The Dogsitting Saga

(moved from previous blog)

Since lawn mowing turned out to be a financial bust, I am spending the summer dog sitting. I usually pet sit during the summers so this is nothing new to me. One of my favorite clients was a diabetic cat who I had to shoot up with insulin twice a day. I grew to love that cat, mostly because he was a great lump of an animal and I enjoyed looking at him.

Right now, I’m watching two young dogs who I will call Fritz and Hannah to protect their privacy. Of the two, I’d have to say Fritz is my favorite, although I know I’m not supposed to pick. I think I like Fritz better because she looks like my old dog Koty, whereas Hannah looks like Falkour from the Neverending Story. (Devinne -shout-out to Mugsy)

So far, the dogs have showered me with gifts. And by gifts I mean dead animals.

The first gift came in the form of a hoof. A couple of weeks ago, I let Fritz and Hannah run around in the backyard by themselves. I opened the door and called the dogs in. Hannah came up to me with wistful eyes (she knows I favor Fritz), and Fritz ran past me into the mudroom with a stick in her mouth. As I got closer to Fritz, I realized that her stick did not look like a stick; in fact, it had a hoof. My first thought was that Feeder Supply was now selling fake deer legs to reach a more rugged animal demographic. This was not the case, I decided, as I inspected Fritz’s mouthful of bones and fur. I made my mom throw the leg into the trash bin outside and immediately felt sorry for the garbage man who would soon open the lid – the hoof had strategically landed in a way that made the bin strongly resemble a crime scene.

A few days later, I was greeted with another gruesome treat. I let the dogs out by themselves again for a few minutes (which I’ve yet to do since). When I came outside to get them, I found them in the garage looking very muddy and very proud. On the mat beside them lay a dead mole the size of a squirrel. I couldn’t be mad at them because I knew sometimes pets mean this as a gift. In his younger days, my cat Buster was notorious for leaving his signature decapitated chipmunks on our front porch. Always the gentleman.

I turned around for 5 seconds to look for a way to dispose of the body. When I turned back around, the mole was gone. I glared at Hannah (obviously I suspected her first), and then I turned to my darling Fritz, who unfortunately looked like she’d tried to swallow the diabetic cat. I started screaming and pulled her jaws open, but she threw back her head and tossed the mole into her throat.

I couldn’t decide if fur and bones were digestible, so I did the unthinkable and pulled it out with my fingers. For the record, I’m a huge germaphobe; in grade school I once threw away a brand new pair of Sketchers after accidentally stepping on a dead bird.

After giving Fritz the heimlich, I dragged both dogs to the deck, all while making sure not to let their carnivorous mouths get anywhere near my skin (I’m a vegetarian, except for one night in college when my roommates ordered a Goodfella’s pizza and I unsuccessfully tried to eat around the pepperonis).

I gave them both baths and am still trying to figure out what to do with their mouths.

And that is my summer so far.

1 thought on “The Dogsitting Saga

  1. Pingback: Walk of Shame « Living the Post-Grad Dream?

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