The Egg Lady

I’ve found that flexibility and an appreciation of the unexpected go hand and hand in my pet sitting venture.  This easy going philosophy is a constant reminder that I live life far too rigidly. I’m trying to embrace this new way of thinking, but sometimes it’s a challenge.

My interviews have become an informal exchange of questions and answers with owners, always in the presence of their animal companions.  On this appointment, the “interview” was more or less a quick tour and introduction as the owner was a friend and former colleague.  She knew that I knew all about multiple pets and the details would work themselves out.

Her three Dachshunds and one long hair Chihuahua were the best security system on the block and perhaps the whole subdivision! My quick intro moved from living room to kitchen, kitchen to yard and back to living room where I was invited to sit on the couch. A moment’s hesitation extended the invitation to include all four dogs.  “Blah, Blah, Yap, Blah, blah” was pretty much the extent of our conversation.  She admonished with an occasional “hush” and was quickly over ruled by Heidi who was the matriarch of the pack.  Before I left, I asked about their meal time “They have open feeding and are very good eaters” I was told.

Now, I’m not a fan of “open feeding”.  My experience is food in, food out (in rather short order).  Animals left alone for extended periods without outside access are problematic when not in the company of their pet parents. It is much less strain on them if they eat when I am there and I tailor their feeding schedule regardless if it’s a single meal or multiple throughout the twelve to eighteen hours I am on duty.

An inventory of the cabinet and pantry included “Milkbones, Dingos, Jerky and beef flavored rawhide knots which will bring a smile to my readers who have invited dog companions into their hearts.

I soon learned that snack time was not restricted but rather encouraged.  Most of their day was spent in the kitchen; they roomed together in a large comfortable kennel with gated access to food and water. If you need a visual, just consider a coral in miniature, alright?

Trial and error is unwelcome at 6:00 A. M! I arrived with written instructions to include a schedule of daily routine.  Fool proof, or so I thought.  We got through the going outside part.  As long as I blocked the reentry they were stranded on the lawn until duty was done. Scanning the notes for other than the obvious, I read “4 bowls, kibble, change water, ice cubes okay”.  Got it. Four bowls arranged at equidistant intervals and an automatic water fountain would keep them busy. They wouldn’t even notice I was there.

I stepped outside the gated area and sat at the kitchen table to supervise.  Heidi and Roxie went back to sleep in their blanketed tunnel.  Zack and Willow followed me and busied themselves with sniffing my shoes and growling, taking care to back under the table out of my reach.  I had instructions, I had an agenda.  They were not following the rules.

The fridge had eggs and margarine.  I found the frying pan and spatula and could operate the electric stove without rummaging through the drawer to locate the appliance warranty booklet.

Heidi and Roxie woke up and joined the other two who had now moved as close to me and the stove as possible.  Eight eyes watching me, four tails in rhythmic pattern against the lower cabinets and four noses raised to investigate that yummy smell.

Hot breakfast in a sunny kitchen.  Happy pups, relieved sitter. Success!  Success.. which became a daily ritual and over the years, a tradition.

My friend has a new tradition of her own…

She leaves my favorite snacks and a new carton of eggs on the top shelf of her refrigerator.  She tells them to be good because the “egg lady” is coming.  And every visit, through the years, they continued to be very, VERY good.

Change of Decor

Good first impressions are a survival tool in my profession.  Most of my customers are referred by either a local vet or current clientele. 

Charlie, Sammie, and Jesse lived as siblings in a large brick home in the country.  The subdivision was sprinkled with beautifully detailed custom builds, all centered on manicured lawns.  Neighbors busied themselves with weed whackers and bags of red cedar mulch at all times of the year.

I was introduced to these three during summer, 2008.  “Oh, what a lovely home and the white carpet is beautiful,” I said as I prepared to remove my shoes.  Hum, I wondered, does it clean well?  So as part of the interview process, I asked her (just in case of an accident).  Were there preferred cleaning supplies? Everything I needed was in the laundry room off the main hallway to the master. Good, I thought…just in case.

Months passed and she called to reserve a few days.

