A couple of years ago, my daughter asked me to house sit her three cats and The Dog while she and her husband took a mini-vacation before their baby came. The Dog part scared me to death. Oh, it wasn’t some ferocious 100-pound devil dog that caused the mailman to carry pepper spray. It was a 12-pound playful Jack Russell Terrier that had all the kinetic energy of a two-year old on speed. Being a devout cat-lover, dogs and I never really hit it off. I wondered how I could get out of this gracefully.

 

"Mom," Bridget begged, "this may be the last time for a long time we get away by ourselves. We would really appreciate it. Please?" Staring at her pleading eyes and round belly, my mouth said,

 

"Okay," while my mind screamed, What are you doing? Are you crazy? You don’t even like Lassie!  "Uh – what do I do when – what’s her name? Asia? – has to – you know – go out?" My mind spun. Asia. Why would anyone name their dog after a continent?

 

"Let her go in the back yard. She’ll be fine!"

Yes, but will I? Oh, Lord! What am I getting into? I like cats because they are independent, they don’t require constant attention, and when they do their business, it doesn’t require audience participation. I recalled all those dirty baby diapers more than 20 years ago. I wished now I’d come up with some excuse like, ‘Nope, sorry, can’t housesit – broken arm!’ Better yet, ‘Nope, sorry, two broken arms!’

"Uh – do I have to – uh – pick up after her?" (Cat pans were one thing, but this was a whole other ball of –Y-U-U-U-C-K!) My stomach lurched and my nose pleaded, No! No!

She grinned knowingly and shook her head. "Just leave it. We’ll gather it all up when we get back." Lord, she made it sound as natural as picking flowers. "Mom! Chill! It’s only for four days. Asia won’t be any trouble. She’s already had two obedience classes!"

"Two lessons! That many, huh?" I had my doubts about that rambunctious little dog; I was used to my own fat, do-nothing cats, but I was already committed.

 

"Sure, what’s a few days? You two go and have fun!"

She pulled the suitcase from under the bed. "That’s the spirit!"

The first day passed (surprisingly) without incident, and by the second day, I had the routine down pat. While The Dog was outside, I took care of the cats inside. As soon as they ate, they scattered in different directions until the next mealtime. Guess they didn’t want to be around The Dog, either.

Having The Dog around, I felt like I had grown an extra appendage. Every waking minute, that brown and white ball of boundless energy, with a long, wet tongue in perpetual hang-out mode, and a constantly wagging tail, seemed to be smiling at me, begging to play. It made me tired just looking at her.

The Dog followed me everywhere, never venturing more than two inches in any direction. I was becoming claustrophobic. She liked to play fetch and would bird dog whatever I threw until she retrieved it. Once I thought about throwing it over the fence, but didn’t want the neighbors complaining.

 

The problem was, when she brought the toy back, it dripped with doggy drool. I had a hard enough time with baby drool when my little babies were teething, so it isn’t any wonder I don’t find doggie drool particularly precious. The Dog couldn’t understand why I would only throw each toy only once. And she couldn’t understand why I didn’t particularly care for her affectionate doggy kisses – especially on my feet – which she seemed to have an extreme affinity for. I had to sit on them to keep her from either kissing them or sitting on them.

I discovered mealtime holds an entirely different meaning for cats than dogs. Cats casually saunter up to the food bowl, sniff softly, and daintily pick and choose each little bite. The Dog gobbled like a pit bull coming off of a 30-day diet. One moment the bowl was full, and then WHAM! it’s empty minus the food she managed to spill all over the floor, which she promptly licked up.

At least she kept the floor clean. No matter how much I fed The Dog, she seemed like a bottomless pit. Every time I would eat, she would stare at me with those big brown soulful eyes, watching every bite I took, licking her lips and whining softly. I felt so guilty, I shared with her just to clear my conscience. Afterwards, I would put her outside whether she wanted to go or not. It was my way of getting even.

One night, trying to satisfy an serious case of the munchies, I found a box of left over Christmas gingerbread cookies. They were hard, dry, tasteless, and a bit on the stale side, but softened well in milk. Between us, The Dog and I ate half the box. The Dog went outside and I went to take a bath.

Having forgotten my shampoo, I rummaged through the conglomeration of bottles of various body soaps, sprays, lotions, and conditioners. I found a bottle with most of the label worn off. All I could read was dandruff shampoo. It smelled okay and lathered great. Afterwards, my hair felt soft and silky. I had to remember to ask Bridget what brand it was.

Then I remembered The Dog. Reluctantly, I let her back in. Didn’t that tongue ever chap from hanging out so long?

The last night of my stay, I ran out of toothpaste. Searching bathroom cabinets, I found a tube with an unfamiliar brand. It certainly didn’t taste like Crest, but I squirted a generous amount on my toothbrush and brushed vigorously.

I was already packed the next morning when Bridget and Steve drove up. Asia barked and wriggled with delight that her family was back home. I wanted to do the same. Bridget hugged me. "How was it?"

"Okay. By the way, your dandruff shampoo is terrific!" The sudden exchange of glances and the shy, crooked smiles on their faces told me something was amiss.

"You used it? Mom! That was Asia’s doggie shampoo!"

"But it was for dandruff!"

"And for fleas," Steve added, trying hard to stifle a smile. Immediately, my head began itching. Common sense told me I should have stopped right there, but some morbid sense of curiosity grabbed hold of me. "I ran out of toothpaste – and – uh – well, there was some in the under the cabinet . . ."

"That was Asia’s toothpaste!" They laughed. I gagged. No wonder it tasted funny.

"Since when do dogs use toothpaste? I thought they were supposed to use Milk Bones or table legs, or wooden bed posts." (Personally, I didn’t see anything amusing about this situation, at all.)

With an increasing sense of dread, I turned and walked, trance-like, into the kitchen. "And these?" I asked, slowly holding up the half-eaten box of stale gingerbread cookies. It was like I had suddenly tapped into some mysterious universal psychic power. I already knew the answer, and I knew I didn’t want to know.

"You ate those?" A grinning Steve pointed to the box. "It says right here, For Dogs." I looked close, squinted my eyes, and looked closer. "That? The print is the size of an ant! How’s anybody supposed to read that?"

Bridget threw her arms around me. "Oh, Mom, we love you!"

"I love you, too," I grumbled, picking up my bag, heading for the front door. "But, the next time you ask me to house sit, remember, I don’t do dogs!"

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