Wind and Rain and Hurricane

When a car as heavy as my Cadillac begins to rock and roll, I knew my evening's visits would have an elevated risk of danger.  The hurricane was coming and I had half dozen individual dogs home alone.  All local veterinarians had filled up the day before, as this coastal low land began its emergency preparations. The Governor had already briefed senior administration, the local military bases were on high alert.  Gas stations were closed for lack of fuel.

This scenario is frequent here, and those of us who have been through the few category three and higher hurricanes since 1999, know the routine. Sometimes, we heed the warnings, other times, unexpected life events throw us a curve ball. This time I had the catcher's mitt.

I had been mentally preparing and making alternate plans; if necessary I would bring the animals to my house, which I knew was fortified against the predicted 130 miles per hour wind. Thankfully, I had my husband home and he agreed to drive me. Not driving gave me much needed focus. I was on the phone constantly with my clients, trying to reassure them their companions would be safe.

The storm's imminent approach had vacated most of the coastal area. Law enforcement was posted at designated mileposts, advising drivers to turn back.  I couldn't turn back and with my driver as determined as I was, we left the house around 9 p. m. The route was not complicated, there were no back roads to navigate. We were hopeful that any downed trees would not block our path.

By the time we backed out of our driveway, leaving our own animals in interior windowless rooms,
rain was sheeting against the windshield. The wind was clocked at 85 mph. We were both layered
in weatherproof gear, had multiple flashlights, kennels, towels, and blankets piled in the back seat.

The animals were terrified, their owners the same. I was not terrified, I was determined.  My husband was retired US Navy, well trained and steely calm.

Entry into my customers' homes required both of us. The dogs and one cat were under furniture,
in spaces too small to accommodate them.  The cat was as high above the kitchen cabinets as she could get and reaching for her took acrobatic effort. I had bloody evidence on both hands for weeks.

Clean up detail would have to wait until the storm subsided.  I managed to wipe what I could see.
I was explaining to my husband where he could find food, and make sure water bowls were available and full.  We walked through the houses checking windows and doors.  I made sure all weapons were
stored and locked.  Garage doors were locked and alarms were reset.  I left contact information taped to the inside of the front door (in ziplock baggies) for emergency personnel, just in case.

Leaving the distressed animals was not what I wanted to do.  It was not my call. Owners would keep
me posted and I would be back before dawn, providing I could get back.

I didn't sleep.  I sat up with my own lap full of shaking dogs, listening to nature's screams. The phone
rang with frantic clients.  I couldn't tell them what was happening at their house.  I was at my house.
Dawn came, relative calm returned with winds topping 50 mph and I was able to make another round, passing the Waffle Houses, which were the only businesses open for miles.

Dogs are amazingly resilient. Cats are not. Cats do not forgive interruption to their daily routines.
They pout. As was the case of the single feline during this unforgiving assault by Mother Nature.
For the few days following, she remained hidden.  I never did ask her family where they found her.
All I knew, was the cat box hinted that she was okay.

While the power company, waste and debris removal teams, FEMA crews and city emergency personnel surveyed the damage, I continued my rounds, grateful for the trust of my clients and
their animal companions.  As owners returned, some having been stranded at airports, the calls were
welcomed relief and release of pent up anxiety. Some had property damage to fence lines and
carports. Others were untouched.  All were extremely grateful and I slept, with all my dogs on the bed.

Sometimes a pet sitter is not just a pet sitter, she is a heroine in disguise.

Cat on a Rope

I have a cat companion of the INSIDE variety. I used to have a cat who wanted to be an OUTSIDE
companion.  I adopted her through a veterinarian. I was warned she was feral but thought I could convert her.  That would be a no, as she jumped through a second story window twice. Tabby was captured both times through baited kennels and lived out her natural unhappy indoor life at my house.

This tale is about "Tigger" who is the sole pet of former clients. His care is now in the capable hands of my daughter, who volunteered as my helper in her middle school days. My visits with Tigger were uneventful and leisurely. Sometimes he was cuddly, but as he got older, I'd often find him
attached to the duvet on the master bed. He might lift his head, just out of curiosity, and finding it was me, return to napping.

In warmer weather, which is most of the year here, he was allowed out to explore as much of his yard as the rope would allow. It wasn't really a rope, it was a harness attached to a reinforced nylon
tether which screwed into the lawn. Being that his yard was unfenced, the effort to keep him secure while attaching the harness could be a problem. The effort was exponentially challenging when
the wildlife encroached the property line.

I don't know what his family thought. Perhaps they considered him a dog in cat's clothing. Any cat I've ever known wouldn't put up with being leashed. However, Tigger didn't seem too concerned,
his radar was set to explore the low lying terrain.  I don't know if he had ever successfully climbed a tree or chased anything larger than the occasional possum or soft shell tortoise. When I visited him,
we remained together in the yard. The exercise period made me nervous. It wasn't too many miles away that I had encountered the bear (Stargazing).

Nothing ever happened. Tigger was a mellow fellow.  Living with two little boys and their
never-ending toy box probably made him thankful for the opportunity and the smells and sounds that only a cat appreciates. Sometimes, he would announce we were going out in the rain. So, out we went. Most of his time was under the patio table, but his head was fully back and he was smiling. Me? I just stayed under the awning and appreciated the freshly laundered air.