Now you realize that pets have their routines and pet sitters must have great patience and flexibility. Sammie (the Westie and Charley (the golden Lab),  loved their back yard.  Jesse never gave me her feline perspective, but she was allowed out and always found her way home…eventually. Lawn extended from patio north to about ¼ acre lot of forested area.  Garden gnomes kept vigil while entertaining the varied frog population. Charley, the old man of the family, was a sun worshiper.  I never worried about extended outside time as he would claim the sun rays either on grass or patio.

Sammie was happy to explore and I often located her simply by watching the tip of her tail dart between ferns, yucca and other native foliage in the no people zone behind the storage shed.

Afternoon visits were relaxed and trust soon entered the new relationship as I became their substitute family.  Their mistress was considerate of my time and always had notes for me, towels and other supplies on the ready, treats available and their leashes neatly folded in their designated spot at the front door.

This afternoon, I had a few other clients on my route and playtime/nap time was shortened to accommodate equal time at the other residences.  Opening the sliding glass door, I called them in.  Sammie scooted in first and dutifully stopped to have her feet wiped off, but either I was too slow or she was impatient with me and scooted between my legs to an unknown destination.  Charley, not so good with formality, walked right in, over the scatter rug and four paws proceeded across the white carpet in the direction of his preferred viewing spot at the dining room window.  This was geographically the furthest point he could have traveled without also decorating the kitchen tile and custom travertine in the foyer.

“Stop Charley…good boy…no, DON’T come over here…STOP, CHARLEY”.  Too late!

Red mulch, sand, and a few flower petals tracked in.  No quick vacuum, breathe…  I have to be somewhere!!

Okay, Sammie into the deep sink next to the washer.  Oh good, she fits and the “whitening” shampoo was already on the edge of the tub. In and out, no problem, just toss her towel in the washer.

Charley, O.M.G…well, he would not fit in the deep sink. The front half of Charley would not fit.  Plan B:  master bath, it was closest.  I commanded him to follow…nope, he started to sit down as we got to the bathroom door.  Not even a gentle tug on his collar.  Not even a firmer tub on his collar.  Couldn’t lift him in, could not push him in, so we got in together.  We had a bath; me in my under clothes and Charley in his newly acquired layered look courtesy of Mother Nature.

It went as well as expected…all bath towels now deposited in the washer and time to concentrate on the not quite dry very red mud and debris on the carpet.

If you haven’t seen a pet sitter in warp speed, this might be your first indication that we even have an internal gear shift.  The adrenaline kept my head clear while I spot cleaned, wiped and vacuumed the temporary trail. I wrote a letter of apology and left for my afternoon’s scheduled visits. As I drove away, I had that sinking feeling of failed duty in my stomach, but I chose to concentrate on the fact that she would be returning to two very clean dogs.

She has hired me back numerous times over the years, we’ve become quite close and I am now considered family.  I attend her son’s soccer games and we meet now and then for supper.

I’m not taking blame or credit for her recent change of décor… but, the newly installed wood grain floors are a constant reminder of that eventful afternoon.

Shadow's Corner

This title may allude to a myriad of subjects depending on the reader’s point of reference.  I shall clue you in that I had a beloved dog and this is his tribute.

All legs and prancing on the other side of the pet store window, he wasn’t our first choice for another family member.  I had chosen a petite greyhound, the breed which doesn’t run the track chasing after the bunny.  As we had multiple pets already, this addition seemed perfect in size and temperament until…the pet counselor stated that any rough housing by well -meaning established family pets could result in a broken leg.  Well, next!

Erik, our then 2^nd grader (I think), fawned over this puppy.  So we asked to meet him. We left the store with him being mostly all legs, docked tail and grey colored short coat in my arms. He stayed in Erik’s lap all the way home.

Having researched the breed and being captivated by the “grey ghost” description, “Shadow” was the perfect name. A hunting breed and loyal to family, the Weimeraner joined our family.

Never had one, didn’t worry about his fitting in.  We’ve always had multiple animals and never really researched the breed standard. 

Yes, he was definitely one of us.  We never discriminate, dogs are people, too.

He lived 12 years, did his best to raise our son and daughter and remained the only male of our “pack” for the last 8 to 10 years. He passed away a year ago last month. At least his physical presence did.

To explain and share the remaining story, you must be open to the realm of possible. This open ended frame of mind is rather new to me.  I chose it over the comfortable religious indoctrination of previous generations. 

I am spiritual and now understand the connection to all living things and the interplay which creates a constant unfolding of my destiny.

