Wednesday, February 27, 2019

Seeing Double

This is a personal story. The animals are mine. The memories are mine.
The process of getting through it is a personal journey - grief. Some would rather not experience the devastation and near-death of their soul through the loss of a loved one. Some are afraid and some, like me, understand the need to go there, where it's agonizing to awaken each day realizing we really are alone. Or are we?

Notice that I have chosen "alone" rather than "lonely", for my experience during the grieving process is that I am alone with my memories. I am alone with my loss, it's not possible to have a shared experience because the relationship was exclusive; one on one, me with her and me with him. For me, the process repeats every year when one of my pets dies. I didn't plan for them to all pass within such a short window of time. I was not prepared to begin the final countdown so frequently. .preparation for the death of a companion is as much a part of the grieving as the physical final breath. Whether assisted or natural, the loss is permanent.

Loss consumes me; my five senses atrophy and my memories do not provide sustenance. I am not the same woman, I am less. I exist as a lesser being for part of me vanished when he or she died. Eventually, I believe that I will cease to exist. I won't recognize my reflection. It is a frightening eventuality.

It happened again, just months ago and it is most likely an approaching reality before the year ends.  So the total losses this year will be two. One year it was four. I didn't think I could recover. I'm no better at getting through now even though there have been a dozen dress rehearsals in recent years.

There is something strong and resilient within me and I am grateful. I do not choose to seek out this refuge from the storm. I can't share it. I cannot explain why it happens, but I can share that it sustains and nourishes my soul - constantly. I open my heart. I ask for possibilities and expect "yes" from the universal voices. Yesterday, "yes" came twice. "Yes" came as a pair. I am bringing two home from the animal shelter.

I didn't know I was going to that place; wasn't on my schedule. Following a morning Tai Chi class, we were going to junk around town.  My neighbor and I had been attending a three day per week course through the continuing education division of the state college. I always drove as she preferred it and she always bought lunch as I preferred it.  We've recently reconnected, strange really, because she lives right next door. We see each other every day, but my life has been void of social entanglements for man years in favor of raising two kids and community volunteer opportunities. I'm just not that into neighborhood gossip and we don't have many shared interests. Maybe that will change, it's up to me.

The animal shelter wasn't EXACTLY on the way home, but she's also a pet owner and I just chanced the opportunity to do something nice for someone. Thought I would leave a donation or maybe give a couple of the dogs a well-deserved bath.

That's how it started with Sam, my companion of seventeen years. Sam is gone now and I'm down to two. Unrelated - one with bone cancer and allergic to everything that blooms here. The other is aging gracefully with a temperament matching her breed description. Both were rescues. At the time they joined the herd, there were probably three or four other dogs and a couple of cats already comfortable and very much in charge of my house.

We arrived at the shelter and my neighbor didn't want to go in. Her option was to wait in the car and I said I would be awhile. She followed me through the door marked "adoptions", and down the hall to the kennels. Pretty soon, she was way ahead of me, on the way back down the aisle ready to go.  "I want to visit with this one," I said. She sighed. We went back through the main building and I signed in with my name and name of the canine inmates. You may feel that description harsh, but what else would you call a life in a cage. Within minutes we were in a small room with a single curtained window concrete floors, a locked cabinet, and three orange plastic chairs with chrome legs. On top the cabinet was a jar of varied doggie treats and a basket of squeaky toys was on the floor opposite the row of chairs.

In came the inmate, a young female Labrador. She was bouncy and bounded repeatedly high enough to clear the top of the door. Not a good match. I didn't want to visit any other and we got ready to leave and then...

I noticed a bulletin board with photos and "captured or surrendered" dates on them; all of lap size breeds. I looked behind me to discover a room with rows on top of rows of cages. The diminutive inmates noticed me noticing them and began conversations all at once.  The iron swing gate at the door of this room was guarded by a much larger pit bull named "Ranger." He was not ready for adoption yet as he was recovering from heartworm. He was on the urgent list.

I picked two, stranded my friend in the hallway and went to inquire about them. Dachshunds and most likely siblings as they were strays brought in by animal control. The date of capture was two weeks earlier. Maybe they weren't available. My heart sank. I asked anyway.  My friend was right where I had abandoned her.  Taking her by an elbow, I led her into that same room with three orange plastic chairs and we sat. She
didn't utter a syllable.  