I know the modern cat owner is encouraged to walk them.  I've been witness to this contrary interpretation of the natural world. It's a popular activity for the younger generation. Truthfully,
I have mixed opinions.  I laud the effort to allow the cat to reconnect with mother nature. I applaud
the cat for having one over on his/her owner. I wonder what the dogs (on their leashes) think.

Pet people are a breed apart. I find them in grocery and department stores. I find them
at the Starbucks and increasingly at the drive thru's ordering meals for their animal companions.
And most recently, on Youtube, a woman with her pet Giant Anteater on a walk. Oh, how I wonder
who her pet sitter is?

Pet sitter or Maybe Not

The strangest job I was hired to do had nothing to do with an animal.  The meet and greet with the home owner began without fanfare.  I HEARD the dog behind the closed door.  I HEARD the bird from the kitchen.  I SAW the bird in its cage. I SAW the bag of birdseed on the kitchen floor, propped up with the broom and dustpan.

My charges for the week were house plants. They were scattered on the patio in container vases, hanging baskets, and high above me on the pergola. The patio was not spacious.  The house was the same.

He agreed to pay my going rate, which at the time was unreasonably cheap.  I hadn't been in business too long and my daily charge was fixed so that even those on modest incomes could afford quality pet care.  It bothered me to know that animal companions were left on their own, sometimes for days, because the family simply couldn't afford to pay someone to provide care.  Anyway, back to the plants.

I don't quite recall that the specimens required specialized care.  Just water.  There was one exception, however, which made me uncomfortable.  Their child's science fair project involved a dozen styrofoam cups with seeds.  Six of which were to be kept out of natural sunlight.  The remaining
half dozen were on the kitchen counter.  The thesis had to do with natural sunlight verses incandescent lighting.  So, before I said good night to the outside plants, I had to remember to switch on the kitchen ceiling light.

I don't know what happened to their resident pets.  Not my concern.  I tell you, I didn't feel the need to stay my usual hour.  How much conversation can one have with a plant?  I'm sure they would have been an eager audience for story time. But, I wasn't feeling it.

Every day, I would fill the watering can with tap water and drench the dozen or so leafy beings.

Sadly, half the seeds didn't sprout.  I still carry that burden as I was never above a C in science class.
The little girl was very disappointed, but her dad explained what "experiment" meant.

My phone rang to announce that they were home. I was thanked for my time and attention
to the plants and a few days later, a check arrived.  No tip.  I guess the plants had nothing to say.

User Unfriendly

During my career, I had two rules.  First rule - nothing that slithers or crawls vertically or has scales , is totally hairless or lives in a terrarium.  Second rule - No dogs under one year of age. I figured if veterinarians could limit their practices, so could I. There's always someone who has more experience with exotics, livestock and the under trained or untrainable.  I had to maintain a pack leader mentality if dealing with dogs and a casual curiosity when caring for cats.  Rats, gerbils, hamsters and other rodents were fairly self contained-just toss in a few pellets and refill the water tube.  When the owners returned, they could put their diminutive critter in its exercise ball and let it roll.  Fish, especially if tropical, required daily water temp check and a few flakes of their relatives.

My appointment was with a dog owner. Just one dog?  Easy.  But she forgot to tell me that the rabbit hutch was inside the laundry room and two nasty tempered bunnies would also require care. It's
not uncommon for pet owners to entice the care giver with a deliberate omission of their reality.
Some are embarrassed, others just don't think to include the other pets in the hopes that the price
remained the same.  I always charged per day; never per animal.  But on a couple of jobs, I seriously
reconsidered my strategy!

I didn't know about rabbits.  I didn't know they could be wicked.  Being unfamiliar, put me at a disadvantage and I relied on the owner to fill me in on the details.  Bad decision.

Of course, each responded to their names when SHE called them.  Of course,THEY knew the schedule. It went something like this.  Open pen door, place bath towel over one, pick up the other and move to outside pen. Swaddle the first one and place her in secondary pen. Clean pen-remove hay and clean surfaces. Put soiled hay into debris dumpster in garage.  Change water. Go to kitchen, open sandwich baggies with pre cut veggies, put in clean cereal bowl. Take filled bowl to inside pen and get the bunnies back into the pen. These two were not the ones in the story books or in the pet store just before the Easter holiday. They were user unfriendly.  

On the second day, I developed red, watery eyes.  I developed labored breathing.  I called the owner.
She said, "oh you're probably ALLERGIC!  I should have asked you about allergies.  My daughter is also allergic to them." The conversation continued, "There are rubber gloves in the drawer there and you will need a warm air mask."

I don't remember what I said because I was busy rubbing my eyes and pulling kleenex from my purse.  On the way home, I stopped in the drug store and bought a carton of masks and a bottle
of over the counter NON drowsy allergy tabs.

The last few days, I finally thought I had the hang of it and felt some compassion for the blasted bunnies. The one dog didn't seem to mind sharing his home with them. Thankfully he wasn't a sporting breed.  That would have made me nervous.  As it was, I was already out of my comfort zone. Their dog got extra TLC from me and the owner got a bill with receipt from the drug store.

