usual at work, lately: just from cutting my portion sizes down and eating more protein and vegetables and less actual food. For a while there--like, a week or two--I did a mile a day on our treadmill, but lately, in the heat, I can't be bothered. Which is another reason among many that I admire the hell out of my wife, who's working out four, sometimes five days a week.
She's losing weight, too: lots of it. I'm down a pant size, but she's down a lot more and still going strong. Of course, she's got sweat to help her along. I don't sweat much...it's gotta be Christly hot for me to get drippy. But she can be hot to the point of saturation in an air-conditioned room. Throw in a workout, and I kid you not she looks like she just came out of the shower. It's almost scary. Check that: it is scary. Eva needs a fan on her at all times to feel remotely comfortable.

Yesterday, another member of our household lost some weight, abruptly and cataclysmically.

I came home from a rough, rough day at work, tired, sore, and hungry. (Price Chopper's a lot like 7-Eleven, in that you grab a lunch break when you can, and quite often, you can't.) My hunger pains cut off the second I opened the door and regarded the puddles and globules of doggy doo-doo that Georgia had frantically deposited all over the house.

I really should have taken pictures--but you probably wouldn't believe them, either.

Oh, Tux tried to take the blame. He got the original guilty conscience: all others are pale imitations. He cowered and cringed and looked woebegone, making me wonder for the umpteenth time what kind of a hellhole he spent his formative months in. At first, I bought his act, remembering the last time he'd left little presents for us. Then I got to looking around the house a little and changed my mind. There was simply too much poop...not a Tuxedo's worth but more like an entire state's worth of excrement. A big state, like, say, a Georgia.
It was everywhere: kitchen, living room, stairs, upstairs hall...everywhere she could get to. I felt terrible, playing out the scene in my head. A couple of calcified, almost fossilized turds on the living room floor that I immediately dubbed 'the dam'...and then the dam burst, scatted hither and yon. I could picture her running all over the house, trying to find a Mommy/Daddy to get her outside, and being periodically overcome by bouts of explosive voiding.
Our Peach had been going outside as usual, but I hadn't thought to keep tabs on every peachpit that came out. After all, she'd housetrained perfectly and quickly, and she was very good at letting us know when she had to go. (Heck, half the time Tux serves as the bowel alarm for both himself and his sister.) Anyway, our Georgia-peach had maybe a touch of lassitude about her, but I'd taken that to be heat-related. I've got a touch of lassitude about me. Meanwhile, the pressure was gathering...

When Eva got home, she said "look at the Peach, she's skinnier!" And she was. Noticeably. That, uh, clenched it. Eva grabbed the Bissell steamcleaner and a gallon of Febreze and set to work with a will. (Our deal: I clean up barf, on the grounds that I can do so without barfing, and she deals with shit, on the grounds that if I attempt to clean up shit, very shortly I'll have to clean up barf as well.)

And all is right as rain in the Breadbin this morning. The Peach is frisky, the Tux is asleep, and I...

...have to go to the bathroom.