I knew we would be waiting a couple of minutes because a quick criminal background check was in progress. If I wanted to adopt one, additional screening would follow. They will not adopt out any animal to a person who has relinquished one and their records go back to 1957.

In came one. "Yes." In came the other. It was another "yes". 
Barbara and I each held them. I trusted her opinion. The senior adoption counselor came in and asked if I wanted to visit with any other.  I had made up my mind and with my friend's blessing, and most probably an accompanying sign of the cross, I knew the next step would be having my husband meet them.

I didn't want to leave because it was possible someone else could come in and adopt them during the time I drove home, delivered my neighbor safely to her front door, run in to get my husband (who had to change out of his at home wardrobe) and return. There were many more details including apologizing to my two senior dogs that they had to get into the car and meet the dachshund pair. 

The ending of this tale is written in the voice of my Weimaraner, Abbey in "Through the Eyes of Love" in A Kiss on the Nose and yes, it has a happy ending. . .




In and Out

     Heading to the home of a new client is always exciting.  I play out all the possible scenarios in my head while driving.  This time I had been told, "...and the Chihuahua does NOT stay outside". Okay,
I wondered why not? Was there a Chihuahua-sized hole in the fence?  Birds of prey? Did it have an allergy to grass? Had an alligator been reported? Of course, I had not proposed the list of burning questions during the phone interview. Thought it best to leave my curiosity in the car.
     Nice home, high-end furnishings. Three dogs - two terriers and the Chihuahua - the very smallest variety Chihuahua. The Terriers were male. The one with glitter nail polish, a Swarovski crystal collar and a bow in her hair would be the girl. The client was equally decked out at the interview.  Who wears heels in the house? That would be the Mrs.
     A screened porch with doggie door extended beyond the main room. There were about a half dozen steps down to the neatly manicured lawn where an old plastic swimming pool kept company with an equally old sago palm. Two ratty looking terriers greeted me; one with a neon pink tennis ball. I stooped to initiate play and the other one retreated back into the covered porch. Open feeding
dog dishes and a few aluminum water bowls were neatly arranged on one side. Opposite from them were dog beds and blankets, which in my opinion would be the first items to the washer.
     Back inside the interview continued until she said: "Oh, and my son will be here."  "Son?"
Yes, he's thirteen and I decided that he needs to stay in school. So, he won't be traveling with me," she said in a firm tone which was his cue to enter the room. "Oh great," I thought, now I am a baby sitter to a teenage boy. This should go over well."
    What did she need with a dog sitter? So, I inquired. The reply was that he was not good with dogs.  He would take care of himself. I didn't need to do anything. The man-child returned to the shadows and the interview progressed until I was given the security code. "And, by the way, the Chihuahua has a weekly grooming appointment. Here is the address and I will reimburse, so make sure you leave me a detailed invoice," were her last words and she escorted me to the front door with her precious little one in her arms.
    I was muttering, "I am definitely going to have to raise my rates." I headed back to my life and ticked off the calendar days until my new job. This daily schedule would take more effort than most as my time with the dogs would be divided into a few categories. Feeding - hers and theirs; playtime - hers and theirs. Walks - hers. Grooming - hers. Oh, and did I mention medications? Well - theirs.
I didn't find the routine too difficult. I've VERY detail oriented so I organized everything into a visual
accounting: using columns and hash marks every time I accomplished one of the scheduled activities.
     It came time for little miss's grooming and I drove her there where I was greeted by name and told to come back in two hours?  What?  How much time could a four pound practically hairless dog
need? Apparently, I'm no expert. She'd had this schedule for quite a while. I left, went about my day and reappeared at the salon at the suggested time. There she was, new nail polish color and coordinating bow. The rest of her looked exactly the same as when I dropped her off.
    The next day was Saturday and I didn't know what to expect. Was the boy home? Did he have friends over?  I put on my "Mom" hat, just in case. Walking in and calling her name expecting she would trot out from the master bedroom, I headed out to the screened room to greet the boys. They were eager for some attention and scooted out to the yard. I followed them, but sat on the stairs
and watched them in a game of tag and tumble. Happy and hungry, they bolted right past me and plunged their muzzles halfway down into the overflowing dog dishes.
     Returning back into the main room, the little dog was nowhere; not at the placemat on the kitchen floor, not on the leather sofa, not snuggled down into the embroidered duvet cover. I went upstairs.
That was not an easy accomplishment. The homeowner had replaced the stair runner with travertine tiles and they were slippery underneath my somewhat moist tennis shoe soles.
     Knocking on the child's door, I heard nothing. I opened it. There they were both not looking forward to getting out of bed. The dog jumped down, the boy mumbled and rolled over. I closed the door and carried her downstairs to breakfast. She wanted to go to the back yard and not seeing the harm in it, I accompanied her through the sliding glass door and stayed outside with all three of them.
     Letting her back in, I noticed muddy paws and knew I would have to give her a bath. But where?
Surely not in a bathtub. Surely not in the sink. Well, maybe in the dishpan IN the sink and that's what happened. It took me all of one minute to clean her paws. It took her all of thirty seconds to dry.
When I say that she could swim in the dishpan, I'm not exaggerating!
     We went on our morning walk. I felt silly following a hamster-sized dog up the street, but because I was paid to do it, I did.
      My employment with them lasted until the Misses inquired if I could schedule my time as her dog's chauffeur. I said yes and priced the transportation around forty dollars per day. She declined.
I don't appreciate pedigree. I don't think it should matter. Every soul deserves respect and that's the in and out of it!