I am thankful for that job because my learning curve grew and added nasty tempered rabbits to my rather short list of acceptable animal companions. I had recent experience, valuable insight and could expand my service to include ONE specie of farm animal.

I was always learning something new. Pet sitting was nothing if not unpredictable.  My lesson this time was expect surprises and be sure to pack gloves, masks and NON drowsy allergy tabs.

Table Manners

As far as I know, a manual for pet sitting didn't exist at the time I said yes to my brother.  If it had, I would have bought it in the hopes there would have been a chapter on diplomacy.

My sister in law was a pet sitter and she accepted both clients on a drop off basis and in their homes. Her very successful business was the inspiration (in part) to my own flourishing career.   I was grateful she had canceled her normal route for the afternoon I was in charge. I only had to be concerned with the family pets and a handful of day care clients. Two were in a terrarium. I had never cared for anything which grew scales; the pair of bearded dragons placed me on ignore. I would have forgotten they were even there if it had not been that the location of their temporary home was on the coffee table.  That marble coffee table had been my mother's and it was placed near the piano.  Four-legged house guests were not allowed in that room. It was a safe zone, relatively pet hair free unless one of the family cats had claimed the upholstered love seat.

I've really never been calmer and busier in all my years of self-employment.  Calmer, because animals feed off of displaced panic ( a survival tactic).  Busier due to sheer quantity.  Their resident
companion animals outnumbered the fingers on one hand.  The added pack members rounded up the total to include all the fingers on the other hand.

My instructions were precise and written.  Basically, let the clients mix with the residents.  Allow them to nap and sit on any piece of furniture.  Plan for several times of fresh air in the fenced
yard. Meal times were in shifts and restricted to the gated breezeway and deck EXCEPT for family.
They could dine in the kitchen....around the center island (on the floor), in front of the pantry door (on the floor) and at the table.

Yup, you read that last part correctly.

Meal times, when people were home, were served at a kitchen table with a window seat. Three children, two adults, and one Puggle, named Mattie gathered in the cozy nook for breakfast and dinner.  On weekends, lunch rounded out the routine.  Mattie was solid black and unaware
she was a dog.  Her place was in between my niece, Sara and her younger brother, Kris, on the cushioned bench.

My shift was for only part of the day and when it was feeding time, Mattie would jump up, sit, and wait. I put her bowl on the floor.  She would wait.  I would monitor and shoo away the others who had cleaned their own dishes. She didn't move and looked at me like I had lost it.  How could I even begin to think she was one of them! Well, after an hour or so, she got hungry and jumped down, finding her food a little crusty. She ate with head hung so close to the ground that I began to feel remorse.

So I had a conversation with myself.  "Self, you are in charge.  Do what ALL your years of
experience suggest you do.  But, Mattie is not YOUR dog.  This is NOT your house. On the other
hand, you have to eat at that table."  Mattie continued to dine "a la dog".

The afternoon escaped my notice and soon clients began to arrive at the garage door for reunions.  It was an orderly procession; apparently, everyone knew each other and chit chat was congenial.  It was my job to reunite each with an owner. Batman and Fuji, a pair of Scottish Terriers, occupied both of my underarms and their owner, giggled and grabbed one, and seconds later, came back for the other one who had basically wriggled out from under. The duo of mother and daughter standard Poodles waited patiently with leashes in their mouths.  An unruly shepherd mix, ignored my "come" command and ran laps around and under the trampoline.  I apologized to the owner, who brushed past me, through the kitchen, over the baby gate, and into the back yard.  His "come" met with no objection.

I had no concerns as a substitute pet sitter-slash-relative. I lied and said everything ran smoothly. I gained great insight and learned valuable lessons in the realm of doggie daycare.  My sister in law looked around and said, "hmmm, looks like you vacuumed".  I never did tell her that all the dogs had been sequestered out of the kitchen.  I suspect she knew because of the mob greeting she received. My brother just winked silently and gave my ribs an enormous hug.

Mattie survived the embarrassment of being a dog and is the reigning senior family member (in dog years).  She just had knee replacement surgery at the age of 14 and her mistress must now carefully lift her up to her place at the table.

Family is ALWAYS the exception to the rule. I do not play favorites, but Mattie will always and forever be my very special four-legged niece.

Puppies

Over the years, every experience I had with other people's pets became fodder for future jobs.  I thought I had enough variety to prepare me for this job. I had worked with single pet families, ones with too many and others who preferred a mixture. Cats, dogs, rabbits, birds, tropical fish and the occasional exotic filled my hours away from home.  Thankfully the only exotic had been a green slider turtle!  I never accepted a job to care for anything that crawled or slithered. My mental tool kit, however, was lacking any usable gadget when it came to a pair of blonde Cocker Spaniel puppies.

This job came by means of a recommendation from a long time client. It's been so many years, that details are evasive, but those puppies, I remember.  I recall their owner to be a retired, refined woman whose life was an open book...literally, every table top had an opened Bible.  I won't go there...

