Super size me!

My name is Buddy and I'm a McDonaholic. I've been sober for two days.

(Crowd replies: Hi, Buddy!)

When I was on the run, I developed some terrible eating habits, cuz I felt like I had to take whatever was offered no matter how bad for a dog it might be. After all, I was in survival mode. Compounding the problem was that some of the things that I knew I should turn up my nose at . . . well, they just tasted so doggone good! You know what I'm saying?

Take McDonald's hotcakes and sausage biscuits and scrambled eggs, for instance. A sweet lady named Bonnie, who was one of my main caregivers, used to bring these to me for breakfast, mixing them in with regular dog food. First thing you know I was hooked! For supper she dealt me the hard stuff--hamburgers! Two or three at a time! Crikey, I thought I'd died and gone to McHeaven!

I should point out that I don't fault Bonnie one bit for setting such a fine table. She knew I needed lots of greasy calories if I was gonna survive the winter outdoors, which let me tell you was pretty unpleasant. But once I adopted Mike and Jeannie and moved into my new house, I found that kicking the Styro-food habit was no bed of roses. I still like a little scrambled eggs and bacon with my breakfast now and then, and Jeannie cooks them up just fine. But the biggest monkey on my back is the hamburgers. I can go without them for maybe a week, but that's it. By about day 5, I get the yips and the letter "M" starts invading my dreams--and I don't mean as in "Mike":

Thank goodness for Wednesday, when McDonald's hamburgers are on sale for 49 cents a pop. Wednesday night has become "Burger Night" at the old hacienda. I guess you could say I'm on a maintenance program. Bonnie, now one of my dearest friends, will come over around six, often with Judy or some other nice "enablers," and take me in her SUV to Mickey D's, which is just a few blocks away. The people there all know me by name. They know I'm the one who gets the "plain" hamburgers--just the meat and the bun--with no pickle or ketchup or mustard or onions--and most of all, no fries. (My human friends think it's strange that I don't like French fries, but really, there are limits to what a dog will put in his mouth!)

Sometimes M or J go along for the ride, but we always bring our food back to the house so J can mix mine with my regular stuff. This week M took his camera to get some pictures for my blog. Here's one that shows how I would look ordering my own hamburgers if they let dogs order their own hamburgers:

And here's one of me scoping out the menu. (I'm not sure why you don't get to the menu at the drive-thru until after you've already passed the order thingy. I think it has to do with corporate strategy or thinking inside the bun or something. But what do I know? I'm a dog.)

And here's where I would get to pay the pretty girl if I had the money:

This next window is where they usually give you your stuff. Only this past Wednesday we had to "please pull forward and we'll bring it out to you," since the fries were still cooking. (How can humans eat those things? Yuccch!)

And finally, here's our order arriving:

We do a quick inventory. Then it's back home to strap on the old feedbag, for McDonald's, to paraphrase one of Mike's favorite writers, is a moveable feast. Uh, thanks, J . . . just break it up like the other one.