tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66312003292323054642024-03-12T19:18:37.405-07:00Adventures in Pet SittingAt first glance, professional pet sitting looks like an easy, fun way to make a living – walking dogs, playing with cats, making one’s own schedule ... what could be better? The reality, of course, is quite different; pet sitting can be fun, but it’s never easy, and the day-to-day experiences can range from challenging to unbelievable. This blog is a ten-year collection of touching, humorous, and downright wacky stories based on my experiences as a pet sitter.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-66685485508187195322016-01-17T08:31:00.002-08:002016-01-17T08:36:26.046-08:00Mrs. Fitzgerald Part Three: How Many Times?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
This story is Part Three in a series. To read Part One <a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2011/11/mrsfitzgerald-part-one-just-whistle.html">CLICK HERE</a>. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Would
you like a shrimp cocktail?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald with a smile as she opened
the front door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No thanks,” I replied. I was in the middle of one of my
unsuccessful attempts at being a vegetarian. I stepped into the house and
watched Mrs. Fitzgerald disappear around the corner into the kitchen. She
emerged holding a cracker with a shrimp on it. “See?” she said. “It’s cute,
pink, and swims around in the sea.” Wondering what she thought I said, I took
the hors douveres from her outstretched hand and popped it in my mouth. It was
easier to eat the shrimp than to try and explain. As I chewed, I noticed that
there were two other people in the dining room, sitting and talking with Mr.
Fitzgerald who was wearing pajamas. His wearing bedclothes at home wasn’t
strange, except for the fact that everyone else was dressed-up. Seeing my
puzzlement, she took me to the side and explained quietly that her husband had
been diagnosed with terminal cancer. They had notified relatives and friends so
they could come and visit one last time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I’m sorry,” I said, and felt lame as soon as the words
came out of my mouth. What do you say to someone who is about to lose their
husband of 60 years? I picked up the dog leashes, leashed up the girls, and
headed out for the walk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The next few weeks were a flurry of activity. I didn’t
know anyone had that many friends and relatives, let alone that many friends
and relatives willing to fly in from out of state to say good-bye. After these
visitors came legal advisors to help take care of business, followed by nurses
looking for a hospice job. If the situation wasn’t bad enough, Kelly the dog
had also been diagnosed with cancer. She had been coughing lately and tiring
easily, symptoms we’d chalked up to kennel cough until x-rays revealed cancer
in the lungs. She was going downhill and was reaching a point where she needed
to be put to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I can’t bear it,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Not with …
this,” gesturing with a bony hand towards the bedroom where her husband now
spent most of the day. There were tears in her eyes. “I’d just as soon have
them do the surgery, and if she dies on the table…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “You don’t want to do that to her,” I said gently. Having
gone through lung cancer with my own dog just a year before, I knew all about
it. “The cancer is all over her lungs and there’s no way to remove it. It
wouldn’t be humane. She needs to be put to sleep.” Looking at the sad face of
the old woman before me, I added, “I’ll take her.” She nodded and dabbed her
eyes, moving towards the bedroom as she heard her husband calling. “I’ll see
you tomorrow,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> She rang me up the next morning to say that the
appointment had been made. “You can walk Maggie afterwards,” she said. When I
arrived, she looked like she’d been crying a lot. She stroked Kelly’s soft head
and looked into the old, cloudy, adoring eyes with her own. “Kelly is my 40th
Springer Spaniel,” she said not looking up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Really?” I was 25 at the time and the concept of living
long enough to own 40 dogs was foreign to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Yes!” she said, as if I actually didn’t believe her.
“The last two, before these girls, were Susie and May.” With that she walked
into the dining room, opened a cabinet, and started rummaging around a pile of
what looked like scrap books. She selected one, sat down on the couch, and
opened it. The vet appointment was in 20 minutes, but I said nothing, put the
leash down, and sat beside her. The book was stuffed with photos, mostly of
dogs and puppies. “Look at this,” she handed me an old black-and white photo of
Springer puppies in a wire pen. “14 in that litter! Can you believe it? Their
mama was very tired.” I smiled and nodded, looking appreciatively at the photo.
She flipped through a few more pages before finding what she was looking for, a
photo of two smiling dog-faces, those of Susie and May. This was a more recent
photo so was in color. The background looked like the room we were sitting in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Aww, look at them,” I said, wondering how so many dogs
of the same breed could look completely different. As she closed the book and
stood up, another, smaller, photo fell out. She didn’t see it fall, so I bent
down and picked it up. It was a black and white photo of a handsome young
couple. Their smiles were genuine, in fact they almost appeared to be laughing.
I assumed it was Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald in their younger days. “Is this you?”
I asked as I handed it to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> She looked at the picture and squinted her eyes, as if
she had expected to see something else. “My mother,” she said. “I never knew
her. She died when I was a baby.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Just like me, I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “My father,” she pointed to the dapper man in the photo.
“He died when I was eight.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> At least I still have him, I thought. Looking at the
clock, I realized I had five minutes to get to the vet appointment. I was sure
they’d be patient, as the Fitzgeralds were frequent and well-paying clients,
but I didn’t want to push it. I clipped the leash on Kelly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Stay with her,” she said as I went out the door, “and
make sure they give her a tranquilizer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I will.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> At the vet’s office, I stroked Kelly’s face and looked
into her eyes as she was given the injection. She slumped to the table, the
benevolent expression on her face never changing. I continued to stroke her
even after she was gone, lost in my thoughts. The vet, who didn’t have the
greatest bedside manner, said, “Um, we need to put the body away now so we can
get ready for the next client.” I nodded and left, forgiving him for wanting to
get on with his day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> As I drove back to the house to walk
Maggie, I was lost in thought. By the time you’re old, I wondered, how many times
do you have to say good-bye?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-1353116889444888492016-01-13T18:25:00.000-08:002016-01-17T08:32:49.560-08:00My Best Friend, Part Two. <div class="Standard">
“Two dogs just came in and there's nowhere to put them.”</div>
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I didn't look up from my computer. I knew by the loud voice
and looming presence in my doorway that it was kennel attendant Joel, who never
stopped complaining about how “full” the shelter was. I wondered then, as I
would for the rest of my career in animal sheltering, why people who don't like
cleaning kennels apply for jobs cleaning kennels.</div>
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“The dogs going to surgery tomorrow can move to the barn
kennels.” The “barn” kennels were overflow chain link kennels in the parking
lot, not great for long-term housing but good enough for those about to go
home, or somewhere, soon.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
I could feel Joel frowning even though I still didn't look
up. The staff didn't like putting dogs in the overflow kennels because they
were a pain to clean, but the alternative was putting multiple dogs who don't
know each other together in the regular kennels. This was successful more often
than not, but when not, had led to some serious injuries and even deaths.