Her home was not puppy proof.  In her mind, one baby gate blocking the master bedroom from the en suite, would be fine. In that sequestered tiled bathroom, were pee pads and a water dish. A well stocked counter top of floor and multi purpose cleaners cluttered an otherwise pristine bathroom.
A mop and bucket were tucked into a corner.

Their food bowls were in the kitchen with an additional water source on the wooden tiered deck.
The absence of any fencing in the yard left me wondering if she was experienced with "puppydom".

Puppies are stupid. Charming yes, good smelling, yes, but dumber than the proverbial rock. Multiply that times two and you will begin to understand that this was THE ONLY TIME, I made an exception to my no dog under a year old rule.

I would take a special needs pet over a puppy any time.  IV drips, syringes, splints, casts, and three legged animals had nothing over them.

I was ill prepared and extremely willing which was a bad combination. Three days ran together
in a blur and not the slow motion variety.  Puppies function on warp speed because they can.
What they eat comes back out rather quickly.  They don't understand the need to circumvent
the mess. So, frequent paw washing was required.  Thankfully, the laundry room was between the master suite and the kitchen, so it was a routine we established on day one.

Our days began around 5:00 A. M. Puppies were already up and ready for breakfast.  One puppy to the laundry tub and then to a kennel.  Second pup ditto except, I kept him wrapped in a towel and let the first one out. Two sprinted to the kitchen for meal time.  Once last bite was consumed, both out to the deck and yard.  Having to teach them how to navigate the steps to the lawn took considerable bribing. Grass was wet at that pre dawn hour.  They'd rather not. But...if there were enough bugs hopping, they'd give it a go.  Sometimes the bugs didn't head in the same directions, so I had two puppies scattered across five or six unfenced yards.  Thankfully, grass slowed them down and I could scoop one and then the other.  To finish the exercise period, we'd wander the deck and investigate the good smells wafting from the container gardens.

The arbor was overflowing with petunias.  Their dripping sweetness invited further inspection. Tired out, it was time for a nap and back over the baby gate they went.  At this point, I had to clean up and dispose of any soiled pads.  That was a game they both loved. Seems the pee pad I wanted to remove was the exact one I couldn't have because one of the dogs was dragging it across the floor.

Yelps and attempts to goad my guilty conscience followed me out the front door and into the car.

This schedule was repeated every three hours except for the final visit around eleven P. M. The daylight challenges were met with a sense of accomplishment because I could SEE them.  Post sunset necessitated every available exterior light and a personal flash light.  After dark invited nature to encroach on the spans of open yards; that included native wildlife and an occasional misplaced neighbor's dog.  I was lucky to only encounter a couple of box turtles, one snapping variety, bunnies and a non venomous snake. Each a potential playmate!  Funny, the owner hadn't thought to purchase any collar, leash or harness. So to answer my earlier question as to whether she had experience in puppydom that would be  a "nooooooo".

It is hardly fair to say that I had any success in their training.  Seventy two hours is nothing
to a young mind.  Everything in their lives was instinctual.  Eat, poop, pee, play, nap and repeat.
Sadly, the owner suffered an injury chasing one of them up a hallway.  Her recovery period
was extensive and she was unable to keep them.  I don't know what happened.

Too many years have passed since that one and only time I cared for the pair of very, very young of the canine variety. I recall the house and the woman very well.  I pass by the neighborhood and memories color my otherwise uneventful drive down the interstate.

I always hope for the best, try not to judge or question that over which I have no control.

I choose to remember the hours of joy we shared for it was predestined to be a labor of love
on my journey as a professional pet sitter.

The Ants Came Marching

Persons employed in the home pet care industry are, for the most part, good natured, flexible and
conscientious.  We bring with us a variety of experiences and when among like minded professionals,
share and exchange bits of advice.

In all my years, I met only one other pet sitter.  Our meeting was strange, in a sense, because MY client was HER neighbor.  We'd pass each other several times in traffic and waive. She drove a van with painted advertisement on the doors. I drove a personal car with no exterior advertisement, but my animal themed scrubs were a dead giveaway that I was either a veterinary tech, groomer or pet sitter.  Our town was rather close knit.  Someone whom you knew, knew someone else and eventually
being recognized became the norm.  Not that we all lived in a Mr. Roger's neighborhood, but word of mouth was the best publicity gimmick possible.  In all my years, I never spent money on advertising and I topped my career with a clientele of more than sixty customers.

I stopped by on a whim one day as I was caring for that particular neighbor's pet. Her home doubled as a dog training center.   The living room had been converted into a gymnasium that one might expect to see in an equestrian training facility, except miniaturized.  She eagerly showed off one of her own going through the paces.  We exchanged hugs and business cards. I tucked her cards into my briefcase (overflowing with my own files for the day) and headed to another part of the city.
Truthfully, in the early years, when establishing my business, I would travel cross county and sometimes cover a couple of hundred miles in a day.  Especially at holiday time, my calendar runneth over and fifteen hour days were the norm.

But that's another story...

This story is about uninvited house guests.

Max was a solid black Shih Tzu who lived in a three bedroom house in a cul de sac of a wandering neighborhood.  There was no sense of a grid system as far as streets.  If you didn't have GPS (and I didn't), you might have to navigate by types of trees or number of driveways.  I wouldn't give two stars to the committee who planned that community! His house was so new, that the paint was barely dry to indicate the house number on the curb. Forget reading mailboxes, the community had a community mail box, a community pool, a community park...well you know what I'm saying. There was so much new construction, the traffic flow was squeezed between the concrete mixers, flat beds and school busses.

