Dogs Are People Too

My work as a professional pet-sitter provides me with an interesting insight into the lives of my clients. Not only my animal clients, but my human clients as well. The first thing I do with every customer is arrange an initial face-to-face meeting where I meet my potential employer, get acquainted with the pets and go over the financial and clerical details.

After that first meeting, if we agree to do business, I may never see the human members of the household again. After all, the nature of my work requires me to come into their home when they are absent and care for the animals. We communicate with one another through notes, emails, phone calls and text messages. Rarely are we in the same room at the same time. Nevertheless, over time, a relationship develops as I get to know my clients through the eyes of their pets.

For example, I care for a lovely little Yorkshire Terrier named Princess who is the furry child of an adoring retired couple. Princess has a personality to match her name. She is the ruler of all the lands within her domain. She barks out orders, demands attention and requires the highest quality of care at all times. Her behavior has taught me everything I need to know about her owners. They are loving and generous people, who lavish all their time and money on Princess. After all, she eats only the finest cuisine and wears nothing but the latest fashions. One day I noticed her coat needed to be combed out, but couldn't find the dog brush. I called her owner to ask where it was and she said, "Oh just get my hairbrush out of the bathroom. Princess is welcome to use it. After all, she is a people." After hanging up the phone I made the mistake of reminding Princess that she was, in fact, just a dog. Princess turned her back, marched off into her bedroom, and ignored me for the rest of the day.

Another of my favorite dogs to care for is a beautiful Cocker Spaniel named Sassy. Sassy's owner is an older gentleman who owned his own dry cleaning business for fifty years. He is the sort of surly, short-tempered, no nonsense kind of man who yells at kids to get off his lawn and waves his fist at drivers who speed down his quiet residential street. But all his crusty bluster flies out the window where Sassy is concerned. The list of instructions he writes out when he goes on vacation is no less than three pages long. Sassy has many "quirks" as he calls them. For example, every morning I must fill the bathtub to the brim with fresh water. He says it is the only way Sassy will drink. According to him, she would dry up like an empty husk without that tub of water. Also, Sassy is afraid of bowls. Her stinky, messy wet food has to be dumped directly on the linoleum in the kitchen or she will never eat her meals. Her favorite blanket to sleep on is his wife's most expensive angora sweater, and her preferred chew toy is one of his snake skin cowboy boots. Personally, I think Sassy would be fine eating and drinking out of dog bowls, playing with tennis balls, and sleeping on her fuzzy dog bed, but she knows deep down what pleases her owner. The best thing of all about Sassy is her taste in television. The only channel she likes to watch is HGTV. What a coincidence, me too! When I sit Sassy, she and I get along just fine.

My job has taught me a great deal about animals these last few years. I have developed an understanding and a connection with the cats and dogs I care for. But, even more interesting to me is all I've learned about the human animal. How vulnerable we really are, and how we expose our soft underbelly to our pets, leaning on them so much for the love and acceptance we crave. How we create an environment where we are indispensable to these creatures we adore. There is nothing better than the unconditional love we get from our pets. And the love we give in return. It reminds me of a bumper sticker I saw the other day. It said "I want to become the person my dog thinks I am." What an amazing place the world would be then.

Quirky or Crazy?

Hiring me to work as a professional pet sitter requires a huge leap of faith on the part of my potential clients. After all, I will be spending a great deal of time in someone's home when they aren't there. People have to not only trust me to care for their pets, but to repect their property as well as their privacy.

While my client's lifestyles run the gamut from fairly modest to very wealthy, for the most part everyone keeps their homes neat and organized--especially if I am scheduled to spend a week or so caring for their pets while they go out of town.

One day, back in the fall, I received a call from a couple who planned to go away for a four-day weekend to visit their daughter's college on the east coast. As always, I arranged a free initial consultation to discuss pet care expectations. I wasn't familiar with the address they gave me, but mapquest took care of that, and off I went.

The drive took me toward the outskirts of town, and as I bounced down the mile-long, weed-covered, pothole-filled driveway, apprehension started to creep in. A huge victorian home loomed in front of me. Shutters dangled crazily from either side of the upstairs windows and ivy covered the entire front porch. I tried to peer in through the large front window, but stacks of cardboard boxes blocked the view from the inside. For the first time since I started this job, I regretted not telling anyone where to look for my dismembered body should I turn up missing.