There are sacred spaces in my home.  They are in yours, too.  Some are hidden and do not speak, some are deliberate and beckon the rituals of daily living.

My kitchen sink is one.  I can hand wash all the dishes and cookware, utensils and glasses while I meditate.  The double sink (wash on the right, rinse on the left) and dish rack, the designated dish sponge, refillable round scrub gadget, the constant streaming of really hot water all coerce me into a semi -comatose state of “well it’s been a successful day” kind of thinking. I can stand there and stretch my calves and roll my head from side to side.  When finished, I can wipe my dimpled hands on the towel, hung just below the counter lip, and go about my evening.  The dried items will be waiting when I return…later…or maybe in the morning.

The conservatory is another of my sacred spaces.  It houses my concert grand piano.  Shadow’s spirit is there…under the massive ebony instrument. He laid there whenever I played, back legs just near enough to the foot pedals to cause me to miss the sustain pedal.  Oh well, my practices were not for public viewing, I could pretend that the phrasing was as intended by any of my favorite classical composers.

The other dogs gather under and around my feet now, but there is a cavernous space, almost as if it were outlined, where the dogs do not cross.

Several weeks before he died, a corner in my office/parlor garnered his attention.  Curios because there had always been a two cushion love seat neatly and snugly fitted on the wall, leaving maybe 5 inches space to the wall seam. He would just stand facing the corner, intent on…well…I don’t know. The other side of the wall behind the back of the love seat was the staircase with crawlspace underneath.  There’s nothing in the crawl space; hasn’t been for the last 15 years. He would

just stand and when his curiosity passed, would lie down and study whatever I was doing.

He never tried to squeeze his 96 pounds into the corner and he never sniffed about the love seat as I would predict a hunting dog would do. He never chased one of the cats behind the furniture, there was no hidden bone under the skirt of the sofa for him to guard. 

This was his sacred space. I cannot explain his choosing that exact location.

My remaining quartet of aging dogs have their territories.  We have exactly two small rugs and I often find them piled together a top one.  When the sun streams through one of our south facing windows, each will claim the warmth for themselves and only share if necessary. The Schnauzer will find an unoccupied chair and call dibs.  Our female Weimeraner will pounce with as much stealth as possible on the king size bed and the elderly pug will seek out her even older terrier pal to snuggle up.

Recently, during a grueling 7 months of surgeries and therapies, our other Weimy has discovered Shadow’s corner.  She visits; doesn’t stay but rather returns to her previous activity in other rooms in the house. It doesn’t matter if I am in the room, she comes as if she is honoring his memory. 

Today the Pug came and toured the sacred space, being purposeful and slow to not bump into the wicker chair and table which have replaced the love seat.  She’s visually challenged and her advanced years make any journey problematic if she pauses too long.

This beloved room, in the front of my house, is filled with mementos of my life and shares square footage with the necessary technology which keeps my life organized.  His presence is comforting and I am reminded of what unconditional love should be.

As we go about our daily lives, are we being guided and nurtured from beyond our understanding? If we open our hearts and share this lifetime with animal companions, are their journeys similarly directed? These questions are for your benefit.  I already know.

My Shadow is keeping vigil.

Stargazing

One of the benefits of my profession is the endless adventures I have when accompanied by someone else’s pet. It’s a kind of follow the leader mentality and I’m not always in the position of the leader…

Charlie, a middle aged Golden Retriever and Sammie, his sister, who was pure bred Westie, were house mates.  Charlie was the original resident and Max, had been left behind by a longtime boyfriend; quite a pairing, but perfect for this family.  The Colonel and her son resided in  this sprawling “countryish” bedroom community 10 miles west of my house. 

This was a work in progress and the original plans for the community must be close to 100 acres. Every time I had a job out there, I would pass new construction.  The dump trucks and mobile cantinas dotted streets in a haphazard pattern. New brick homes would sprout up between the chicken coops and falling down trailers.  Little well groomed flower and vegetable gardens bordered even smaller 1 bedroom cottages.  And well, the wild life just carried on amidst the school busses and cars, skateboarders, bicyclists and mail trucks.

Dogs without their people chased the cats in the same category.  Driving directions were more visual than written down, because the numbers on the mailboxes occasionally fell off if the box had been hand made.  The newer houses, of course, were well lighted and the paved streets to which they belonged never left me guessing.