Realizing the conversation was over, Joel huffed and walked away. Minutes
later, animal control officer Brooks stood in the same spot.</div>
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<div class="Standard">
“Morning,” she said. “I just picked up two dogs in a guy's
chicken coop. He witnessed one of the dogs actually killing the chickens, but
the other dog was just standing there, so he doesn't think that one did any
killing. Here's the kennel cards.”</div>
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“Thanks,” I said as she handed me the cards. “Any owner
info?”</div>
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“No, no collars, no chips. The chicken owner says he never
saw them before.”</div>
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<div class="Standard">
“Thanks. How's your day going?” I asked as I thought of how
much I respected Officer Brooks. She was a hard working and truly caring
person. The previous summer, when the overcrowded conditions led to an outbreak
of ringworm in the cat room, she took 38 shelter cats into her own home and
treated them for months until they were healthy, then placed them through
several rescue groups because of course by the time they were well every cage
in the shelter was full and there was “nowhere to put them.” After a short
chat, Brooks headed back to her truck to roll out on the next call and I went
back to my email.</div>
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A while later, I felt
a little dizzy and realized I needed to eat. Logging off my desktop computer, I
stood up and stretched, feeling the blood rush to my head and seeing little
spots dance all over the room. I headed for the break room where I had a plate
of dinner leftovers waiting to be eaten for lunch. Walking sluggishly through
the swinging double doors and down the long aisle of dog kennels, I glanced
around, smiled and said hi to the dogs as I always did, extending a hand for
those who wanted to sniff or lick. Little Chihuahua-Terriers danced on their
hind legs, thrusting their black button noses through the bars of their kennels
towards me. An old yellow Lab didn't rise from her bed but looked up with a
benevolent white face and thumped her tail on the floor, and in the kennel
beside her, two dogs stood and looked around as if they were confused … a white
Husky mix and a big black German
Shepherd.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-30475669373751007512016-01-07T17:18:00.000-08:002016-01-17T08:32:34.603-08:00My Best Friend, Part One<div class="Standard">
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<div class="Standard">
I stretched and groaned as I surveyed the pile of completed
paperwork stacked on the two chairs next to my desk. It had taken at least an
hour to pull together what was needed for the weekly trip to the spay and
neuter clinic: kennel cards, medical records, microchips. Do all the animals
have vaccinations? Are they recorded in the computer? Do all the 15-digit
microchip numbers match with the correct animals? It was the kind of detail
work that I least favored, but had to do, and as I did it, I also had to
swallow my frustration. Year after year, I presented reports to the department
showing that having a vet on premises one or two days a week was inadequate,
and year after year my request for more hours was denied based on “lack of evidence.”
When the pool of animals being sent home unaltered reached the hundreds and
adopters started calling to complain about the three-month wait for a
spay/neuter appointment, I was then told that I could no longer release animals
from the shelter until the surgery was done. With only 20 dog kennels and one
small cat room, conditions got even more overcrowded than they were before, and
now adopters were complaining about having to wait a week or more to pick up
their adopted pet, which by now was sick with kennel cough or upper respiratory
infection thanks to the longer stay in the shelter. When I put out a call for
help to our nonprofit partners, they responded by offering to do as many
surgeries as they could for us on one day a week at cost. This was a godsend,
but it was also a lot of work to prepare the paperwork and transport the
animals to and from the clinic which was 45 minutes away from our shelter.</div>
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<div class="Standard">
Turning away from the pile and back to my computer, I opened
the internet browser and went to Craigslist. I tried to check the Lost and
Found and Pets sections at least a few times a week, as people would often post
there but not come to our shelter. We had made several reunions of pet and
owner thanks to these listings, and I was always hoping for more. I scrolled
down, down, down, not seeing anything familiar in the text or photos. I clicked
onto the second page of listings and noticed that one described a missing dog
in our jurisdiction. I clicked on the link and suddenly the room spun.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
“I am missing my dog King. I just returned from a trip out of
the country and found out that he escaped from my Father-in-Law's property. He
is a male, five years old. I miss him very much and will do anything to find
out where he is. He's my best friend.”</div>
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<br />
<div class="Standard">
I looked into the eyes of the dog in the attached photo, a
big black German Shepherd with a great smiling mouth and big pointy ears, and
felt a wave of nausea come over me. I swallowed and pushed my chair back from
the computer screen. I knew exactly where King was.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-6749714255331850952015-12-07T08:51:00.000-08:002016-01-17T08:32:13.566-08:00Christmas at the Emergency Vet<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Something
went wrong every Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> As a pet sitter, I was used to not celebrating holidays;
after all, that is our busiest work season. With everyone out of town visiting
family between December and January, the need for pet care is so great that I
was usually booked solid by September. Normally, I did four-eight pet sitting
visits a day; during the holidays, it was more like 10-14. The days were a
flurry of dog walking, cat box scooping, medication giving, and food bowl
filling, with little to no margin for error; still, every year something
happened to send my well-oiled machine grinding to a halt. This year, it was a
cat called Snowball.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Snowball was a beautiful, pure white male cat. The owners
had found him as a kitten several years earlier, and raised him into a sleek,
friendly creature. Because he was all white and at great risk for
sunburn-induced skin cancer, he was kept 100% indoors; despite that, the owners
were having some flea problems. They lived in a wooded area with no shortage of
flea-carrying critters like raccoons and rabbits, and the parasites seemed to
be marching in a line into their home. At this time, topical flea products like
Advantage and Frontline were new, and many people weren’t using them yet. Instead,
this family was using a flea collar on their cat. I’ve never been a fan of cat
collars, since cats seem to either remove them immediately or get them hung up
on something while trying to remove them. I especially disliked flea-repellant
ones, since they were soaked in chemicals which, despite their toxicity, did
nothing to repel fleas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> So it was that I trudged up the stairs to the front door
of Snowball’s house and put the key in the lock. It had been a busy but good
day; I had already completed eight visits and my car was filled with cards,
gifts, and sweets from clients. I was looking forward to finishing a little
early, going home and relaxing. “Hi Snowball, how are-“ I was cut short by the
sight of his face as I opened the front door. His white head was swollen to the
size of a softball. His lower jaw seemed to be sticking out. With a sickening
feeling in my stomach, I realized what had happened: he had been grooming
himself, and when he licked his neck and chest area, his jaw hooked around the
flea collar and was stuck. I immediately dropped to my knees and, with some
difficulty, removed the collar. Snowball opened and closed his mouth again and
again and swallowed. How long had he been like this? Did he ingest the
flea-repelling poison? It was clear he had to go to the emergency hospital.
Ditching my ideas of a relaxing evening at home, I picked up the phone and
called the emergency to let them know I was on my way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Sitting in the emergency hospital waiting room, I
entertained myself by guessing the thoughts of the other people in the lobby.
That one looks worried, that one is bored, that one is angry and frustrated at
having to wait so long. Since all other local vets are closed on Christmas Day,
the emergency was even more of a crowded nightmare than usual. A wait of two
hours was expected if your pet was not at death’s door; still, there were
always loud complaints about the wait, and why one animal was seen before the
other. At this moment, the door flew open and a hysterical woman ran in.”Please
help!” she said, “My dog has been attacked!” The hospital staff, who probably
dealt with this sort of scene every day, remained calm and asked what happened.
