Well, it’s happened.

A thought translated into vibrations in my vocal cords until it reached air, carrying intelligible significance.

Just barely, tho. It was a quote from a car commercial.

(With a slight tweak: “That’s not a real puppy… that’s too big to be a real puppy…” )

But you just might say it too, after seeing “Hulk”:

This behemoth pit bull embodies that whole “big friendly giant” concept in canine form. He spends his days snuggling with his family’s three year old, singing along while the kid plays the harmonica, and letting him ride him like a show pony. That bit amazed me. Mostly ‘cause I grew up with dogs of pretty much every other breed who’d snap at me if I so much as tried that shiz. And pit bulls get the rep of snapping easily. Another article I wrote pointed out how, yes, some pitties are douche nozzles because they were either trained to be or experienced some trauma. Any dog can be made bad. But what I love about seeing this giant motherfluffer stick it to the breedists, is that he has the power to eat that whole family in three and a half minutes without leaving so much as a trace of a bony shard. But he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just ‘cause he knows that might be his last meal. But I like to think it’s because of our whole co-evolution with wolves into a friendlier, affable, multi-flavored species. Like this sentient shag pillow with legs sleeping at my feet.

Unlike old biddy Minnie here, poor “Hulk” is a pup yet.

Which means that his furry Fezzik dog acromegaly will keep him on this Cliffford spurt for a while.

Pickles, the cat, on the other hand… doesn’t have the “big boned” excuse.

A rescue cat, this overfed feline managed to remain obese even while roaming the streets he was cast into (presumably for devouring his keepers – which is something Hulk would never dream of doing.) Since cats, while less loveable, are considerably more resourceful than dogs (notwithstanding the fact that feces are deemed “leftovers” by all canine kind), I suppose it wasn’t too much of a pickle for Pickles to find himself in as he was scavenging until he finally found his way into an animal rescue. Unless he was even fatter than that before. Now that he’s been adopted by some people with weird accents up north, he can live out his days occupying an entire couch by himself, treating his stomach as a garbage chute, dancing with his mother, and forcing his father to make this face when he tries to lift him for a picture:

My back hurts just looking at him.

I mean the cat – carrying all that effing blubber around can’t be easy.

You know, this’s normally where I’d start drawing comparisons between pets and people – recruiting a link from that obesity blog I just wrote (oh, look; there it is). Especially since I’m seeing a lot of commentary online that jibes with that sentiment (“Why you feed your pet so goddamn much?!”) But I’m torn. I mean (despite what Oprah says) pets aren’t people. It doesn’t mean I don’t value them more than people 90% of the time; I’m just saying that unlike us, they don’t need to go out and have a special mission in this world (unless they’re service animals). They’re just here to love and be loved unconditionally. So, I’d say that overfeeding them could be a kindofa abuse if it’s making them unhealthy. If I put out twelve cooked chickens, my dog would eat them until there was an excremental pyrotechnic show painting the walls preceding a poultry induced death. It’s my job to monitor that. However, on the other hand, I feel like neither’a those things apply here. Hulk’s clearly excused ‘cause it’s not his fault his father was a steroidal Cerebrus. And Pickles almost wouldn’t make the cat cut – if not for his unfortunate past. I feel like he’s probably not a spring kitten. Rescue’s are like the OG’s of the pet world. They done seen some shiz. Just give him his snack surplus and let him live out his days with what comforts he has. But everyone else? Yeah, you need to up your fur parent game, exercise your sweet little bastards, and get down with getting the thickness down.

And on that note, having consciously opened with a line from a Toyota ad, I’m calling it, doc.

Time of death for daily internet exposure?

3:08 P.M.