My family lived on a short street; maybe a dozen homes, all brick with fences. This grouping was popular with most of the builders out there.  You’d cross several dirt roads and then come across a short paved section with a new floor plan for sale.

The end houses shared property lines with forest like a quilt without proper binding. Their house was at the beginning with a 45 degree driveway up to the physical building.

Charlie and Max were to be walked after meals.  It was without exception.  Their owner, a career Air Force nurse was all about fresh air.  Tony, her son, was quite the soccer player and both of them loved the out of doors.  Leashes were always in a tall cylindrical basket at the front door.  Charlie always had his leash in his mouth and sat rather impatiently while I lassoed Max for our twice or more daily outings.

Being that Sammie was a breed so close to the ground, the pace of our walks fell short of brisk and suited my abilities.  My reasons for enjoying walks had nothing to do with health benefits, I always had reason to admire the plantings, seasonal décor and if the windows had been left un-curtained, I would gaze at life on the inside. Got quite a few decorating tips this way!

Each time we left the house, Charlie would lead to a favorite patch of curb and then it was at my discretion which direction to go.  Max just stayed within the shadow of her brother and was content at whatever he wanted to investigate. Didn’t matter the weather and on those very wet days, we knew that towels were readied in the laundry room for paws and ears when we got home. 

Months passed, seems a whole summer in fact, and the two to three mile circumference of our journey remained unchanged. Nothing new, no potholes, no unexpected construction nails in the road.  We knew the barks behind all the neighboring fences and took for granted that we would forever continue our favorite times of day.

Evenings in this “countryish” scene lent magical moments to the routine.  Nature’s calling was a welcomed respite to busy days. As I was not a sleep over guest with this client, our final walk was taken as late as possible sometimes after the ten o’clock hour.  Perfectly safe and I was nothing if not prepared with cell phone and flashlight in pockets and bright neon striped safety vest.

That night’s pre bedtime airing was going to be especially wonderful because the heaven’s natural lights were seasonally bright. Mars was out and the Big Dipper was in the eastern hemisphere.  Street lights were in competition so we headed west and north to the nearest dirt road for our gazing pleasure.

Do dogs stargaze?  I think so, because I sat down between my two friends and gave them a basic astronomy lesson.  I said “Look, Charlie, can you see that one? Sammie, come here, let me hold you and point out that grouping which looks just like you!” Pretty soon, we all got fidgety and I got up and announced that it was time to go, but Charlie wouldn’t budge. Max was already at the end of her leash and looked behind her to look at him and I was looking behind him and there she was…

About 400 pounds of black bear, just watching us watch her.  Now what?  Stay calm, look for cover or people or get the heck out of there. “Charlie, HEEL”! With flashlight and very audible commands from me, we moved and started to gain distance from her and my line of vision changed from behind me to the welcomed view of people with flashlights coming to our rescue.

The next door neighbor, who was self -appointed neighborhood watchman, had seen us head out (just all the nights before) but our usual return time was apparently delayed and he had placed calls for a search party.  Wonderful!!

He was telling me, to keep leashes taught and quicken my pace, but not run…repeat…do not run. Go straight home, he would see me in a few.

OMG, I was thinking how to carry Sammie and keep Charlie calm.  Surely the irresistible scent of the bear would keep him not wanting to leave.  Well, we managed, I don’t remember the last several yards to the house, but we walked right in, locked the door and watched as neighbors gathered in the street to discuss strategies.  Within 15 minutes or so, and after I had called the owner to recount the encounter, neighbor came over ready to give me verbal “CPR”. I was fine. He told me what my client should have told me, but perhaps considering the color of my hair, didn’t find it had been necessary to give a lecture on bear safety. I was thankful for the tips and had a list of anti-bear equipment to buy before returning the next day.

In that list was bear repellant (for me), and small rattles (or a wind chime would do).

Sometimes, lessons are learned the hard way. Gray hair is no great indicator that I have retained all the life lessons I once knew. This one is gonna stay with me though. When in nature, expect wonder and be grateful that she teaches the bear to share her star filled canopy with the pet sitter and friends.