Monday, February 25, 2019

When the Heart Speaks

     I had a client with multiple four-legged companions which was not unusual in and of itself. One of her dogs had extrasensory perception when it came to her housemates and one very special friend.
       I seem to remember names as I can visualize the personalized food bowls which would be
placed specifically about the kitchen floor at meal times. Mya, Jack, and Gizmo were the names given their dogs and Harley and Annabelle were the cats.
     Not that all five animals weren't remarkable but this tale is dedicated to Mya.
     She was black, big boned, stubborn, long-haired with eyes that pierced the air and the soul. I thought at first introduction, that she might be a wolf hybrid. I don't remember if I asked about it. She really didn't look like a wolf to me but her body language told a different story. She was constantly on the prowl with her head down. Her owner did tell me that when she was on the scent, I might as well just follow as best I could.  If I couldn't keep the pace, it would be all right. She always stayed within an earshot! Didn't sit much. Didn't obey much. It wasn't that the other animals avoided her, she just was a loner among the pack.
     Walking all three became a challenge and I elicited the help of my daughter to join me at the house after dinner.  Managing Mya took considerable effort and her breakaway collar caused panic a couple of times. Thankfully, she didn't go far.  In the beginning, it was a matter of trust. It was a matter of listening to her; not woman to dog, but spirit to spirit.  I would give my daughter two to keep her balanced, one on each side.  Jack had a "gentle leader" harness and the little one was rather well behaved. I would walk with Mya.
     They lived in an older part of the city and you could tell that the land had been parceled off
acre by acre from farmers and ranchers. There were no city blocks, hardly any sidewalks or street lights on the far east side of the neighborhood. Farmhouses with rickety wooden roofs and falling down porches were dimly lit by a few low wattage light bulbs.  Brand new brick homes with cramped yards and single car garages were squeezed onto narrow parcels, just wide enough to drive one way, park in some one's driveway, reverse and head out again.
     A private equestrian training facility and pasture greeted us at the end of civilization. Our walks generally followed the same route. Mya didn't like cul de sacs or for that matter, any enclosed outdoor space. She preferred to walk on the grass, and didn't like concrete or asphalt. If another dog was out, I would have to straddle over her and hold her collar.  She would become tense which would set off the other two.
    Mya was a horse whisperer. It happened quite unexpectedly on our first walk. When we had passed the last house and approached the ditch separating the pasture from the dirt road, she sat; her choice, not mine. The remaining two ignored her and continued on their walk. Thankfully on that night's outing, having two handlers for three dogs made it possible to separate the group. It was simply a matter of a majority vote.
     Not knowing what she was looking at (could have been a snake), I stopped walking and tried to
match the direction of my gaze to her intent stare. In less than a minute, an old swaybacked brown horse appeared from the horizon and at a slow gate, came to the three rail fence and stood. Mya lowered herself as if to honor him. The horse, in reply, nodded and gave a solitary paw to the ground as if he was tapping a response. His eyes were cloudy but his mane had been recently brushed and his hooves were neatly trimmed. He was enjoying his retirement in the "Sunshine State."
     I didn't move. Mya didn't move. My daughter had rejoined us and was excited to see the horse but couldn't stay to witness this ritual between friends. I reached in my pocket and passed the house key to her and whispered I would return soon. Being that she had been my helper for a few years, she turned and started for the house and I knew I would find the other dogs comfortable on the sofa when Mya and I got back.
     So we remained in the gentle slope of the ditch and the minutes passed between daylight and dusk. The horse backed up from the fence and turning his head towards the horizon, walked away until he was again part of the original landscape.
     Mya turned and looked at me. I patted her head and gave the command "Let's go". We continued to the end of the road and turning around, we were met by a man who had just passed through the main gate of the training center. He said, "Ain't it grand that God gave animals such wonderful friends? And I ain't talking about humans. I've watched that horse of mine converse with many a dog, but his favorite is Mya. That dog's got a bigger heart than most people I know. That horse has been through tough times. Don't know how long he'll be with me. But until he goes, I hope that Mya will continue to visit him. It's kinda like a horse version of an old folks home", he chuckled, but there was a catch in his throat.
     "I promise she'll be here when I am in charge," I said as I blinked the moist release of a solitary tear.