I shoved my way through the overgrown shrubbery to reach the front screen door. Just as I was about to knock, a large black labrador retriever came bounding toward me and plowed right through the broken mesh and knocked her impressive forehead smack into my thighs. Clearly tickled to have company, she wagged her whole butt and sniffed my pants and shoes with unbridled enthusiasm.

At that moment, the lady of the house made her appearance. She wore a long, shapeless sundress and dirty keds. Her gray hair was braided in a ponytail that stretched past the middle of her back.

"Emma!" She scolded. "Show some manners to our guest."

She introduced herself and invited me inside. The home must have been an amazing showplace back in it's day. I admired the grand staircase, ornate moldings and beautiful chandelier in the foyer. But, as she lead me toward the kitchen I took in the stacks of newspapers, bags of junk and piles of clutter that covered every available surface.

In what must have been the formal living room, I spied three (three!) pianos. A dusty old upright shoved against a wall, a lovely grand covered in mounds of paperwork, and a fairly new electric model blocking the gigantic fireplace. An enormous gray cat lounged on a giant pile of bathroom towels heaped on the davenport. He turned his head and gave me the once over. We blinked at each other for a minute, then he yawned and went back to sleep on towel mountain.

I met the husband in the kitchen. As I reached out to shake his hand, the large green parrot sitting on his shoulder leaned down and tried to take a chunk out of my wrist with it's razor sharp beak. The man laughed uproariously at that adorable manuveur.

"Don't mind Louie! He's just playin' around. Right Louie?"

In response, Louie lifted his tail feathers and dropped a load of bird dookie right on the kitchen floor. The couple ignored the mess and led me to the other side of the kitchen. Every square inch of the butcher block island was covered in food crusted dishes, greasy pots, and dirt covered gardening tools. Shopping lists, coupons and unopened mail added to the mess.

We shoveled our way through the debris to get to the laundry room. A large, murky fishtank was set up on the counter next to the washer, and the cat's food and water dish sat next to it. I tried my best to focus as they ran through the feeding procedure for the dog, the cat, the bird and the fish.

We stood there chatting as if it were perfectly normal to be standing in piles of styrofoam packing peanuts up to our ankles. The two of them were very excited about their upcoming trip to visit their daughter. They were both professors at a local private college and had the time off for fall break. Neither acknowledged or even seemed to notice the state of absolute chaos around us.

Next, they directed me to a bathroom which stood across the hall from the laundry room. The long vanity held a half-dozen tall stacks of magazines. A white corner shelf contained hundreds of gothic figurines--each one more disturbing than the next. The large bathtub held about eight inches of water. The husband explained that Emma preferred to drink her daily intake of water from the tub and it was to be changed daily. It was the biggest dog dish I'd ever encountered.

Finally, the consultation was over and I agreed to hold down the fort while they were out of town. As I drove away, past the weedy lawn and helter-skelter yard, I decided to take it all in stride. I had seen enough episodes of the show 'Hoarders' to realize what was going on here.

At any rate, the pets in this home all seemed happy and healthy, and my job was to keep them that way.

Two Dogs Too Many

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.

Crazy Like a Cat Lady

A few months ago, a lovely young lady called to inquire about pet care for her three cats. She had been invited to go on vacation with her extended family, but was worried about leaving town. She could hardly bear the thought of leaving her cats -- in fact, she had not gone away for the last eight years.

Whenever a potential client contacts me, the first order of business is to set up free initial consultation. I scheduled a meeting with the cat lady, and showed up at her apartment at the designated time.

All three cats greeted me at the door, meowing, purring and winding themselves around my ankles. I looked around at the bookshelves overflowing with ceramic cat figurines, decorative cat plates and framed studio photos of Muffy, Button, and Putz. A lovely hand-stitched pillow on the sofa read, "Never feed your cat anything that doesn't match the carpet." Clearly, a cat-lover extraordinaire resided here.

I spent the next hour reassuring her that I would take the best care of her cats imaginable. She insisted that I visit them three times a day, allowing each only a small handful of food per visit--to avoid any upset tummies. We went over the very long list of scheduled playtime activities, litter box scooping rules, and brushing and grooming requirements. I promised to contact her by cell phone twice a day to check in...once in the morning and once at night.