Oh No...I Didn't

I was overjoyed to be hired by old clients recently.  Their preferred sitter happened to be my daughter and she had packed her life and headed to the university.  Sometimes it happened that way.  She came home for the summer and traditional holiday breaks and always had a waiting list of jobs.  This time the job was mine as it was, originally, in the very beginning. 

My charge, Phoenix, a black and white spaniel, around 4 years, was a joy. She was a very high energy girl, with inside manners and outside mayhem.  She loved people, frogs, butterflies, dead frogs (to roll upon), and flashlight beams after dark.

She always ate well and kept her companion cat, Jezabelle, one level up from the floor.  Occasionally vexed at her dog, the cat would ambush from under the kitchen tablecloth and Phoenix would scold and retreat.

As I have gotten older, daily walks with some of the younger crowd have been replaced with other less vigorous activities.  Since we had a huge, fenced back yard to play in, I didn’t feel that her normal 2 mile jaunt would be missed.  The yard is beautifully appointed with plantings, porch swings, gazing balls, pool (with hot tub), and raised vegetable gardens.

The gardens line the fence and each is lovingly planted with seasonal

veggies, herbs and peppers.  There is also a solitary citrus tree which bears green and then yellow fruit.  I am unfamiliar and decided not to sample it.

To access the back yard from inside, we pass through their Florida room;

a screened furnished outdoor room, which transforms to an inside room if you secure all the windows. The inside plants (orchids and other sweet fragranced beauties) are organized on shelving near the north wall where the morning sun welcomes them. The doggie door is on the east wall, right next to the people door. 

Every morning, one of my duties is to clean the pool. I use the net to remove drowned frogs and miscellaneous debris from it. So, as Phoenix scooted through her door, I accompanied her through my door and we went to explore the freshly watered lawn. While she ran laps and figure eights (so as not to miss anything), I attended to my chore.  Only one frog and it wasn’t quite waterlogged and hopped from the net to the safety of the grass.

Time for Frisbee!  We were focused on the course.  I aimed for the back fence and heard a click.  Hum, never heard that before, so we continued.

Phoenix heard something and high tailed it inside and then whined for me to open the sliding glass door.  We have to keep it closed because the cat is not supposed to come outside.

I grabbed the handle and opened, well tried to open, well couldn’t open the door BECAUSE IT WAS LOCKED.  She whined for me to come in (again).  I couldn’t and called to her to rejoin me on the outside side of the door.

Apparently, this has happened to somebody else, because she scooted to the gate and sat and waited. But, I saw her owner deadbolt it (with a wooden slat) from the street side when I came to visit just 2 days earlier.

Funny how life experience kicks in during times of stress.  I considered crawling atop the parked car (classic Mercedes) which was locked and hidden from view in the make shift carport on MY side of the fence.  If I could crawl on the hood, maybe I could scale the 6 foot fence and land in the mulched flower bed on the other side. Then I could regain entry through the keypad at the garage door. Well, no I decided.  That maneuver could land me in the E. R.

Maybe I could find a ladder and hoist it and open it to climb up, shift and climb back down.  No ladder…

I could fit through the doggie door. I got on my knees and tried. Got my head and one shoulder through…backed out…got my head and other shoulder through.  Stretched out as low to the ground as possible and was met with failure.  Couldn’t raise my arm far enough to reach the handle because it was on the far side of the door.  This had nothing to do with the fact that I had almost double jointed my elbow in an effort to do just that.

Maybe I could call husband to come.  Oh, yeah, we’re car sharing and I have the car.  As a matter of fact, I can see it through the fence and I can see someone walking by.  I yelled.  You know that gray haired kind of a yell which tells strangers that you’re an idiot and have locked yourself out.

Well I am thankful for divine intervention in the person of the kind gray haired lady who came with smile and understanding eyes to help me in my predicament. She gained access through the garage and met me laughing with a new spaniel best friend and opened the people door to let me in.  I thanked her, offered her money and a glass of water and she said she was almost home and now had something to tell her husband about her morning stroll.  I bet!

Now I know why I ask clients to hide spare keys on property.  But knowing me and my recent failed attempt, the key would be somewhere on THE OTHER SIDE of the house…

In My Arms

     As I alluded to in the forward to this book, heartache can be an eventuality in this profession.