Sunday, February 24, 2019

Clean up on aisle 7 and...

     I think I know what to expect when I have been employed by a family over the course of years.  There will always be exceptions, of course...
     Broadie was a beast of a German shepherd. Not in the disposition category but the size one.
He must have tipped the scale at well over one hundred pounds, even though the breed standard states eighty-eight is a maximum healthy weight for males.  He was healthy and had the thickest coat of any I've ever seen.
   For many years, he was the only dog in the family and was well mannered and highly trained as
a guard dog.  If you did not know his commands, you did not approach him. This was lesson number one on my first day. Having that knowledge was intimidating as his safety and my safety would have to coexist whenever we were out of the house.
    His playtime was usually a game of ball.  He simultaneously played the positions of batter, umpire, and center fielder. I would throw it, he would catch it, run the bases, return to the pitcher's mound, drop the ball behind me and sprint back to home plate. He could play for hours.  I could toss it for thirty minutes and then my shoulder would be talking to me.
    His cooling off exercise would be a walk. We'd tour his block and then cross the driveway of a local restaurant and explore the other neighborhood. He stayed right with me, stopping before we crossed a street and lying down if a stranger approached. This maneuver gave me time to
warn them that he was not to be petted. Considering his size, most people took the warning as just plain common sense.  Children were less understanding and I would have to command him to sit and once I introduced the child to the dog, it was all wiggles and happiness.
     On this particular job, I entered the home like I always did, though the front door and greeted him
heading into the kitchen to drop off my folder and found the biggest pool of vomit I've ever
seen. It was a mini lake, red and smelled of tomatoes.  I called the owner.  The owner said, "Oh yeah,
Broadie asked for leftovers - sorry!" "What exactly did you give him?", I countered. "Spaghetti", he said in a very nonchalant tone. "Do you want me to take him to the E.R?", I replied as I was putting his collar on him at the same time I was looking in the folder for veterinary contact info. "Nope, he
does this once and a while.  You know where the cleaning supplies are, right?"
      Yes, I knew where they were supposed to be and went there and found NO CLEANING SUPPLIES. I put the dog in the back yard and dispersed a layer of paper towels down to begin to absorb the liquid part of the mess.  I looked for another roll of paper towels.  Couldn't find one.  I needed more paper towels and I was not going to leave him, get back in my car and head to the store.
     So, I walked across the street and introduced myself and the ensuing drama to a neighbor.  She had paper towels and spray cleaners and mop and bucket. Most importantly of all, she knew Broadie and
came back to the house, leashed him and took him to her home for a visit.
     I was maybe twenty minutes cleaning and after that mess was a memory, returned to the neighbor, claimed "my" dog, went inside to open the windows and took him to the main room where we watched a little television.  No walk that visit.  I wasn't sure he wouldn't go after grass to ease his stomach cramps and vomit that as well.
     He was hungry later that day, and I gave him his USUAL food. I stayed late.  I returned early.
Nothing else happened. A couple of days later, I returned to that neighbor's house to give her a small bouquet and to thank her again.
     It wasn't very long after that fateful day, that he died.  'Twisted stomach" was the finding of the necropsy.  It is a common health threat to his breed. I didn't know.
     It is not my place to educate a pet owner.  I just fill in and do my very best, knowing that
while in my care, the animal companion was family. . . and I'd do ANYTHING for family.