Max was weary.  Weary of new people, weary of his leash and weary of his own shadow.  Totally un-Shih Tzu like. Reading his body language was difficult because his ears lay back 24/7.  Thankfully, I had the experience to know that a bath towel carefully laid over him from the tail to the head would calm him enough that I could pick him up.  Trust is EVERYTHING in this business.  If you loose that, you might as well hand in your resignation.

Walks became less scary. His fenced backyard was often the playground of feral rabbits. Max soon realized that his life was more than cowering in a corner and waiting for his people.

Part of my business ethics was minimum housekeeping.  I liked order and preferred to leave a client's
home welcoming.  I didn't mind an occasional sink of dishes or unattended trash can. Those were easy fixes.  If my job was long term, I would launder overflowing hampers and vacuum and dust.
These eccentricities always assured a generous gratuity.  I must explain that my several daily visits were not just run in and run out.  I would stay as long as my schedule allowed- usually an hour.

Max began to greet me at the door; ears still back, but tail tip swayed.  He learned to associate my visits with meal times and walks. He knew that I would let him in his yard to chase bunnies and that he wouldn't be left in the dark at night.  All was running smoothly well into the second week until...

I opened the silverware drawer to get the can opener and was met with dozens of fire ants!  Where
did they come from?  They weren't there yesterday! I couldn't move fast enough. My first concern was Max.  I grabbed him and put him in the bathroom behind closed doors.  I rushed into the kitchen and searched the cabinets for ant spray.  I rushed into the garage and searched the shelves for ant spray.
Not to be found.   I grabbed paper towels, wrung them out and wiped the ants off the counter top.
Luckily I had found some rubber gloves and pulling them on over my several oozing blisters,
kept wiping the ants into oblivion.

Max was scratching at the bathroom door, but I felt his imprisonment would be the least of my immediate concerns.

I found the entry point to the parade of unwelcome house guests.  Found a tube of caulking and
filled the crevice.  The parade stopped.

I emptied the drawer of silverware into the dishwasher and started it.  I emptied the cabinets below the drawer of all the contents and checked high and low for additional evidence.  Nothing found.
So I washed everything washable that I had removed and left on the counter to dry.

I took off the gloves and counted the welts..maybe five or six.  Taking my hand into the same bathroom that Max was in, I looked for the first aid kit.  Nope.  Not there. My hand was throbbing.

I called the client.  She was very apologetic, told me where to find the peroxide, ointment and bandages.  Who knew- they were in the guest room bed side table!

My hand, looking like a part of a bad halloween mummy costume, was burning hot and unusable.
I had to pick up a frightened Max one handed and carry him outside.  Sorry, Max, no walk today!

We got through the excitement. I went home, had my hand attended to and went back to tuck Max in.

The next morning, I received a text message that the pest control technician would be there, could I meet him?  OF COURSE!

So Max and I sat on the couch and watched the technician de-ant the kitchen. Going into the garage, he applied the poison to the other half of the entry point.  He checked the other rooms and gave an all clear.  Asking me if I was from the area, he said "Yeah, with all this new construction, the ants gotta go somewhere!"

If I could have licked my paw, I would have. But I was Max's protector and I felt he realized that
everything would be okay.  He kinda winked at me which made his ears straighten up- which was a very good sign.

Family Heirloom

As I'm writing this story, Penny the Calico is draped over my right arm, watching my fingers fly across the keyboard.  She's fascinated and I'm impressed by the accuracy of my typing!

She used to belong to a family.  When I met her, she was the sole "baby" of the household.  The couple who shared her two bedroom, 2nd-floor apartment was military.  Their shifts varied, sometimes both gone at the same time and that's when my phone rang.

Penny taught me that cats could be trusted walking the balcony railing. She taught me to leave the bathroom tap dripping because she preferred fresh water. She taught me to read the canned cat food label and if it didn't say "fish", not to open it.

Her family grew and my clients welcomed a daughter into their "purrfect" home. There were perks that came with babies! Penny had more toys to play with.  Her owners were considerate of her bouts of jealousy.  Every time I came, the cat toy box had multiplied and there were new baskets of catnip mouses and plastic noise balls. Tufts of feathers, at the ends of fishing poles, swayed when the patio door opened-welcoming the enticing ocean breeze.

On an ordinary day, their number appeared on the voicemail icon of my cell phone.  I checked my schedule for the next six weeks and dialed.  With pencil in hand and calendar open, the voice on the other end of the phone was panic-stricken.  She blurted,  "Ms. Laura, Help! Penny attacked the baby, my husband said, "Get rid of her!" I don't want to take her to the pound.  Please come and tell me what to do. I will have her carrier and food ready.  How soon can you get here?"

My heart sank, my lunch came back up and lodged in my throat.  I was there in just minutes and she greeted me with tears streaming.  Penny was in the carrier, wild-eyed and voicing a terrified meow.
There was no screaming baby, no opened first aid kit. Their little girl was playing in her crib.