The woman explained that she owned a four-month-old puppy, and she was pet
sitting for her friend’s adult dog. She had fed the dogs together in the same
room, and when the puppy toddled over to the adult’s bowl to help herself, she
was attacked. When asked what kind of dog attacked hers, she replied, “Pit
bull.” The two techs at the desk looked at each other, them immediately grabbed
blankets and ran outside to the woman’s car to help her bring the puppy in. I
only saw the poor thing for a few seconds, but that was enough. She was a fawn
pit bull, or at least I could see spots of fawn where she wasn’t covered in
blood. There were puncture wounds everywhere. Her head was partially crushed.
My stomach turned and my eyes teared up as I thought of those scenes in war
movies where they run by with the man on a gurney. The pup was rushed into the
back, and the room fell silent. No one complained. The man who had been pacing
sat down. The puppy’s owner looked around at us with frantic eyes. “It’s not my
fault,” she kept saying, as if we were judging her. “I didn’t know that would
happen, I didn’t know!” People started reassuring her, saying things like,
“It’s okay, you didn’t know, these things happen.”I got comfortable in my
chair, figuring the poor pup would increase my wait at least another hour, but
I was wrong. After ten minutes the techs called the woman into the back, and
when I heard a great shriek I knew they were telling her that her dog was
already dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> It was dark when I returned Snowball to his home. He was
looking much better already; the swelling had started to go down as soon as I
had removed the collar. I placed the vet bill and a color flyer for Advantage
flea control on the dining table, stroked his white head, and headed out to
finish my day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> When his owners Greg and Sue returned, I met with them
and explained what happened. I told them they would have to pay an extra visit
charge for the transport to the vet which, amazingly, some people were
reluctant to pay. Sue pulled out her check book and said, “How much was that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Twenty
dollars,” I said. She smiled as she handed me the check, and when I looked at
it, it said $100!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
can’t tell you how much we appreciate your taking such good care of him, especially
on a holiday when you’d rather be doing other things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-83906308693053456422015-12-01T10:36:00.005-08:002015-12-01T10:45:07.485-08:00Ghost Mirror<div style="border: solid white 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid white .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 0in 0in;">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Dorothy and I had
known each other for ten years. We met at the Peninsula Humane Society in the
1990’s when I was working in customer service and she was working as a
dispatcher. When I left to start my pet sitting business, we stayed in touch,
and two years later I hired her as a part-time sitter. Being petite and not
very strong, she was not comfortable walking dogs, but she was great with the
cats. She helped me out on weekends and on her days off, and we often talked on
the phone and met for lunch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Dorothy was one
of those amazing people who, by the age of 25, had saved enough money to buy
her own condo. During the booming economy of the mid-90’s, she was able to sell
it for more than twice what she bought it for and move up to a cute house in
San Mateo. She wanted to rent out her extra bedroom, and invited me to move in
with her. At the time, I was still living with Bill, so I declined, but when we
broke up a year later, she was the first one I called.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Still got that
room for rent?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Yeah, you want it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “How soon can I
come down?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> She laughed. “How
about next week?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> A few days later,
we were sitting in Sushi Sam’s, a very popular place in downtown San Mateo,
enjoying dinner and discussing my moving in. Laughing, I popped another
California roll into my mouth. “How is it,” I asked as I chewed, “That you’re
Chinese, but I’m the one eating with chopsticks?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Making a mess of
her roll while attempting to spear it onto the end of a fork, Dorothy replied,
“I don’t know, we just never used them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Finally getting
the roll into her mouth and eaten, Dorothy continued, “My parents wanted us to
be totally American. They thought we wouldn’t get ahead if we acted Chinese.
They only allowed us to speak English.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> What a shame, I
thought. This phenomenon is not uncommon in immigrant populations. Fearing that
their children will experience the same prejudice and lack of opportunity that
they did in the U.S., parents suppress their ethnicity in an attempt to make
their families “totally American.” Culture and history become something to be
ashamed of and are lost, sometimes never to be regained. As Dorothy could
attest to, learning Cantonese as an adult – as she attempted to do at the
community college – is damn near impossible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Finishing our
dinner, we agreed on how much I would pay for the room and when I would move
in. I left feeling a great sense of relief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Okay, so we’ll
meet tomorrow at 3 o’clock? Great, see you then!” I hung up the phone and
jotted some notes on a piece of paper. I was sitting at Dorothy’s kitchen table
clearing out my business voicemail while she sat in the living room watching
TV. She was so petite that when she sat on the huge pink couch she disappeared
into it. Her eyes were glued to the screen as they had been for several hours.
She was hooked on the soap opera Days of Our Lives, and since she worked when
the program was aired, and taped it during the week and watched them all, like
a marathon, on the weekend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Looking up at
her, I said, “How do you feel about a Cockatiel?” There was a delay as she peeled
her eyes from the screen and swallowed the potato chip she’d just put in her
mouth. “Do I have to let it out of the cage?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No, just clean
and feed through the cage. Once a day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> She considered
for a moment, ate another chip. “Yeah, I can do that. Initial meeting is
tomorrow?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Mm-hm,” I
nodded, looking again at my notes and smiling, “But there’s just one thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “What’s that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Don’t wear
stripes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Driving to the
new client’s house, I wondered at the idiosyncrasies of people, and of their
animals. According to Tweety the Cockatiel’s owner, he was a friendly bird as
long as you weren’t wearing stripes. Evidently the wearing of such a pattern
would cause him to respond very aggressively. Since I’d never worn stripes in
my life, there was no danger of that occurring. Glancing at my notes, I made a
left turn, then a right onto the cul-de-sac where Tweety resided. June was the
name of the lady I was supposed to meet. Lucia, the owner, would be at work so
her partner/roommate June would give me all the info and the key.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Hi! It’s the
pet sitter!” I could hear someone walking around inside, and a bird chirping,
but no one was answering the door. I heard a loud voice talking inside, to whom
I wasn’t sure. “Hello?” I called out again, and finally the footsteps
approached the door and it was opened. Before me stood a rather large woman
with short-cropped dark hair, wearing what was either a large T-shirt or a small
nightgown and yellow underpants. Her big white legs stuck out from under the
shirt, and since she had no bra on her large breasts hung down to her waist. I
was trying to be polite but it was impossible not to stare. Fortunately she
didn’t notice; in fact, she just turned around, walked back into the house, and