     This past weekend, my heart was broken, quite unexpectedly in fact.  Nothing prepares me for the shock of old age and in companions, that finality comes before we’re ready.  I mean, we know someday, but still, we’re robbed of promised future days with them at our side and at our beckoning.

     I parked in the drive and pressed the garage door opener.  It’s a short driveway and the barks on the inside were meant for anyone who dared approach.  You see, they know the sound of the family cars.  I wasn’t driving a family car and knew that I would have to squeeze in and undergo the inspection.  It happened every time I stopped in.

     This client’s dogs were long-legged and very short legged…an eclectic grouping of Greyhounds, Chihuahua and Fox Terrier. As I have an equally odd mixture of companions, I completely understood. I believe that personality is the trait which clinches the deal when choosing a family pet. Anyway, that’s my life’s experience.

     Moments after being released from the corner in the hall, we headed to the back yard for outside time.  And then, I saw Keeper, sprawled on the floor in a pool of urine. I ran to scoop her up and carried her, pee dripping from my sleeve and set her upright in the yard.  She walked a few steps, slipped, fell and then I scooped her up again and sat her in the grass. She rocked herself to a standing position and headed to a favorite spot to investigate.

     Not trying to panic, but needing to dial the phone, I called the owner. “Keeper had a bad night”, I said.  “I found her soaked on the floor right next to her bed. Where’s your doggie shampoo? Do you have bath towels?” I hung up and with her in my arms with the three in tow, headed to the bathroom for shampoo and then to garage to get towels.

She had a lovely warm bath and was not too anxious to get out of the tub.  Didn’t take her long to dry off and I put her down and she walked to her bed in the master bedroom.  She settled in a bit and I went in the main room to turn on the t v.  Not long after, she came into the main room to join us and traded her bedroom spot for the small bed next to the fireplace.

     She sat mostly as if she couldn’t decide on what to do next. Having breathed a sigh of relief, I plopped into the easy chair for a breather.  Almost at that exact moment, she started to seize. I ran to her and fell to the floor and located my phone to place another distress call.  “No, she has not had any grand mal seizures” was the reply. “Well, she’s having one now and please stay on the phone while I try to calm her”. The seizure lasted 3 minutes. It was awful. It was messy.  They were two hours from home. 

     I know seizures. They weaken and usually contribute to shortened lifespans.

I knew this one was probably not the first.  I knew that she probably had one after I left the previous night.

     I rousted everyone out hourly in hopes that she would snap out of it.  She was mentally there but the sadness in her eyes told a different story. I left the comfort of the easy chair and laid on the floor next to her and pet and sang all the lullabies I could remember.

     Tick, tock…minutes passed and they weren’t coming.  They were close, but not close enough to rescue us from this awfulness.

     Keeper and I were outside and the remaining three were in when the garage door opened and voices were busy greeting barks.  I walked inside with her in my arms and kissed Mrs. and handed Keeper to her.  She said “She’s Dave’s dog” and passed her to him.  The grandparents were busy in a group hug and I said, “I need to go and I’m sorry”.

     I got in my car and sat and cried.  I got home and cried.  I went to bed and hoped that she would pass away.

     She didn’t. I got a text message the following morning which read “She had seizures all night we took into the vet and had her put to sleep. We couldn’t let her suffer.  We miss her.”

     Later that day, I received another message: “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for staying with her”.  I replied “You’re entirely welcome” Thank you for loving her through this. I love you.”

     If it’s not time for me to retire, I’ll be surprised at my decision to continue. I will have to say goodbye again and I know that next time, I will want to hold them in my arms.

Never Too Old

The number left on my “missed call” message was unknown, but something in me said “go ahead and find out who it was”.  I had just that morning, re-recorded my voice mail to say:  “sorry, this gal is retired, you may leave voice mail or call back and text for quicker response, blah, blah.”

You see, I really mean it this time.  I’m quittin this gig. The recent loss of a client was the last straw. No more. I’ve had too much sorrow and the last thing I want is to stay with another client until that final last kiss on the nose sends me into hysterics.

With that new found philosophy taking root in my mental file cabinet, I dialed the number.  “Hello, this is Gert (names changed to protect the well- meaning) at Alaqua Animal Refuge.  You are listed as a reference on an application for Mr. and Mrs……my heart sank.  I couldn’t believe they were at it again.