Penny was declawed...how does a declawed cat "attack", I wondered? The tension of the moment
did not allow time for my questions. I had been summoned and was expected to resolve the crisis. Her husband was not there, so I don't know anything beyond what happened next.

"I'll give her a home", I said in as reassuring a voice as I could manage.  Don't worry, she's not going to the shelter or a foster home.  She's coming with me. We hugged, I picked up the carrier, grabbed the grocery bag of food, treats, toys and the remaining box of litter.

In minutes, we were home.  My dogs were interested in their new playmate and the calmness of my home was replaced by happy chaos for days afterward.

I received a holiday card with a photo of the three people family members and a return address.  I didn't keep it.  I felt differently about them. I felt differently about me.

I don't question the universal wisdom.   It was meant to be and Ms. Penny stretching,  extends her paw to embrace my neck in a hug that says it all.

Real Estate

My clients had the great fortune to move into a custom build in a gated community.  By the time I saw the house, I'd known and cared for Cinnamon maybe half a year.

I wasn't sure how she would react to an 8 foot fenced yard.  Little did I know that wasn't going to be her only challenge.  Coming from a home with water front acreage and an underground electric fence, Cinnamon would need a period of adjustment.

The yard was, shall we say cozy.  No need to mow it, that was part of the charm of this neighborhood.
Lawn care and security were provided.  Every home, from a drive by distance, was well maintained.
No R v's or excessive motorized vehicles spilling from the driveway were allowed. Perfect for
my clients, as he was pretty high up in the ranks of the United States Air Force. They had an open bar policy on Fridays (when in residence), which meant neighbors were expected at fifteen hundred hours for  Hors D'oeurves .

Cinnamon was not a complainer.  She was more like a voice controlled companion, which I took exception to, but rules were rules.  She knew her routine and if I forgot what, when or how to do something, she was able to guide me.

At the time we were introduced (at the old house), her mistress showed off the wall of awards
her companion had  in the hunting community.  She could out bird the competition. She could (to hear the Missus tell it), out bird the hunter!

Being the fine example of champion Fox red labrador, her retirement came as an unwelcome change to her routine.  No more car rides to the river, no more wearing of the retrieving collar, no more donning on the safety vest.  She was relegated to a life of luxury....which she hated.

To compensate for her missed hunting trips, Cinnamon and I took long walks twice a day.  We cut through lawns to the intra coastal waterway and spent hours gazing at her former life.  Every afternoon at two, a pod of dolphins would head east. The herons claimed their sand bars and occasionally, a Bald Eagle would grace our upturned faces.

There was give and take in her new life.  She was learning to be flexible. She was learning how to be old.

My phone rang to inquire about a three week job with Cinnamon.  Could I come over, there was something that needed explaining.  My heart skipped a beat, fearing that her health was the issue.
I don't know why, my instincts kicked in, but the years of pet sitting experience, had prepared me to expect great changes.  Little did I know.

Yes, changes were coming.  A swimming pool!  I couldn't believe it; there was hardly room for more than a lap pool in that back yard.  My heart sank.  Cinnamon's world was shrinking.

From day one, work crews occupied the former two postage stamp sized yard, bringing in back hoes and shovels. Sod was relegated to side yard. Cinnamon was now to be taken through kitchen, mudroom and through the garage to the side lawn. A temporary fence kept her curiosity at bay.
That same temporary fence allowed me to check in with the crew.  I learned a few words of Portuguese and they learned that cigarettes were not allowed on the property, and neither was
any rubbish.  Hiding it in the displaced mounds of dirt wouldn't work either.  We all got along and by the time the owners returned, it was time to buy patio furniture and a pool float in Florida Gator
colors.

Lost was the simple life Cinnamon had thought she would have.  Now she had to be cautious navigating the narrow concrete border between pool and fence. Now she had to endure endless pool parties with grand kids and neighbors.  Now she understood and it broke my heart.

Months, not even another year, Cinnamon passed. I can't help thinking of the song "Big Yellow Taxi" that Joni Mitchell made famous..."They paved paradise and put up a parking lot", but in this case it was a Mediterranean blue tiled swimming pool..

Scaredy Cats

Cat owners are a trusting group.  They TRUST their companions will survive a people-less home with extra food and maybe a back up litter box for those sequestered to the indoors. It is only when the people must be away for weeks, that the need arises for an extra person to supervise the independent feline.

The duo I met at the interview were female, Ms. Annie- a tabby, obesely uncomfortable and the other, Penelope (Peeps, for short) -a kittenish Swiffer tailed, domestic long hair. They shared their house with two adults in a brand new, alarmed custom build.  The neighborhood was clean and orderly where dogs walked their people in the same direction at the same time daily.

This job should be very uncomplicated.

Instructions for cat maintenance did not include any surprises. Veterinarian and trusted neighbor
contact info was scrawled in the bottom margin of the typed sheet of paper. A quick tour of the two story didn't take very long. Housekeeping was immaculate and furnishings high end.  You know, the kind of couches where you slide off if not tucked in... The centerpiece of the great room was the great television.  It was their version of a sports arena scoreboard and oh, the myriad remotes.