resumed talking to the bird. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Tweety, here’s
your friend! This is your friend, Tweety! Here she is!” Her voice was loud and
kind of strange, as if she was hearing-impaired. Tweety, a mostly-white bird
with orange cheeks and a yellow head, raised the feathers on his crown and eyed
me suspiciously. Birds, I had learned from my time pet sitting, tend to like
the familiar and to distrust strangers. I had a few over the years who warmed
up to me, even some of the big guys like Cockatoos and Amazons, but overall I
left them alone unless they clearly wanted to be touched.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Without looking
at me, June launched into the care instructions. Bird seed, water, newspapers
to line the cage... “Please take in the mail,” she said, pulling a small key
out of a silver-plated decorative tea pot and heading for the door. I watched
in amazement – and followed her, somewhat embarrassed – as she marched right
out the door in her underpants and bare feet across the parking area to the
group mail box for the town home community. She showed me their box and how to
open it, then walked back in and returned the key to the tea pot. Glancing over
my shoulder, I wondered if anyone saw her walking around like that. Oh well, I
thought, she probably does it all the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Put the mail
here.” She placed today’s mail on top of a rather large stack on the dining
table. “And remember, don’t wear stripes!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Underpants,
and a T-shirt?” Dorothy couldn’t stop giggling. “For real?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Yes, for real,
in living color!” We laughed again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Oh, um, would
you mind…” Dorothy started, looking at the floor. It was her way of speaking
when she needed a favor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “What?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Could you fix
the mirror? It’s turned around again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Sure.” I got up
and went out the front door to where the ghost mirror was hanging. It was a
windy Spring and a few good gusts would flip the thing around so that the
mirror part was facing the wall instead of the street. For trying to make her a
white-bread American, Dorothy’s parents had passed along a whole lot of Chinese
superstitions; among other things, she believed in ghosts, signs, and the
zodiac. The ghost mirror, an octagonal piece of wood with symbols painted in
each of the eight sections and a round convex mirror in the middle, is an
important tool for repelling bad spirits. Good spirits, who may want to help
you, can enter the home freely, but those with bad intentions will look in the
mirror and be bounced back by their own reflection. At the time I thought it
was silly, but later, when my life got more difficult, I found myself embracing
the wisdom and buying one for myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> The visits with
Tweety went smoothly. Dorothy reported that she found everything okay and that
the little bird seemed well. I did the visit on the last day, as Dorothy had to
work at her other job. I walked in the front door and chuckled at the mental
image of June in her unusual outfit. I approached Tweety’s cage and was
surprised to see him wide-eyed and agitated. His cage was reasonably clean, and
his food and water dishes were full, so I had no reason to believe that Dorothy
hadn’t properly cared for him, or that anything else was wrong. Maybe he was
just reacting to me as a stranger, since he hadn’t seen me since the initial
visit. He eyed me suspiciously as I change the newspaper at the bottom of his
cage, then removed his food and water dishes, refilled and replaced them.
Shaking my head, I retrieved the mail box key from the silver tea pot and
walked outside to get the mail. When I walked back in, I was startled by the
sight of a person standing in the living room! Almost dropping the mail, I
looked up and saw a small Hispanic woman holding a broom and dust pan. Oh yeah,
Cecilia, the house keeper, I remembered. She comes on Fridays. Seeing me, she
smiled and raised her hand. Tweety, already big-eyed, launched himself at her
side of the cage and screeched like a banshee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Hola!” said the
Cecilia. “Pajaro loco, eh?” Crazy bird!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-alt: solid white .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in; tab-stops: 4.5pt 40.5pt 76.5pt 112.5pt 148.5pt 184.5pt 220.5pt 256.5pt 292.5pt 328.5pt 364.5pt 400.5pt 6.0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Getting a closer
look at the petite lady, I suddenly noticed what she was wearing. Old Navy was
having a sale that week – I’d seen their Spring collection just the previous
day, when I was shopping for pants. Evidently Cecilia had been to the same
sale, and had purchased the v-neck t-shirt completely covered in dark pink and
white stripes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-9048867490821275182011-12-14T06:48:00.000-08:002016-01-17T08:37:22.302-08:00Mrs. Fitzgerald Part Two: Taking the Girls to Arby'sThis story is part two in a series. <a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2011/11/mrsfitzgerald-part-one-just-whistle.html">Read Part One here</a>.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Fitzgerald loved catalog shopping.<br />
<br />
She must have received 100 different catalogs, everything from ladies' clothes to whimsical pet gifts to fancy candies. I could see the mail man groaning as he approached her house each day with a mountain of parcels and even more catalogs. Every day was like Christmas as she opened each box and inspected its contents, then just as often decided she didn't like the items or they were the wrong size, and sent them back. <br />
<br />
“My niece Mary will love this,” she said to me, holding up a pretty stationary set with parchment-looking paper and old fashioned pen.<br />
<br />
“Is it her birthday?” I asked, admiring the items.<br />
<br />
“No, this is for Christmas.” <br />
<br />
It was March, never too soon to start shopping for Christmas. By the time the actual day arrived, she’d have an enormous stockpile of gifts and a ledger with a long list of who received what that would baffle an accountant. After walking the dogs, I helped her stash away the items in a cabinet then made for the door.<br />
<br />
“You hungry?” she asked as my hand touched the door knob. Of course I was hungry, so I nodded. She smiled. “Let’s take the girls down to Arby’s.” At the word “Arby’s,” the dogs faces lit up and they started getting excited. Maggie bounced up and down like a spring and Kelly rubbed against Mrs. Fitzgerald’s legs like a cat. “I’ll just get my purse,” she said. 15 minutes later she had a purse, matching shoes and hat, and the huge old green Buick was pulled out of its place in the garage. As it turned out, Arby’s was one of her favorite places to go, and the dogs were always taken along for the ride and given a half sandwich each. I sat in the passenger seat and had to laugh as they went back and forth, back and forth, in the back seat. They’d look out one window, then urgently have to look out the other window, and this went on for the duration of the ride. We were driving none too swiftly, so more than once an angry young person in a sporty car would ride our tail, honk, then finally pass. <br />
<br />
**********************************************************************************************<br />
<br />
“I’ll have two barbecue sandwiches and a large fries.”<br />
<br />
The man working behind the Arby’s counter gave Mrs. Fitzgerald a blank look and pointed to something in front of the cash register. Thinking he hadn’t heard her, she repeated her order much louder, "I say I'll have two barbecue sandwiches and a large fried!" but she got the same response. “What’s wrong with this dummy?” she said, just as loudly, to me. I looked down and realized that, since the last time she’d been here, the restaurant had installed a touch-screen ordering system. It appeared that you had to push the pictures of the items you wanted, and the guy behind the counter was just there to take your money. <br />
<br />
“Here,” I said, “You push what you want to order on this screen.” I pointed to the image of the barbecue sandwich. <br />
<br />
