Every pet-sitting job I take on starts out the same way -- a potential client contacts me to inquire about my services. This time was no different; a pleasant-sounding woman called my cell phone looking for a doggy day care. I explained to her that I was an in-house pet-sitter, which meant I cared for pets in their home. Rarely did I bring dogs to my own residence.
She pleaded with me, "Couldn't you make an exception just this once? My dogs are real sweeties. I am in such a bind. My husband left me and I really need these dogs to go to day care. I will pay extra, just please, please help me out."
Who was I to turn down a sister in need? I agreed to give it a try.
The next morning she showed up on my doorstep, two huge dogs in tow. They both tugged and strained at their leashes, while she did her best to stop them from leaping off the porch. The first prickles of trepidation tugged at my common sense. What was I getting myself into?
The minute I opened the front door, Sampson, the golden retriever, bounded into my foyer, took off down the hall, and chased after my startled cat, Gizmo. Her other dog, Prince, a pit-bull/lab mix refused to cross the threshold. He shivered, quaked and peed all over my welcome mat. Finally, she hoisted him up into her arms and carried him into the house.
Immediately, she launched into an explanation, "They don't get out much. It's so great of you to do this. It will be good for them to experience a new environment. I appreciate it so much! I will be busy all day, so I probably can't pick them up until five or six. You guys will have so much fun, I'm sure they will be no trouble at all. I may not have my cell phone turned on so just let me know how it goes when I get back. Well, okay, I gotta run. Have fun! Bye!" And just like that, she was out the door and gone.
For the next two hours, Prince sat by the front door, ears back, tail between his legs, hoping for the return of his mistress. Sampson on the other hand, busied himself sniffing every available surface in each and every room. Every few minutes I'd retrieve a drool-coated flip-flop, cat toy or empty water bottle from his enormous jaws, but for the most part he was happy to explore the place.
Later, I tried to coax Prince out into the backyard, but he wouldn't budge. Finally, like his owner, I had to resort to heaving him into my arms and trudging out the back door in an effort to get him to go potty...praying the whole time he wouldn't get scared and rip out my cheek with his sharp teeth.
When they came back inside, it was as if someone had flipped a switch. Prince relaxed and Sampson took it as his cue to start a wrestling match. The two of them tore through my family room, flipping over lamps and upending end tables as they knocked each other around in an overly-exhuberant battle of canine domination.
I hollered, "Stop! Sampson, down! Prince, settle!"
Neither listened to a word I said. The insanity went on for an hour.
At about three o'clock, there was a ruckus at the front door. Laughter and loud voices drifted in as my kids, along with a few friends, got home from school. Before I could react, both dogs took off toward the commotion, growling and barking. Sampson, delighted with this turn of events, greeted the visitors with a wagging tail and a huge grin. Not so with Prince--he spied the open front door and launched himself past the kids and down the front walk like his tail was on fire.
Panic-stricken, I let out a shrill scream, "Don't let him get away!" The kids and I took off after him. He rounded the corner by the neighbor's house and was out of sight in a flash. We split off in every direction trying to figure out where to head him off. Blindly, I sprinted down the block just in time to see a man standing next to his stopped car, looking at the front end. OH NO! Prince got hit by a car! My heart seized up and my mind raced, what was I going to do? What was I going to tell his owner?
It was a pet-sitter's absolute worst nightmare. There could be nothing worse than to lose a client's pet. Especially in this way.
Mortified and out of breath, I approached the horrifying scene and asked the angry man what had happened. He pointed to the quivering dog under his car.
He glared at me and said, "Lady, you wanna get yer dog outta there?"
Prince was alive! "Did you hit him?"
Insulted he said, "No, I didn't hit him! I was sitting at the stop sign and the bonehead crawled underneath my car!"
I flattened myself out onto the filthy pavement in order to make eye contact with the bonehead. I begged, pleaded and cajoled for him to come on out. He refused to budge.
Meanwhile, cars began to line up behind us. It was a fairly busy street near a high school, and impatient teenagers blared their horns and revved their engines.
Finally, I reached under, got a firm grip on his front paw, and dragged him toward me inch by inch. Once he was close enough for me to grab, I gathered him into my arms and staggered home, apologizing to the aggravated driver as I went.
When Prince and Sampson's owner finally showed up at seven o'clock that night, I was completely exhausted. I recounted the day's events blow by blow, expecting shock and surprise. All she said was, "Oh yeah. Prince is a runner. I should've mentioned that."
"Yes." I said, "you should've mentioned that."
She shrugged, gathered up her dogs and headed off into the night.
I never heard from her again.
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