Monday, February 4, 2019

Size Matters

I want you to understand that when bringing a dog into your home as a permanent companion, you must consider more than what books publish veterinarians advise and shelters hope for.

Let's look closer at the bonding experiences you will encounter. . .

What goes in comes out. Visualize a potter's wheel and the lump of unformed clay. The clay represents what is being served in that favorite doggie's bowl. Now imagine reshaping that lump appropriately into pieces. So size matters.

When purchasing furniture to accommodate your exact measurements,  lumbar support, color scheme and durability, consider the probability that your companion will claim it as his own. You may scoff at my insistence, but I have decades of experience on this subject. If your animal sheds, you're going to have a longer list. Don't be fooled into thinking a big dog can't possibly fit into Grandma's petite antique rocking chair. I have a ninety four pound weimaraner who will easily disprove your theory. Beds a re a challenge for smaller breeds to navigate, but that's why doggie steps were invented.
If you have a man cave with generous size furnishings, you're going to be amazed how adaptable the fine leather sofa is to the dog. Leather, being a little slippery, will allow the paws to dangle just below the seam line. Again, size matters.

Now this is going to be a little personal, but consider it you must. If you are prone to immodesty in your bathroom, I caution you that dogs which stand thirty inches or taller will want to keep you company in there. While the shorter ones (the dachshund comes to mind) may sniff from knees on down, those on the other end of the spectrum will send you shrieking to find your bathrobe. Do you begin to sense a recurring there here?

The up close and personal does not stop with you. Be assured that anyone entering your space will receive the same generous greeting. Girl dogs are not more polite than their male counterparts.

Really big dogs like danes, wolfhounds and mastiffs will counter surf because they can. This talent is not limited to the long legged. . .if you keep chairs around the kitchen island, the little ones (not to be outdone) will manage to jump once for better viewing and then again, once they have targeted their prize, will jump to that final height and not until their curiosity has been sated will they consider the consequences of returning to the floor. Louver doors are no match for those who have a playful nature. Cabinets are not safe either. Laundry baskets, diaper pails and on the floor vegetable bins are irresistible.

Okay, you say, what about obedience training.  I respond "Good luck with that." Read the small print on that adoption agreement. Does it say "genetically bred to enhance your life without the mess"? And anyway, the smells and aromas in those commercial spaces or outdoor arenas where training ensues are vastly different from your personal home environment. Dogs have evolved from the wolf. The wolf hunts, it survives on its ability to smell, identify and conquer. What makes you think your piece of paper (framed and hung on that prominent wall in your home ) guarantees otherwise.

The examples are endless, really; even as far as accessorizing your car, moped, Spyder or bicycle basket. Size matters, personal space (inside and out) matters; yours and theirs. It's a challenge to share what was once yours and yours alone with a pair of twinkling eyes, a wet nose attached to four legs, and a tail. A dog changes everything. Be wise in listening to your heart or do what I do and get one in every size because the only thing where size does not matter is the heartfelt love between you. There is truly no measuring that.

celebrations

I am just going to put it out there. People are not dogs. Dogs are not people and having shared my life with mine and yours, I realize they are just smarter. Which puts us a little further down on the
food chain.

I must intercede for the feline.  People are not cats. Cats are not people and having shared my life with nine and yours, I realize they are just smarter. Not as smart as the dogs, but none the less, their ranking puts us a little further down on the food chain. 

Take for example our obsession for celebrations.  We have w a a a y too many and add to that the cultural diversity of the human being, the number of excuses to memorialize, pay tribute to, honor, etc. becomes a google digit.

Being a semi-retired pet sitter, I often wonder what the animals think. In this section, I offer
what I believe they must sense about us as a species.  