Her face was all confusion, and annoyance. “But I told him what I wanted. What’s the problem?” she asked me. Seeing the line of grumbling people growing behind us, I quickly selected our items on the touch-screen menu and told her the total amount due. She handed the attendant the cash and wondered how I knew the price. I showed her on the screen and she shook her head. As we walked out of the restaurant with our bag of goodies, a few customers looked askance as she said, “I swear, the quality of people working in these places today!”<br />
<br />
To read Part Three of this story <a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2016/01/mrs-fitzgerald-part-three-how-many-times.html">CLICK HERE</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-11991877126673702522011-11-15T05:45:00.000-08:002011-11-15T05:45:06.300-08:00Dog CatchingPet sitters, whether they know it or not, are defacto dog catchers. Our experience enables us to safely catch loose dogs, and our already trashed cars and pickups are ideal for their transport. After a few years I lost track of how many dogs I'd safely delivered. Some had ID tags with addresses; in these cases I simply brought them home. Some had only phone numbers, which I called then often waited for the owners to pick them up. If they had a collar only, or nothing at all, I took them to the humane society where they would be scanned for a microchip ID. Sometimes the dogs just came to me, like the time I opened the door of my car right outside my San Mateo apartment, stepped away for a moment, then got in to find a Rottweiler sitting in the passenger seat. <br />
<br />
In one of the most amusing cases, I assisted the police in rounding up two dogs. I was driving down Ralston Avenue in Belmont sipping my morning coffee when I spotted four officers running in four different directions, holding leashes. Two large dogs, an Akita and a black Lab, were running in traffic and doing a good job of avoiding the officers. Noting the general direction in which they were traveling, I drove past them and pulled over. I got out of my truck, opened the back -- in my experience many dogs would simply jump in -- and grabbed two leashes. The Akita was the first to arrive; with lolling tongue, the big brindle ran right up to me and it was easy to put on the leash. The Lab wasn't entirely sure of me, but he saw that I had his buddy, so he submitted to the leash. I waited a few minutes for the tired officers to catch up, then handed them the dogs when they did. I got kind of annoyed while they talked amongst themselves and ignored me, so I said, "Can I have my leashes back?" <br />
<br />
"Oh, these are not your dogs?" they replied. <br />
<br />
"No," I said, "It just looked like you guys needed a little help!" <br />
<br />
I seldom got any thanks, in fact many people said not a word as they reclaimed their dogs who had narrowly escaped death in traffic. Some people, embarrassed perhaps, would say that their dog was stupid for always getting out, the dumb mutt. There was one owner, however, who gave me a thanks I won't forget.<br />
<br />
The Changs didn't have a dog, so I was quite surprised to hear growling as I approached the door of their Woodside home. I was scheduled to take care of their two indoor cats, and I began to wonder if they'd acquired a dog and not told me (this did sometimes happen). I paused for a moment to take out my cell phone and check voicemail ... no new messages. Another step forward, and the growling resumed. I looked around, confused, and spotted a very frightened-looking yellow dog about the size of a coyote cowering behind a large decorative pot. Ah, another lost soul. I wasn't about to get too close, but neither could I leave the poor creature out to starve or to be hit by a car on Sand Hill Road, where speeds often exceeded 60mph. I remembered the days when Rusty would help me round up lost dogs; I'd let him out of the truck, he'd go and make friends with the strange dog, then jump back in the truck, usually followed by his new friend. I wondered if my grumpy three-legged mutt Cassie, who happened to be riding along with me that day, would be willing to do the same. I let her out of the truck and she didn’t disappoint; coaxing the lost dog out from behind the pot and sniffing her curiously; she kept her distracted long enough for me to slip a large noose around her neck. Realizing that she was trapped, the yellow dog struggled for a second, then gave up. I spoke softly to her and walked to my truck, encouraging her to jump in, which she did. She was less nervous now, and I was able to locate ID tags on the furry neck. I dialed one of the numbers, and a woman answered. "Hi," I said, "Are you missing a dog?" <br />
<br />
She gasped, then said, "Yes, it's my son's dog! Please give me your number, I'll have him call you right away." <br />
<br />
I gave her my cell number, and minutes later I was on the line with an excited young man who said he would come right out. A small truck was soon coming up the long driveway, and the man jumped out of it as soon as he stopped. "Is this your dog?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes," he replied, "that's my ... that's my ..." then at this moment he flung his arms around the yellow neck and burst into tears. His face turned all red and he sobbed as the dog's tail wagged. When he was able to breathe again, he thanked me over and over, saying that the dog, Ginny, had become spooked and gone missing during a hike in the woods over the weekend. Since it was now Wednesday, that meant that Ginny had been missing for three days, and they were beginning to think she was dead. "She's shy," he explained, "No one else can handle her except me and my family. We knew she wouldn't approach anyone. I don't know how you got her. Thank you." I watched with a smile and patted Cassie's head as the truck drove away, a wagging yellow tail just visible through the back window.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-33511825485579071442011-11-01T06:49:00.000-07:002016-01-17T08:23:52.746-08:00Mrs.Fitzgerald Part One: Just WhistleThe summer sun beat down on me as I drove up the winding road to my new client's home. It was in a wealthy part of Menlo Park, and I marveled at the beauty: the streets were lined with different trees, some with colored leaves and others with flowers. The scene was dominated by oaks which seemed to have sprouted up in every front and back yard many years ago. The yards that hadn't been recently raked were showered with acorns. I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a bagel. I was so often busy hustling from one visit to the other that many meals were eaten in the car, and this lunch was no exception. Popping the last bit in my mouth and washing it down with Snapple, I turned onto the client's street and parked in front of the house.<br />
<br />
“This must be a really old lady,” I thought to myself as I gathered up my paperwork. She had an old-lady sounding voice on the phone, and she introduced herself as Mrs. John Fitzgerald (No one born on this side of 1930 goes by their husband's name). My suspicions were borne out when the door opened and there stood a slender elderly lady. Her hair was as red as mine, dyed but clearly done by a professional. Her eyes had a witty Irish sparkle and they disappeared when she smiled, just like mine. She was wearing a printed house dress and a bathrobe, but somehow she radiated elegance even in that outfit. I stared at her face perhaps a moment too long, as I saw the scar from what I later learned was one of several disfiguring cancer surgeries. Standing next to her was her husband, similarly attired and smiling. It was past noon and I felt a sudden envy for retired people.<br />
<br />
“Hi, come in,” she said. I stepped into the house and was immediately accosted by two Springer Spaniels with their tail stumps wagging. I crouched down to meet them and they pushed their heads under my hands. “This is Maggie and this is Kelly,” she said, touching the head of each dog. Despite the fact that they were sisters, they looked nothing alike; Maggie was short and stout while Kelly was tall and long. Maggie was active and bouncy while Kelly seemed more sweet and wanted to lean on me. I pet them both and smelled their breath and let them lick me.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Fitzgerald, as she preferred to be addressed, showed me around the house. She walked slowly and with a shuffle, and I followed behind her like a puppy, marveling at the amount of furniture, art, clothes, and other stuff in the house. There was a statue of a giraffe next to a Southwest-looking colorful coyote. There were couches and chairs of all shapes and sizes, glass cabinets jam-packed with knickknacks, a giant fish bowl full of match books from different restaurants. There was a painting of cows in a field next to what looked like a photo of African trees. <br />
