The Denver Dog Fair is June 27th. I went two years ago when I was visiting a friend in Aurora. It was chaos. In a good way. But also in a "my dog gained two pounds in one day" way.
Every booth has treats. Every vendor has samples. Every rescue has cookies. Every food company has a tasting bar. And your dog is walking through this minefield of calories with their nose in the air and their eyes on the prize. And you are the only thing standing between them and 500 unplanned calories.
I made the mistake of bringing Murphy without a plan. I thought, "I'll just say no. I'll be strong. I won't let him eat anything." I was not strong. I was weak. I was weaker than I have ever been in my life. Because Murphy is adorable. And vendors are persuasive. And samples are free. And "just one bite" seems so harmless. Until you've said yes to 47 vendors and your dog has consumed 400 calories in samples.
Here's the math. A typical dog treat sample is 15-25 calories. Vendors give 1-2 per visit. There are 50+ vendors at a typical fair. If you visit 20 vendors — which is easy, because they're everywhere — and your dog gets 2 samples per vendor, that's 40 samples. At 20 calories each? 800 calories. For a 50-pound dog that needs 1,000 calories per day. That's 80 percent of their daily budget. In samples. In "just one bite." In things you didn't even buy. In things you didn't even want. In things that were free.
I had a client named Jennifer. She took her 40-pound beagle, Barney, to a street fair in Portland. She swore she didn't feed him anything. "I was so careful," she said. Then we did the math. Barney ate: three pieces of dropped kettle corn (120 calories), half a corn dog that a kid dropped (200 calories), a piece of pizza crust from a trash can (150 calories), and a lick of someone's ice cream cone (50 calories). Total: 520 calories. For a 25-pound beagle that needs 600 calories per day. In two hours. Without Jennifer even trying. Without her even knowing. Without her even seeing.
Jennifer cried when she saw the numbers. "I thought I was being good," she said. She was being good. But good isn't enough when your dog is a vacuum cleaner with legs. Good isn't enough when there are 50 vendors giving away free calories. Good isn't enough when you're surrounded by temptation and your dog is looking at you with those eyes.
So here's my plan for the Denver Dog Fair. Or any fair. Or any street festival. Or any public event with food. Step one: feed your dog a full meal before you leave. A hungry dog at a food event is a disaster. Step two: bring your own treats. Boring, low-calorie, measured treats. Carrot sticks. Green beans. Rice cakes. Not the good stuff. The boring stuff. Step three: keep your dog on a short leash. Not for safety. For control. For your sanity. For your willpower. Step four: practice saying no. "No, thank you." "My dog is on a diet." "We're not eating today." Say it before you go. Say it at the first booth. Say it at every booth. Because the first booth is the hardest. And every booth after that gets easier. Step five: have an exit strategy. When your dog has had enough — or when you've had enough — leave. Don't stay for the whole fair. Don't see every booth. Don't collect every sample. Leave when you're ahead. Leave when your dog is still healthy. Leave when you're still strong.
Last year, I took Murphy to a street fair in Portland. I followed my own plan. He ate before we left. I brought carrot sticks. He was on a 4-foot leash. And I said no to every vendor. "No, thank you." "My dog is on a diet." "We're not eating today." It was hard. It was embarrassing. It was awkward. But Murphy ate zero unplanned calories. And I ate zero fair food because I was too busy watching him. And we both went home hungry and proud. It was the best fair I've ever been to.
So if you're going to the Denver Dog Fair, have a plan. Not a vague intention. A plan. Because plans work. And intentions don't. And your dog's health depends on it. And your sanity depends on it. And your wallet depends on it. Because vet bills are more expensive than saying no. And arthritis is more expensive than carrot sticks. And a shorter life is more expensive than any fair you'll ever attend.
—Megan (currently on my third cup of coffee because writing this made me tired)
Let me tell you about the street fair that almost broke me. It was last summer. Portland. The Hawthorne Street Fair. I took Murphy. I was prepared. I had a plan. I had carrot sticks. I had a short leash. I had my "no" ready. And then I saw the puppy.
A 10-week-old golden retriever puppy. Fluffy. Chubby. Adorable. The owner was giving him ice cream. Actual ice cream. In a cone. To a 10-week-old puppy. I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab the cone. I wanted to shake the owner. But I didn't. I smiled. I walked away. I held Murphy close. And I gave him a carrot stick. And he was happy. Because Murphy doesn't need ice cream. Murphy needs me. My time. My love. My attention. Not my sugar. Not my dairy. Not my "just a little bit." Me.
That's the thing about fairs. They're full of puppies. And puppies are full of treats. And owners are full of love. And love, at fairs, becomes food. Becomes ice cream. Becomes corn dogs. Becomes kettle corn. Becomes "just a little bit" that becomes a lot. That becomes obesity. That becomes arthritis. That becomes early death. And it all starts with a puppy. And an ice cream cone. And an owner who doesn't know. Who doesn't mean harm. Who just loves. In the wrong way. The easy way. The way that kills.
So if you're going to the Denver Dog Fair, or any fair, or any street festival, or any event with food, remember this. Your dog doesn't need the treats. Your dog needs you. Your presence. Your time. Your love. The real kind. The kind that says no. The kind that walks away. The kind that chooses health over convenience. Love over ice cream. Life over "just a little bit." Because that's what love is. Not food. Not treats. Not fair food. Not street food. Not vendor samples. Love is saying no. Love is walking away. Love is choosing health. Even when it's hard. Even when it's awkward. Even when it's embarrassing. Especially when it's embarrassing. Because that's when it matters most. That's when it saves lives. That's when it makes the difference. Between a dog who lives to 13 and a dog who dies at 8. Between health and obesity. Between life and death. Between love and food. Choose love. The real kind. The hard kind. The kind that lasts. Forever.
—Megan (currently on my third cup of coffee because writing this made me tired)