I was invited to help myself to the wine bar and any snacks.  The dish washer was computerized, but I could hand wash the dishes.

Concluding the "meet and purr" was the review of the security system.  A keypad, remote and voice activated key fob were offered.  I could select what method of entry I wanted.  I asked if I could just have the remote to the garage and an interior key.  Funny, that WASN'T an option.
I chose keypad.  Oh, and the security code word was *****.

Well, first time for everything.  I practiced and to the delight of the owner, aced the course.  Feeling
full of my self, I left and would return the next morning.

Day number one, rolled effortlessly into consecutive days of a two week job.  Cats had me on ignore for the entire first week. It was only after I helped myself to some tuna fish, that my presence disrupted their routine. For the remaining week, they would descend the staircase in hopes of
another tidbit.

I am blaming the following depiction on an impromptu nap on the longest of those slip and slide Italian leather couches.  The sun cascading through the full wall of windows lent to an invitation I just couldn't resist. . .

Waking some SEVERAL minutes past my intended departure, I sat down to journal the time spent with Peeps and Ms. Annie- "uneventful and restful. Thank you for allowing me the flexibility to enjoy your lovely home"  or something like that.  My daily reports are what set me apart from my competition.  I was licensed, insured and detail oriented.  My notes may save a life in the future-but that's another story.

"Click, click, click, arm" and I opened the door expecting the beep confirmation.  Nothing.
Ok.  "Click, click, click, "disarm", set".  Nothing.  AND THEN mechanical screams emanated from the bowels of the house. The volume shattered me and suddenly their was cat hair everywhere.
Phone rang "Code, what code, who is this? This is the pet sitter. No the owners are in HAWAII!
"******" came from the recesses of my semi conscious mind, "******", I repeated, is the code.
"Thank you, we'll reset the alarm. Have a nice day".

Oh, the embarrassment of it all! I really didn't want to reopen the door. I needed to find the cats. I found one-fat Annie had managed to slither over the side of the jetted tub in the master bedroom, three flights up. I let her chill.  Peeps had vanished into a private hiding space that only the family cat knows. She'd come out in a day or two. Meanwhile,  there was a small crowd gathering out front; people frantically dialing their cell phones and then...

My "nice day" was ushered in by two police cars and armed officers standing on the driveway. Between us and a long distance phone call, the "incident" as it was known, settled into history and upon the return visit, I found the instructions to the Roomba and put my feet up, grabbed a glass of Riesling and coaxed the cats from under the furniture.

Funny, I was asked for my business card by the president of the HOA on a subsequent visit. He winked and said "and I do NOT have a security system."

Help I've Fallen...

What do you think when you hear "Pet sitter"?  I had to research various viewpoints as I toyed with the idea of self employment.

I would be competing with kids and neighbors, veterinary technicians and "professionals".  I knew I could do this.  I have had animal companions in my homes since I can't even recall when. Most of the people I have ever known have had animals in their lives and that fact could lead to some serious earning potential.  So, on an inspired day, I created my own business on paper.  Then I obtained proper credentials, (a dishonesty bond and insurance), licensure through the city, and work attire.
Self publishing a brochure and business cards would cinch it and soon, I'd be living my American dream.
Well, almost..I had a ten month secretarial job, so this dream would sustain me during the summer and holiday vacations which rounded out the public school schedule.

The years of experience and fact that I never spent money on advertising (all word of mouth), grew my business and I found myself having to turn new clients away.  Great stuff, right?

The nature of this business, within the service community, is challenging.  There are many
"normal" situations, as one might expect.  There are also abnormal scenarios and there's no
way to anticipate the challenge until you walk through someone's front door.  Such is the case here.

My phone rang.  New number. New client. "I have a few pets..." she said.  Is your rate per day or per animal? "Per day", I replied.

That, right there SHOULD HAVE clued me in. But hey, I'm a business person and my schedule was open.

Walking in the door PAST THE SEVERAL pet food dishes,water bowls and makeshift kennels on the front porch, I was squeezed into a narrow hallway with a trifold screen in front of what would be the dining room and the entrance to the kitchen.  More food bowls, battery operated water fountains,
and a couple of greyhounds sprawled through the legs of the kitchen chairs. One of them rudely
interrupted from her nap as the owner pulled out the chair for me.

We sat and conversed and through the half hour or so, different cats paraded through the kitchen.
The parade was highlighted by two more dogs. 'WARNING, WARNING, LEAVE NOW, SAY NO",
said the voices in my head.

I didn't listen and took the job.  It haunts me still.

I don't know how I did it, but I did.

Every day, I cleaned and filled the dishes and bowls on the front porch.  Daily, I dutifully
cleaned and filled the dishes and bowls through out the house. I followed the recipes for the special needs animals.  I changed the litter boxes. I chased kittens over and through stacks of boxes and clothes in the hallways and bathtubs.  Exercising the dogs was an opportunity to remove myself from the stench inside.  They were grateful for the smell of anything but what was inside.

I became intimately acquainted with hiding places and crevices. I learned never to open a door without hindsight. I learned if i rang the doorbell, MOST of the inhabitants would appear, even briefly and I could take a head count.