“These people must have lived here for 40 years!” I thought, and as it turns out I was just about right. I wondered when we got to the yard and I saw that the gate was not only wide open, it was tied open. <br />
<br />
“Do you leave this open?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“We always leave the gate open,” she replied. “After the fire, I got to worrying that the dogs would be trapped.”<br />
<br />
“What if they run off?” I asked, still not too sure about this. I never got around to asking about the fire.<br />
<br />
“They won't go far,” she assured me, “But if they do...”she started back into the house, which took a while. I followed slowly behind, and narrowed my eyes as she fished around in a drawer and came up with a red and white plastic whistle. She slowly raised it to her lips and blew, and a shrill sound came out. Both dogs came running and jumped around her feet. “You keep this one,” she said, pushing the saliva-covered whistle into my hands before I could protest. “We'll see you on Tuesday then!” she announced, and all I could do was nod as I made my way out the door. <br />
<br />
After a month of walking Kelly and Maggie, I was into the groove. They were nice dogs who always gave me a hero's welcome when I arrived, and they were very well behaved on the walk. <br />
<br />
“Got a minute?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked as I stepped into the house and unclipped the leashes from Maggie and Kelly's collars. The dogs, satisfied after their walk, immediately rolled around on the carpet, grunting and groaning, then followed me and Mrs. Fitzgerald into the back bedroom. She slowly opened a sliding closet door to reveal an astounding amount of clothing and boxes. She pointed to the upper shelf in the closet and said, “I think they're in there.” Not asking what was in there, I stood on my tiptoes and got a grip on a white shirt box. <br />
<br />
“This one?” I asked. She didn't answer, so I pulled the box down and handed it to her. She opened it to reveal several colorful scarves, then shook her head. <br />
<br />
“Maybe it's that other one - there,” she said, pointing again. I pulled down a very similar box and it fell to the floor, popping open and spilling its contents. “That's it, thank you.” I picked it up and handed it – or them – to her. In the box were several ancient brown extension cords. They were frayed and only had two prongs on the end.<br />
<br />
I frowned and said, “These are no good.” <br />
<br />
She frowned back at me and lifted one eyebrow. “Last time I used them they worked fine.”<br />
<br />
“But,” I tried to explain, “They don't make them like this any more,” pointing to the two prongs, “They aren't safe.”<br />
<br />
At this moment, the front door opened and in walked Mr. Fitzgerald with a sheepish look on his face and two filled paper grocery sacks in his arms. “He's not on my good list,” she said with a grin. “Drove all the way to the store without the grocery list. Had to come all the way back to get it.” Realizing I was getting nowhere on the extension cord subject, I headed for the door, but she stopped me with a soft, “Wait just a minute.” She shuffled into the kitchen and I heard the bags rustling, so I assumed she was inspecting the grocery purchases. I heard the refrigerator open and close, and she came walking back into the living room holding a box. <br />
<br />
“Oh no,” I thought, “More old food.” Like many people of her generation, despite the fact that she was obviously wealthy, she never threw anything away. Each week she had something for me: cookies, crackers, chocolates, all way past expiration. I didn't want to be rude, so I always thanked her and took them, then threw them away in the trash can down the street by the little park. “Oh, thank you!” I said as she handed me a half-empty box of expired chocolate donettes. <br />
<br />
Starting up my truck and driving down the street, I realized I'd spent an extra half hour at the Fitzgeralds', as was becoming usual. My mind was wandering as I drove and I missed the trash can and got on the freeway. My stomach growled and I knew I wouldn't have time to stop for lunch. “Oh well,” I thought, “These things last forever,” as I popped a donette into my mouth.<br />
<br />
To read part two of this story <a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2011/12/mrs-fitzgerald-part-two-taking-girls-to.html">CLICK HERE</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-12856973425076860662011-09-30T08:29:00.000-07:002011-11-01T07:09:29.078-07:00A New Job, Part ThreeThis story is part three in a series. Read <a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2011/02/stress-of-working-at-humane-society-was.html">PART ONE</a> and <a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2011/06/new-job-part-two.html">PART TWO</a> here. <br />
<br />
I held the phone bill closer to my face and read it again, in disbelief. $300? How on earth did we do that?<br />
<br />
Two months after accepting the pet sitting job in San Francisco, I moved in with my boss, Krystal. Despite my reservations about her quirky personality, I jumped at the opportunity to live in a neat old house that was pet-friendly and conveniently located for both work and entertainment; besides, she said she was planning on leaving soon and moving in to a loft where she could have a nice office and living quarters together. She believed that her boyfriend Allesandro, who was likely to ask her to marry him any day, would be joining her. From my point of view, Allesandro only invited her over to his apartment for sex, then had her leave. He never came to her/our place, and never took her out for dinner or anything else. Today we’d call this kind of relationship a booty call – I don’t know what the term was in the 90’s. How, then, was she so certain that marriage was on the horizon? The Psychic Hotline.<br />
<br />
976 phone numbers had a brief but profitable history in the pre-internet 80’s and 90’s. Offering everything from phone sex to financial advice, they were heavily advertised on TV and in the newspaper and caused people to run up some astounding phone bills. Charging as much as $3 a minute, operators of these 976 numbers did their best to keep callers on the line as long as possible and to encourage them to call back frequently. So it was that Krystal called the Psychic Hotline almost every day. Since the walls of our bedrooms were paper-thin, I could hear every word she said on the phone; if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d recount the entire conversation as soon as she saw me. She really believed that these people were real psychics and worse, that they were her friends. I realized after a while that they were skilled conversationalists and counselors of sorts, making statements that could apply to anyone like, “I sense that you have an unresolved issue with your family,” then listening and responding carefully as the caller gushed information. <br />
<br />
“$300?” I said to Krystal when she got home. “Seriously, give me twenty bucks and I’ll tell you the same things.”<br />
<br />
She gave me a look that went from blank to hurt. “They’re really psychic,” she said, “They know a lot about me and what they say really happens.”<br />
<br />
“Well, it was going to happen anyway, so how does it help you, knowing these things?” But it was no use. She’d argue tooth and nail on the validity of the psychics, and there was no swaying her. I felt bad for her wasting her money like that, and I also felt concern for the fact that my paycheck and the phone bill were being funded by the same account. Luckily, we had enough business to cover it all.<br />
<br />
The following week, I came home from a morning of pet sitting visits and, as I put on a pot of coffee, I noticed a big box full of stuff in the kitchen. I saw what appeared to be leather gloves sticking out of the top of the box, and as I waited for the coffee to brew I peeked further in. At this moment, Krystal came down from her bedroom and walked into the kitchen. “Did you see our new earthquake supplies?” she asked with an excited look on her face.<br />
“Is that what they are?” I replied. <br />
<br />
