“Mom, I hate to tell you this, but your dog’s looking a little chunky,” my youngest son said on his last visit to the house.

“She’s not at all chunky,” I said in defense of our “Heinz 57” dog. “That’s muscle and baby fat.”

Channell is only three years old, a young adult in dog years. She’s barely had time to get out of her teens, so naturally she’s carrying a bit more padding around the middle.

Besides, Channell is a busy pup. When she’s out on her evening walk, she pulls at the leash like she’s at a monster truck rally.

If she sees a squirrel, it’s as if the officials sounded the bell to start the Kentucky Derby. She goes from sniffing the ground to barking and straining at the leash in less than 15 seconds.

On the flip side, she does spend a great part of the day sleeping on her pillow in the dining room.

And sleeping on the floor in our bedroom.

And sleeping under the shade tree in the back yard.

As my son pointed at Channell’s rounded tummy, she looked at me with her sad brown eyes, so I pulled a dog snack out of the treat jar.

She gobbled it up and, still feeling guilty because someone was calling her chunky and hurting her feelings, I gave her another snack.

Gee, maybe there is a reason why Channell’s got that spare tire around her middle.

And maybe that reason is me.

Using food as a reward goes back to my childhood. Whenever my grandmother wanted to know what was happening in our family, she’d bake a huge pan of chicken and rice and simmer stuffed squash on the stove.

She’d subtly wave a plate filled with food under my nose, and then interrogate me for information about our family, the neighbors and my friends. If I spilled the beans, she refilled the plate.

No news — that yummy Lebanese food remained in the pot for a more willing informant.

My family also used food as an excuse to take a vacation. We’d hear about a great pizza place somewhere, and we’d pack up and head out. If we did any sort of walking or sight-seeing, we figured we also earned a trip to the ice cream parlor.

In fact, my family involves food in every aspect of life, and my mom’s the expert at weaving food into every activity, including stopping by for a visit. The minute we walk into her house, she starts hauling groceries out of the refrigerator.

If we look tired or down, this petite woman can whip up a three-course meal in under 10 minutes, complete with garnishes and freshly ironed cloth napkins.

She taught me well as I find myself pushing food the minute someone walks into our house.

“You look thin,” I’ll tell my sons’ friends. “Have something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry, Mrs. Adams,” they’ll say.

“Nonsense,” I reply as I whip out the griddle. ” I’ll make you a sandwich while you tell me all the news about your family.”

So, as I refill Channell’s food bowl because she worked up an appetite chasing birds and I know her feelings are still a bit sore from being called “chunky,” I figure since she’s part of the family, I might as well treat her like part of the family.

Now if only she could talk and tell me what the neighbors are up to…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.