The worst of it was the time I lost a kitten or she lost me AND it was in the room behind the trifold screen. I saw her go in. I removed the screen and knew my super powers would have to kick into overdrive. The boxes and stacks and towers of stuff had been in that room many years.  Dead plants
peeked through cracks in the chaos.  I saw the beginning of this hoard.  The innocent pile of daily papers and magazines had been relegated to the top of the side table.  That pile grew and competed for attention, finally giving up it's last breath to much bigger piles and stacks.

I walked toward a clearing, just big enough to stand up in if I didn't touch anything. Mews and meows came from behind something which was behind something else.  Inhaling and verifying I had my cell phone in my pocket, I hopscotched to another just big enough spot, swooped the kitten up and fell backwards, scattering stuff in all directions. If there had been a fire, it would be the end of this story.

I couldn't get leverage, I couldn't get to my knees but I had the kitten by the scruff of her neck.
Calmly thumb dialing the owner, I explained my predicament.  She was grateful I hadn't called the authorities or screamed for help.  I should have, I was dry drowning.

I was glad to see my client. I was glad to tell her I quit.

Driving away, I struggled with the urge to contact the SPCA.  That was the second time I didn't listen to the voices in my head.

It wasn't too many months later, that an article appeared in the newspaper.  An arrest had been made and the animals had been confiscated.

As for me, I am grateful that someone was watching out for them and...me.

Peanut Butter and Biscuits

     As a well rounded, professional pet sitter, I thought I had a complete understanding of dogs.  Each breed had its peculiarities, breed standards and eccentricities.  Those were not the challenge this time.
It was language.
     Since this profession came about during the years I was living in the Bible Belt, west of the Mississippi and south of of the Appalachian Trail, English was pretty much the spoken language.
Dialects and regional  intonations , on their own, can be a burden to one not raised around these here parts.  I got my self tongue tied frequently, which left the other person adrift in a land of "what the hell, is she gettin' at"?
     This job was vastly different from all others, in that the dogs were not "pets." Definitely not the sharing the couch, in the annual family Christmas photograph and name on bowls and water dishes kind of companions. I can't really explain to you, their place within the family hierarchy, but when I entered the home for first interview, the four dogs occupied kennels, chain link, tall and secured.  One entire wall of the entry way was dedicated to their location where they slept and ate.
     Outside, there were larger kennels with water bowls, where I was instructed to take them for an hour's exercise three times per day. This job came to me upon recommendation of an area veterinarian as the owners were leaving to meet a dog which was being flown in from overseas.
     I remember a Golden Retriever and a smaller terrier, whose names I can not recall. This story is about Baron, a magnificent German, German Shepherd. His breed is not to be confused with the American German Shepherd, which is generally smaller, with a sloped spine towards its hindquarters and has a sweeter disposition.
     Instructions were easy enough.  Each dog, one at a time, leashed and walked outside to the back yard. Released for exercise and then re-leashed and put in the outside kennel for the remainder of the visit. At the end of the hour, reverse with everyone back to their inside kennel.
     Watching the owner do it, I thought "easy enough". I accepted the weekend job and taking my mental notes with me, drove home until Friday morning.  Days would be long as the drive from my home to theirs was thirty minutes.  It was summer, so dawn would come about six o'clock and I would need to be en route by five.
     Walking in and remembering where the light switch was, gave me a minute to get organized.  First dog was eager to go.  Open kennel, leash dog, close kennel, open pocket doors to family room, pass through, open back door, walk dog to lawn and release.  After several minutes of his lapping around the cavernous yard, I called him back to the patio, re -leashed him and walked him to the outside kennel about a football stadium length from the pool.  Repeat (twice).
     It went well; the whole process took about eighty minutes and my confidence surfaced. I wrote a quick note on the pad they left me with emergency contact information.  Leaving the owners a journal was part of my business ethics.  If anything out of the ordinary occurred, the incident would be documented in the notes and could be taken to vet if required.
     All went well until that first evening's visit.  First two followed protocol; Baron decided to ignore me. I was fifty something years old,  about 140 pounds.  Baron was maybe four and weighed the same as me.  Trouble was, he had two legs to every one of mine. He ran and darted about the yard with no intention of obeying the list of commands I had been given.
     Just a side note,  that list was in English and German.
     I called the owner and it was suggested that he liked peanut butter on milk bones. Okay. Sweet!
Found the jar and box, dipped the biscuit in the jar and approached Baron.  He sat, sniffed and took off in the opposite direction and this game went on for twenty minutes. It was dark, and the neighborhood had gone to bed or so I thought.
     I repeated the dipping and offering and he repeated the feigned interest and disappeared from view. I verbalized every command, approached him, laid a trail of the treats and sat down.
     He approached and ate the treat, came closer and rewarded himself again and again  until he was  within reach. I took his leash in hand and said "Good Boy". Bent down to hook it and he took off.
Okay, now i't almost eleven P. M. and this has to stop. So I say "Baron, setzen." Or at least I think I did.
     I repeated it, louder and firmer.  No response.
     I heard someone call over the fence "Lady, it's pronounced "ZetZen" You're saying "Scheissen".
Which means something entirely different.
     Ah, linguistics, the root of all problems between a dog and his sitter.