As we sat discussing all this at the kitchen table, the cats continued to rub on my legs, sniff my pants, and chew on my shoelaces. I was a hit! My eyes wandered around the room taking in the cat-themed dish towels, cat-shaped cookie jar and the hand painted sign that read, "Some people have cats and go on to lead normal lives."

All three cats were fluffy gray tabbies--one male and two females. I asked if they were siblings.

"I assume they are from the same litter," she said. "One day I was driving through the county park, and someone in the car in front of me threw a shipping box out the passenger window and drove off. When I stopped to investigate, I discovered three sickly little kittens inside. I vowed to raise them and give them the wonderful life they deserved."

It was hard to imagine such humble beginnings as I watched them pile into a thick, luxurious pet bed tucked into the corner of the kitchen. I smiled, thinking they sure had lucked out by landing in the lap of such a passionate cat lover.

Finally, she felt confident enough in my pet-sitting abilities to hire me. She finished up the paperwork, agreed to my fee, and handed over the house-key. One more bit of cat memorabilia caught my eye as I headed for the door. A framed poster in the foyer said, "I got rid of my husband. The cat was allergic."

Somehow I'm not surprised.

Oh Jeez...My Keys!

One of my very first clients was a super-cute Bichon Frise named Luke. Luke's family was going to Florida for spring break, and my job was to come to his house four times a day for playtime, feeding and walks. Picture the fun aunt who blows in and plays games, lavishes attention and doles out junk food--that's me. The first few times I stopped over everything went as planned, but by the second day Luke needed a change of pace.

Outside, the spring drizzle had turned to a downpour. With each clap of thunder Luke spazzed out. As I held the quaking ball of fluff in my arms, I decided I couldn't leave him home alone--he was in a state, clearly terrified of storms. Luckily, I was able to reach his owners by cell phone and they gave their blessing for me to take him to my house.

I loaded him in the car, along with an emergency stash of toys and snacks, just in case we wound up having a sleepover. To my relief, he was one of those dogs that loves to ride in the car. He bounded back and forth across the back seat, smearing dog snot all over the windows. As we drove, the rain let up a bit...the storm seemed to be blowing over.

On the way home I received a call from another client who wanted me to stop by and pick up my paycheck from him. It was on the way so I decided to swing by real quick.

This particular client happens to be my most important. He pays well, uses my services frequently, and gives great references to potential customers. He also happens to be a very particular former military man, who is demanding and tough on the hired help. As I pulled in the driveway I could see him peering out the front window. Ten seconds after I rang the bell, he yanked open the door and glared at me.

"Oh it's you. C'mon in."

We concluded our business and after I spent a few minutes petting his two spaniels, I skedaddled out of there quick like a bunny. No sense in making small talk with someone who doesn't find my wit and charm entertaining.

As I walked back to the car I could see Luke bouncing around from front to back like a beach ball at a Justin Bieber concert. The door handle snapped out of my hand as I tried to open my door. Locked! What the heck? Luke's mexican jumping bean routine had inadvertently caused him to pounce on the power door locks. I could see my keys laying uselessly on top of my purse on the passenger seat. Grrrgghhh!

I started dancing around the car, cajoling Luke to unlock the doors. If I could get him to hop around on the button just right...maybe, just maybe...ugh. That was never going to work. Meanwhile, he was having a splendid time hurdling himself to and fro, yapping like a lunatic.

Sergeant Spaniel came outside to see what the commotion was all about. His two big dogs circled around my car sniffing the delicious morsel locked inside. They looked at each other as if to say, "Got a can opener?" Inside, Luke continued to yip and play. As much as I hated to, I admitted to my client that my keys were locked in my car. After a few more minutes of begging Luke to unlock the door, I reluctantly asked Sarg for a ride home to get my spare set.

We rode to my house in silence--I was more embarrassed than the time I showed up to 9th grade homeroom with a bra hooked onto the back of my sweater. Once inside, I started ripping the house apart looking for my spare set of keys. Frantic to find them, I pulled out junk drawers and dumped them on the floor, rifling through batteries, birthday candles, and old receipts. I tore through the place like the Tasmanian Devil--but to no avail. The mother of all tantrams exploded out of me just as my fiancee, Jim walked in the door.

I shrieked, "LukelockedmeoutandandnowIcantfindmykeysandIamfreakingout!"