“Yeah, look,” she said, pulling the box to the middle of the floor and extracting the contents. Her two little terriers had followed her into the kitchen, and they were watching with interest. As she took each plastic-wrapped item and placed it on the floor, they sniffed it. “These,” she said, holding up the leather gloves, “Are for picking up broken glass, and this,” picking up a small plastic box, “will detect leaking gas.”<br />
<br />
I thought to myself that if my home was littered with broken glass and leaking gas, I’d probably just leave, but I said nothing. “How much was that?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Only $250, but the batteries for the flashlights were extra.” <br />
<br />
Good lord, I thought, $250 for a bunch of junk we don’t need. But that wasn’t all. She went on to explain that she hadn’t actually paid for our earthquake preparedness kit, she had charged it on her new credit card which was now up to the limit. <br />
<br />
“Want coffee?” I asked as I poured myself a cup and sat down at the little wooden table in the corner of the small kitchen. The smell of coffee permeated the room. I poured my usual obscene amount of sugar and small amount of creamer into the cup, then looked up to see her crinkling her nose in disgust.<br />
<br />
“Coffee isn’t good for you, you know. It really doesn’t give you energy.” She went on to give me a lecture about healthy eating and drinking habits – which she, by the way, didn’t practice – and to talk at length about the homeopathic remedies she took and gave to her dogs. “I’m so sensitive I can’t even eat ginger. In fact, a client gave me a box of ginger snaps, do you want them?”<br />
<br />
I took the box, pulled out a cookie, and ate it. It went well with the coffee, so I had another. I looked out the window at the mountains of lumber, scrap metal and other junk piled up next to an outbuilding that looked like a cross between a tool shed and the Winchester Mystery House. I wondered about all that stuff.<br />
<br />
“So I started going to the acupuncturist.” Mind wandering, I don’t know how we got from ginger snaps to acupuncture. “But,” she continued, “I’m too sensitive for the needles, so he just tapes magnets to my hands.” <br />
<br />
“Magnets?” I almost spit up my coffee. <br />
<br />
“He tapes them to my hands, and my hands just shake. See, they’re still shaking now.” She held out her skinny hands and indeed, they were quivering. <br />
<br />
I listened to her prattle on as she did, sometimes for hours, and felt bad. She really worked hard, between the pet sitting visits she did herself and the managing of the business and her several employees. She was lonely and didn’t seem to have any friends, she didn’t eat or sleep well, she wore the same old clothes every day, and she spent all her money on psychics and alternative medicines in an attempt to cure her neuroses. Lost in my internal dialogue, I hardly noticed some noise outside the kitchen window, but I couldn’t help but see a man walking right by.<br />
<br />
“Who’s that?” I asked Krystal.<br />
<br />
“Oh,” she said, “That’s Howard.”<br />
<br />
“Howard?” A neighbor? Another boyfriend?<br />
<br />
Now, in crowded and costly San Francisco it’s not uncommon for homes to be chopped up and subdivided until landlords have 10 people living where there should be three; however, I was still surprised – and amused, I’ll admit – when Krystal said, “There is a very nice, very quiet gay couple living in the back yard.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-20835119141095144512011-08-03T06:49:00.000-07:002011-08-03T06:49:57.338-07:00The Pet Sitter MobileAt age 21, I bought a motorcycle, a Yamaha Virago -- meaning warrior woman-- dark red with chrome. On that bike with my black helmet and black suede leather jacket with the fringe, I thought I was the coolest amazon in town. Pet sitting on a motorcycle turned out to be great during the summer months, all that sun and fresh air and only $3 to fill up the gas tank, but when the rainy season started it was a real drag. I tried every type of rain gear, but nothing could keep me from getting soaked to the skin, and spending a day on your feet in wet shoes and underwear is quite unpleasant. The day finally came for me to buy a car.<br />
<br />
Since I had only had my business less than a year, my budget was rather limited: I had no more than $1000 to purchase my new wheels, so I went to my local convenience store and picked up the Auto Trader magazine, a good pre-internet source for used vehicles. Each ad included a description of the vehicle with a photo and the seller’s phone number. Of course, one had to know how to translate these ads:”like new” meant not too many dents, “never raced” meant it probably was, especially if it was a Camero with a huge engine, and “cherry” meant it was washed recently. All ads contained the ubiquitous phrase, “runs good,” including, amazingly, some for cars without engines! I sat down with a cup of coffee and a pen and circled the most likely vehicles for me, then I began to make phone calls. The conversations went something like this:<br />
<br />
Me: “Hi, I’m interested in your 1980 Honda.”<br />
Woman’s voice: “Oh, it’s my husband’s car.”<br />
“Okay, may I speak with your husband?”<br />
“No, he doesn’t speak English.”<br />
“Okay, how about I ask you questions and you ask your husband?”<br />
After a long pause she agreed. <br />
<br />
My first question, a common one, “How many miles does it have on the odometer?” I sat with pen poised over my notebook with the list of car-purchasing questions.<br />
<br />
I heard her place the phone down on the table, then a muffled exchange in Spanish. She picked the phone up after some time and said, “My husband says, it doesn’t matter how many miles it has!”<br />
<br />
My next call was no more successful. A man with a strong New York accent sang the praises of his 1982 Toyota Corolla for ten minutes, then said, “It just has oooone little problem.”<br />
“Oh really, and what’s that?”<br />
“Well, it doesn’t have third gear, but it runs just fine, you just shift like this: first, second, fourth!”<br />
<br />
After the telephone screening, there was the actual viewing of the vehicles, which was no less amusing. Having been raised by my Dad, I was more car savvy than the average girl, but I was still leery of going to strangers’ homes alone, so he joined me for the shopping. So it was that we pulled up to the home of Chip, who was selling a 1980 Toyota Celica. Chip lived in, let’s just say, the “inexpensive” part of town; I immediately noticed that, along with a great deal of rubbish, there were several Toyotas in front of his home in varying states of repair. The hood was up on one of them and he was deeply buried in the engine compartment; my eyes traveled to his pants, which were slipping down and, oh god, there it was, the crack of his butt greatly exposed. I got out of Dad’s car and was accosted by the smell of dirty motor oil and Gunk engine cleaner spray. The smell got worse as we climbed into the Celica with Chip, who for some strange reason insisted on driving it himself, rather than letting one of us drive. Oil and Gunk were joined by B.O. and the smell of filthy upholstery and sun-damaged vinyl. He popped the clutch and flew down the street, hanging corners and grinding through the gears like a madman, talking all the way. <br />
<br />
“Yeah, I did all the repairs on this car myself,” he said, to no great surprise. “I replaced the brakes and the clutch.” As if on cue, the clutch slipped just as he said that. “Yeah,” he went on, patting the cracked and warped dash board, “It runs good, but the insides ain’t so cherry!”<br />
<br />
Finally my search yielded a treasure, a dark blue 1980 Honda Civic hatchback, great for transporting dogs, cheap on gas, and, as I soon discovered, small enough to park anywhere. I paid the seller $900 cash and drove away feeling like a wealthy lady in a Rolls Royce; that feeling was soon tempered, however, by my discovery of the vehicle’s “idiosyncrasies.” For one thing, the seat was not bolted down. It was somehow attached on the left side, so no problem making a right turn, but a left turn caused me and the seat to tilt at an alarming angle. There was no back seat, which was unsightly but worked out fine for dog transport. There were also some slight electrical problems, like when I put on the turn signal, the horn beeped, and when I pressed the horn, the turn signals flashed. When the rainy season started, I discovered that the sun roof, installed by the previous (teenage boy) owner, was not sealed properly and water leaked all over the place. I drove around wondering what was worse, sitting on a dry motorcycle seat and getting rained on or sitting on a wet, moldy smelling car seat? I developed a method of folding newspaper and wedging it between the visor and the leaky window. The newspaper turned out to be just as useful for absorbing rain water as puppy pee, and as long as I changed it every couple of days I stayed dry.<br />
