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.


One thought on “The Dogsitting Saga

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

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