Calmly Jim told me it was okay and we could just call Triple A so no big deal. Deflated, I waded through the pile of rubble on the floor and went outside to tell my client we'd meet him back at his house. A few minutes later, when we pulled into his driveway, we parked behind my car, his car, and an enormous tow truck. Jeez, what a spectacle. As I walked up to the greet the mechanic he said, "Oh hi, you're the dog sitter, right? I got your keys for you a few months ago, remember?" I remembered. The men expressions all said, "Oooh, you're one of those women. Mmmmhmmm."

It took the guy all of fifteen seconds to pop the lock and rescue Luke. I thanked him, I apologized to my clearly annoyed client, and I drove off with Luke panting in my ear. By now the storm had passed and the sun was shining.

I thought about it and decided to take Luke back home. He'd had enough excitement for one day.

I said, "It's okay, buddy. You didn't mean to lock me out did you?"

Just as I looked over at him, he pressed his paw on the power window button and rolled down the passenger window, grinning at me the whole time.

How It All Began

When my marriage of twenty years fell apart, I knew it was time to re-think my life.  Years ago, back when my girls were babies I became a stay-at-home mom.  Then, by the time the kids hit grade school, my overzealous need to volunteer non-stop burned up sixty or more hours a week. While those roles were wonderful and fulfilling--The time had come for Mama to find a way to pay the rent.

After my twelve year absence, Corporate America did not embrace my job applications with much enthusiasm. Or any enthusiasm.  Those letters of rejection were downright dreary.

So, what next?  I remembered the advice of my high school counselor from years ago.  He said, "Imagine you are walking on a beach and find a lantern.  You pick it up, dust it off, and out pops a genie capable of granting exactly the job you desire.  What career would you wish for?" When a student answered the question by announcing his or her dream job, he suggested to the student they should pursue exactly that career.

While this is certainly a interesting point to ponder, it's also a helpful exercise in planning the next step down your life path.  What do you want out of the work you do?  Money tops the list, obviously.  Freedom to come and go is a bonus.  Something that brings you pleasure...work that feels more like fun.  Independence from those hovering bosses, perhaps.

The answer seemed to be starting my own business.  We've all seen the ads, "Attention Entrepeneurs: Be your own boss!  Work your own hours!  Accomplish your goals!"  But, what about start-up cash?  I didn't have money to invest in an office, an extensive inventory or even a satchel of cooking utensils for a party based pyramid scheme business.

Then it struck me.  How about a pet-sitting business?  Not a 'teenager across the street feeds the cat once a day' business, but a serious, adult operated, full-fledged pet care company.  I did some research into where to begin, and threw myself into the proposition with wild cautious yet enthusiastic abandon.

First off, I joined The National Association of Professional Pet Sitters.  Yes, there really is such a thing, and they are tremendously helpful and worth every penny.  Through them I was able to obtain insurance and become bonded--take that, neighbor kid!  I set up a dedicated business email account through yahoo and utilized the super easy website creator through Go Daddy to make a professional looking website displaying all my pertinent information.  My business cards came from Vista Print. (It's not my intention to sound like a commercial, honest.)

All these steps were a great start--but the crucial piece of the pet sitting puzzle had to do with advertising.  Friends and relatives all suggested the usual things;  pass out business cards to local vets and shelters, hand out flyers to neighbors, place an ad in the yellow pages and  post a blurb in the hometown paper.

Sounds reasonable, right?  Pah! What a bunch of hooey.  Those ideas are old school and none of them worked.  Think about it--where do you go to find a handyman, or a dry cleaner, or somebody to fix the sump pump?  You Google it, right?  So does everyone else these days.  After a very slow start in the world of entreprenership, I wised up and started advertising through Google Ad Words.  In no time I was getting half a dozen hits a day and business took off.  In fact, I had to limit my hits to four a day and narrow the geography down to the limits of my hometown so people stopped contacting me to drive forty-five minutes to let Rufus out for a pee-pee.

Two years later, business is still going strong.  In fact, there have been some weeks where I've been forced to turn ad words off because I was too busy to handle any more clients.  Who knew pet sitting would turn into such a lucrative proposition?

Every day is a new adventure and there is no time for boredom.  I have a million stories--most of them funny, some of them insane, and a few heart-wrenching ones thrown in for you reflective types.  My plan is to share the best of the best on this blog.  It's a crazy ride and I hope you enjoy it right along with me.

Doggy Duty Diva