Chapter 1 - A Dog's Thanksgiving
Chapter II - A Cat's Birthday party
Chapter III - The Family Dog's 1st Christmas
Chapter IV - Halloween and the Grumpy Cat
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

A Dog's Thanksgiving

     Dogs celebrate Thanksgiving every single day. They are thankful for the sunrise because that means meal time is coming. They are thankful for mealtime because that leads to time outdoors. And who would not be thankful for time with nature? The excitement of activity, the anticipation of weather, and the movement of blades of grass or leaves falling to attract their attention give cause to celebrate. They are thankful for the occasional walk because the blend of free sniff samples tells them about their neighborhood. They are thankful to come inside again and feel permanence and a sense of belonging. They are thankful for interactions with other animal companions and family throughout their day. If they have been with themselves to wait until people come home, they are thankful for the reunion. They are thankful for a touch and a personal greeting that could not be mistaken for any human member. They are thankful for the freedom to follow in and out of every room in their home. They are thankful for sunset because that means that they will be settling into the evening routine with the promise of tomorrow's sunrise.
     Thanksgiving Day will come again next year. The stress of the day will be upon us in another 364 days. We will practice our hospitality (teaching children table manners), grocery shop in duress ( and if it's last minute, have to apologize for the pull-apart rolls because there had been a run on crescents), clean house with a grumble (lay out the display towels), and exchange smiles and hugs with family and friends who will take up the majority of our day off.
     Some of us will be truly thankful. Some of us need the excuse of the holiday to think outside of ourselves and celebrate. I would rather believe that I'm more like my dog. . .


A Cat's Birthday Party

     "Oh boy, look at the new toys!" said the family cat as she stretched her four legs from underneath the warmth of a morning nap. The unraveled spool of grosgrain ribbon was enticingly close and not an immediate concern of the person in the room. 
      Extending her left front paw in that direction, her nail made contact with the ribbed fabric and as she was trawling it ever closer for a look-see, the person scolded, "Bad, kitty!" Retrieving the
ribbon from the edge of the table, she went back to measuring the wrapping paper. 
      "How rude", mused the feline and got up to get a better view of the person and her toys.
On the table was a mix of unwrapped boxes, gift bags (some with attached tags), rolls of
patterned paper and sheets of tissue paper to match the colored paper. There was a tape dispenser,
two pairs of scissors- one with a pinking edge, and an assortment of scented marking pens.
     The bounty was almost too much for the curious kitty.  Bounding upward in a silent arch, she landed smack in the middle of the action. "Bad, BAD Kitty," said the person and picked up the
furry detective to return her to the safety of the floor.
      Miffed but determined, the cat took another approach. This one in stages: from floor to chair, from chair to windowsill. Now she had the table top in a full, unrestricted view.  She was so excited,
she let out a MEOW and jumped back on the table, being ever so careful to land at one edge so as not to invite another scolding,  That move didn't meet with disapproval, although the person narrowed her eyes to mere slits and pursed her lips.
      Sitting still with the exception of an agitated tail, the cat formed a new strategy. Knowing that whatever was going on would stop eventually, she would wait it out. The person couldn't possibly take all the toys away at once and when the opportunity opened up, whatever was in reach was fair game.
      A timer sounded and as the person left the table, heading to check on the cake in the oven, the cat snatched the shiny paper pompom and quickly took her prize to investigate it under the easy chair.  She knew she would be undisturbed for a little while. Well, it was fun for a minute as the last toss
landed the object in the flower arrangement.  Cats have wonderfully long memories and the last time a flower arrangement was disturbed, there was no catnip for a week.
      The person returned to the table and continued whatever she was doing. In the meantime,
the aroma of sweetness and the possibility of forbidden treats was in the other room. Cat headed there and with her pink nose leading the way, found the stash.  On the tiled kitchen table, lined up in rows and columns, were unfrosted cupcakes.  The icing had been left on the counter, as room temperature was always advised before frosting. 
      No boxed mixes in this house; everything was homemade. Naturally, a coating of flour was on the countertop, where the batter had been mixed. "Oooh," purred kitty. "Let's make a design!" and with no interruption from the person, a line of paw prints started on the counter and with one bound,
continued all over the table, being careful not to disturb the pattern of unfrosted treats.
      All of a sudden the cat, being thirsty and not wanting to go to the laundry room for water,
found the opened bottle of buttermilk.  Its opening was too small for a paw, but maybe if
she stood really close, she could lick the contents. It worked! She was happily consuming
the droplets of sweat creamery butter from the top when the person returned to check on the cooling
cupcakes and pull the cake from the oven. "BAD, BAD Kitty," said the woman. 
     Jumping across the double sink and landing on top of the refrigerator, kitty just turned her back
and preened. From that high viewpoint, something new caught her attention. Brightly wrapped boxes were neatly arranged on that same table. Pretty bows with jingle bells and curly-q ribbons, open bags with layers of noisy tissue paper and piles of confetti beckoned her.
     Being that the person was busy cleaning up the kitchen, Kitty returned to the dining room
where she had even more toys to entertain her. sitting up, she began to swat at the wrapping, removing some of the bows from the packages. The bows fell to the floor and were gathered together into a pile. Stepping back to admire her treasure trove, the cat heard "That's it, into the laundry room with you!" 
      Oh well, it was time for another nap anyway. Some minutes later, the doorbell rang and a parade of people filed through the front door.  Everyone stood and admired the beautifully decorated
table and a pile of presents.  A little boy asked, "And where is the birthday kitty?"  "In time out", said the woman, "but you can go and get her."
     Kitty was placed in her basket which had been moved to a chair at the dining table.  Everyone was served dessert and took turns unwrapping the gifts to give to her.  The bounty included - cat grass,
balls, and feathered twine batons. There were several packets of edible treats and assorted catnip
toys. New dishes and nail clipper rounded out the thoughtful gifts. Kitty was passed from one guest to another and hugged and stroked. The little boy said, "I just love coming to Granny's. She has the best parties ever!"
      The birthday feline was one happy cat!  While she sat in the middle of the torn bits and pieces of paper, ribbons, and handwritten cards, the parade of people filed back out the front door. The woman picked up her companion, gave her a kiss and wished her "many more." Kitty could hardly wait for next year!