My octogenarians, two of my favorite senior citizens were trying to fill the void of their own recent loss.  Their Ms. Gigi died in 2011 and I had the privilege of caring for her during those days when “Papa Bear” and “Ms. Gloria” were tasked out of town, or had doctors’ appointments, or most likely on the bus to Biloxi for a little casino action.

We had just been through a near adoption of a lovely Toy Poodle girl (whom they named GiGI II). After 4 months, they gave her back to the breeder, with the excuse that the puppy was too much for them.  I was really angry with them over this and I’m sure that Gigi II wondered what SHE had done.

Oh, the conversations in my head while listening to the questions from this adoption counselor prevented me from answering truthfully.  I  heard myself saying things like: “yes, they are very caring people and the SENIOR companion will have a lovely home with fenced yard, daily walks, scheduled vet appointments…..”

What was I saying? I know, I was trying to be positive. I was trying to be helpful and if answering in the affirmative would help one animal leave the shelter, then I had to say “absolutely yes”.   

Now I just wonder if a dog is placed with them, how soon my phone would ring. This time Ms. Gloria would be on the other end asking me to come meet the new guy. I know I would and this is the reason why: My Grandmother.

Let’s see, must have been in my teenage years that my mother, decided HER mother needed a companion of the four legged kind.  We already were to capacity at our house when Mom learned from a friend that a sweet (they always begin with “sweet”) miniature dog, who was living in neglect, needed a forever home.  My grandmother (already in her late 70’s), lived alone right next door in her own 3 bedroom w/basement home and had NEVER owned a pet. I guess it was her Methodist upbringing…she couldn’t go dancing or play cards either.  

“Missy” came to live with Grandma.  That lady who had been single nearly forty years and kept a spotless home and came and went when the spirit moved her became the owner of a blonde Toy Poodle. Not a puppy, but middle age with signs of neglect and soft brown eyes.

“Bammy” (my nickname for Grandmother), was resistant at first, but my mother rather insisted and so the newest member of our family was welcomed by all. 

That first snow storm had my Grandma shoveling a path for “going outside” in the cavernous fenced back yard.  I spied her from my bedroom window in her nighty under coat, booties over slippers and watched her clear a 10 by 10 spot at the edge of the patio for Missy.

I watched the transformation from someone who was not good with dogs or comfortable with them near her, to someone whose entire world centered around a 6 pound best friend, secret keeper, and lap companion during the evening’s newspaper reading time.

If the temperature fell, Missy would be found sandwiched under Gran’s apron (to keep the newsprint from her dress) and the electric heating pad on her lap.  Miniature marsh mellows, dried and kept in a gold and burgundy tin canister were the approved treats; one for Grandma and two for Missy.

I don’t remember any bag, can or box of dog food in the pantry, so I’m guessing they enjoyed the same cuisine. I do recall Grandma telling me that their evening dessert was a dish of vanilla ice cream. Her water dish was kept in the back hall bathroom.  It was a favorite room of mine; tile, sink, toilet and counter top were a mint green.  There was a plaque hung on the door which read “Missy’s room”. 

Dog beds were in every room, purposefully placed where the sun’s rays would find her.

Grandma was a changed woman. Her outlook brightened. She gained friends, who upon being invited for supper, would ask about the little dog. She was less fearful in coming up the hill to our house and had a new self -confidence when confronted by our much larger family pets.

I believe that Bammy was the eldest pet owner to frequent our family’s vet clinic. She wanted to learn as much as possible and would have samples and brochures in her purse after every appointment. 

And in that last day, she laid Missy to rest under a bed of pink petunias in the sunniest spot of the north border of the patio.

My Bammy is long gone and her house is under new ownership.  I had the occasion to re visit the house and the woman invited me in and she asked me about my grandmother. She felt a benevolent spirit present and was aware of aromas of freshly baked bread and ladies cologne.

I smiled and said “yes, that would be her”.  She took me to the patio and said, “See that pink rose on the north side? It comes up each summer around mid-June. I didn’t plant it” I replied “Her birthday was June 13^th”.  I felt a tear welling in my eye, but chose not to share my secret.

Those years Grandmother shared her home with Missy gave me a new appreciation and acceptance of the eventuality of old age. My friends, Papa Bear and Ms. Gloria, are looking forward to welcoming home their chosen companion. I am expecting their call.