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!