The Family Dog's First Christmas

     Through the bars, standing on the cold concrete floor which had been his home for seven years,
the old dog watched as the afternoon's last visitor passed by. He wished he could remember when the last one stopped and talked to him. He couldn't. Of course, with all the barking in neighboring kennels and those lined up across from him, he might not have heard any conversation at all. Backing
up to feel the edge of the makeshift bed, he circled once to the right, sniffed and laid down.
     "Here he is. Are you sure you wouldn't want a younger dog?" asked the volunteer. "Nope, I've been dreaming of this one", answered the crackling male voice. "Okay, he's been here a very long time, may not be social. I'm just making certain your decision is based on all the information we have on him." Smiling and bending down to scratch the head of the dog, the boy, took the rope from his pocket and made a loop. He gently placed the homemade leash over its head and gave it a tug.
"He thinks he's going for a walk. We always walk him before dinner. It's the only exercise he gets,"
said the familiar voice.  "What's his name?" asked the boy, age twelve with hair that was almost the same color as the coat of the dog.  "He doesn't have a legal name," she answered. "Good, I'm gonna call him Sunny, because his eyes are bright."
     The two joined an excited group of children and two adults in the waiting room. With the approval of his mom and dad, the group escorted the new family member to the waiting pick up truck. Sunny jumped in the bed of the dusty black two door, followed by the twelve-year-old, one four-year-old
and her favorite dolly. Two younger children joined the adults in the front seat.
     It was a bouncy trip up the county road which connected the humane society to town. Once they were back to paved roads, Sunny steadied himself between the two children and breathed in everything at once. His ear flaps made him look like he was flying!
     "We're home", squealed the two in the front seat. Sunny stepped down on to unfamiliar
green softness. It was cool, but not the sterile cool of the kennel floors. Children ran circles around him which caused excited barking. "Well, well", said the dad. He DOES have a voice after all. Sounds like a baritone!"
     "It's perfect, just like in my dream", said the official owner. "I'm gonna let him loose and see where he goes." Sunny sat down.
     The sun was setting, the wind was up and the dog's new bed was being warmed by the fire.
"I can't get him to move!" cried the little sister.  "He's gonna freeze stiff", she wailed.
"Maybe he's waiting for his leash," said Dad. "He's used to being tied to people. I will bring him in."
      "Let's sing carols", suggested Mom.  "After all, it's Christmas Eve and if you want Santa to find us,you're going to have to sing your loudest!"
       Sunny joined in and the faces usually grimaced with having to remember the lyrics, burst into hysterical laughter. Sunny's baritone voice could be heard over the combined laughter. He was telling Santa where to find them and not to bring any presents for him because he already had the most wonderful gift of his life - a family of his very own.



     






Back Up Plan

 People and their animal companions have extra relationships that families without pets don't have.
Veterinarians, obedience trainers, groomers, and pet sitters make up the pet care industry. Sometimes pet owners need to make alternate arrangements.
      Glory and Sandy were long time clients of another pet sitter.  I was called because she couldn't commit to days the owners needed to be away.  I knew that the dogs would be confused to have another person caring for them. All I could do was my best.
     At the interview, I was sniffed at and ignored. It's challenging to step into another sitter's routine.
The owner tried her best to explain what had ALWAYS been the routine.  Well, that was good to know. I was not the other sitter.  I was me and the dogs would treat me as such - a total stranger.
     The home was in the same neighborhood as another client, so streets were familiar. Walking after dark would be safe for us and I was relieved as managing two big dogs in unfamiliar surroundings
was not what I wanted to do.
     Sandy was well "sand" color and a golden retriever.  Glory was a white Labrador. Neither one would be considered a lap dog, but Sandy didn't understand that.  The family room had a pair of couches facing each other and separated by a long coffee table. The "leg room" was narrow between the table and the couch.  I don't think the furniture arrangement had been moved - ever.  Some homes are like that because the people are comfortable with the arrangement or the people who hired an interior decorator never questioned the floor plan.
     I soon learned that the dogs had dibs on the couches.  It was perfectly alright for me to sit with them, but stretching out was not possible.  A retriever laying down is four times the width of the same dog in a seated posture.  A Labrador is of similar configuration but has more girth.  There's just no people room. I wondered where the other sitter relaxed.  She was much taller than I was.
     There were other rooms to relax in. There was an office that resembled any movie set of a typical British library. The paneling was dark, the leather chairs were masculine and I believe the flooring was a complementary neutral shade. I didn't feel comfortable in that room. A formal living room with french doors connecting to a patio was available to relax in, but the dogs didn't go in there. It was off-limits to the casual house guest which left me guessing it was for cocktail parties.
     A very small eat-in kitchen was also downstairs. The rest of the house remains a secret as I never ascended the stairs.
     All I remember, this many years later is that after I fed them, I would go out of the kitchen door with them to the tennis court. There we could toss the ball around for some exercise. Walks followed that
activity and we would head to the street directly from the courts.
     I am in favor of symmetry.  The dogs were accustomed to walking TOGETHER. Sandy and Glory
had to teach me that my left hand was to hold both leashes and if one headed off, followed by her companion, I would soon be at the mercy of a combined one hundred pounds of stubborn dogs.
I tried to walk BETWEEN them. Nope, Glory would sit down and wait until I moved to the right. We went walking with curbs and driveways always on my left.  There was no way I was allowing them the middle of the street privileges.
     Our first walk was easy.  They showed off.  I took notes, "Sandy on the outside, Glory likes to sit down and watch for squirrels. "Sandy can jump on people. Glory barks at bicyclists." I felt ill-equipped and that's not like me. I have never been outmaneuvered by a dog. But these two were trying their best to train the new gal. I learned the rules and the next couple of days were uneventful.
     Once we got back to their home, everyone relaxed. Well, they relaxed. I washed the dog dishes, hung their leashes back up, wrote a few notes to the owner, and left. I was on duty every five to six hours at my leisure. On my second day, I thought to stack the deck and had Milkbone treats in my pockets.  Okay, I cheated. A pet sitter has to have a few tricks up her sleeve. Twice each day, we would walk and by the time I said my final goodbye, my confidence was back.
     I don't really remember anything unusual or anecdotal about the rest of that job except. . . I did stop in a few days later and met the other pet sitter.  Apparently, I had interrupted a nap. She thanked me for filling in and gave me her business card. As she turned to close the front door, I noticed her back was completely covered in dog hair. It looks like the dogs knew how to share after all.