<br />
By the time I got rid of the Honda, it had 250,000 miles on the odometer; like the ad claimed, this vehicle “ran good” and, despite its shortcomings, was reliable transportation for two years, until I could afford to buy what I always wanted, a truck ... but that’s another story.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-4618792852235073652011-06-25T06:31:00.000-07:002011-06-25T06:31:39.174-07:00Puffer FishI never knew that fish had much in the way of personality. <br />
<br />
As a kid I’d had my share of goldfish, the kind won at carnivals by tossing ping pong balls into bowls. Despite my attentive care, they seldom lived longer than a year in their little plastic bowl in my bedroom. In high school, I somehow got involved in a guppy-breeding project for science class. Myself and several other students brought home various guppies, males and females, and did reports on what we observed. What I observed was that guppies are pretty, they are very prolific, and they like to eat their babies. In my 20’s, I got into aquariums and, for a couple years, had a fresh-water setup. These critters were even more delicate than the gold fish and the guppies, and I had a heck of a time keeping them alive; it seemed like the more they cost, the more likely they were to be short-lived. I finally managed to have a stable population for a while, until I decided that it would be fun to add a little crab to the mix. It was fun until the fish started disappearing, and when I cleaned the tank I noticed a pile of fish skeletons under the rock where the crab liked to hang out. Still determined to make it work, I hired an aquarium maintenance guy, Dan, to advise me and to help me clean the tank and make sure it was running properly. He was very knowledgeable and a big help, but unfortunately he came with a jealous wife who had to accompany him on his rounds. She’d sit on my bed, not saying a word, staring at me and at him as he worked on the tank. When he wasn’t shoulder-deep in the tank, she was hanging off his arm, perhaps protecting him from a sudden attack by me. It was awkward to say the least. After that, I decided that keeping fish was just way more work and expense than it was worth for the enjoyment, or lack of, I got from them.<br />
<br />
Susie and Jilly, however, made me think differently. Susie and Jilly were puffer fish, club-shaped brown and white creatures with large expressive eyes and absurdly small fins. When comfortable, they had a smooth appearance, but when alarmed they would “puff” and their bodies would resemble a spiky balloon. There is poison in their skin, so any predator trying to eat them will be stabbed by the spikes and injected with poison. In Japan, the larger puffers are eaten as a delicacy, and several people die each year from improper preparation.<br />
<br />
It was hard to imagine these cute, clumsy things being deadly poisonous. They bobbed around in the water like some kind of children’s toys, opening and closing their mouths and looking around with their big eyes. They seemed to be quite aware of the environment outside the tank, unlike the banal, blank-expressioned fish I was used to. <br />
<br />
“Here is their food,” said Kate, the fishes’ owner, opening the freezer. She pointed to several different bags of frozen fish-goodies. “Don’t give them too much!” she cautioned. “They love their food.”<br />
<br />
There was another tank containing a lion fish, Leo, another spiny poisonous critter. This one was beautiful and regal with a great plume of fins and tail, floating about in an aloof manner, nice to look at but not interactive like the puffers. <br />
<br />
“Be sure not to touch them,” Kate cautioned. “They are poisonous. They’re not aggressive, but if you startle them you might get stung.” I assured her that I had no intentions of putting my hands anywhere near these little people.<br />
<br />
On my first day caring for the fish, everything went smoothly. I walked into the home office room where the tanks were set up and took a look at everyone. Pumps, lights, and heaters were all plugged in and on timers, so all I had to do was make sure everything was doing what it was supposed to. All seemed well, so I proceeded to the little freezer with the food inside. Leo was floating regally, seemingly unaware of my presence, but Susie and Jilly appeared to be watching my every move. When I opened the freezer their tiny fins moved very fast and they opened and closed their mouths. <br />
<br />
“Here you go, girls!” I said, dropping the goodies into the tank. The girls devoured the frozen brine-shrimp-and-who-knows-what-else in seconds. I gave Leo his portion and he attacked it, pulling off portions and consuming them. Lion, indeed. <br />
<br />
Two days later, I walked into the office room and did my usual check. When I turned my back on the puffers’ tank, I thought I felt something wet on the back of my neck. “What the?” I said to myself, looking up at the ceiling for a leak. I saw nothing unusual, so I reached again for the freezer door. Splash! This time it hit me in the face. What on earth was happening? I was standing several feet from the tank, so water couldn’t just be dripping out onto me. Susie and Jilly were wiggling near the surface of the water looking excited. Could it be? I reached for the door again, but kept my eyes on the tank. I’ll be damned if they didn’t fill their mouths with water and expertly spit it at me! <br />
<br />
A week into the job, I arrived to see things looking different. There had been a massive storm the previous night, taking down trees and fences all over San Mateo County. I’d already started my day chasing a client’s Beagle across a golf course who had escaped because of a downed fence. Many homes in the area had lost power, probably this one too.<br />
<br />
Leo looked lethargic, and the girls were staying near the surface of their water, mouths open. I wasn’t hearing all the usual noises. I suppressed panic as I realized that the machinery pumping air into the water was probably not working! I grabbed the phone to call an aquarium store, and thankfully got someone on the line. I waited tensely, talking to the fish as if they could understand me. “Come on, girls,” I said, touching the glass front of the tank, “Hang in there. Help is on the way!” They looked at me and moved their fins weakly. After what seemed like an eternity, the aquarium service person showed up.<br />
<br />
“How long has it been like this?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” I said. “I got here an hour ago, and I haven’t been here since yesterday. The power must have gone out last night because of the storm. It must have reset everything.”<br />
<br />
“Hmm,” he frowned and got to work. After a while, he was able to get everything back working the right way. <br />
<br />
“Will they be okay?” I asked, eyeing my two sad-looking club-shaped friends. <br />
<br />
“If they didn’t go too long without oxygen.”<br />
<br />
The next day I came to see the fish first thing in the morning. I was delighted to see everyone looking active and normal. Susie and Jilly were spitting at me even before I walked near the freezer. Checking Leo’s tank, I noticed with dismay that one of the heating tubes, attached to the inside with suction cups, had been knocked loose, presumably by the actions of the aquarium service person. “Damn it,” I said, looking at the large poisonous fish cruising around next to the floating tube. I waited till he was at the opposite end of the tank, then carefully lowered my hand into the water and attempted to grab the tube. This proved more difficult than I thought, as it was slippery and the surface of the water distorted my vision. After several attempts, I still didn’t have a hold of it. Slowly, like a tank, Leo turned and headed back towards my hand. Did he look “alarmed” or was it my imagination? I removed my hand from the water, and waited. Thinking of how it would feel to be stabbed by those poisonous spines, I slowly and carefully replaced the heater where it belonged. Crisis averted, again.<br />
<br />
On my last day, I said goodbye to my new friends and marveled at my new appreciation of the personalities of fish. Figuring the girls saw me as a friend and food-provider, I couldn’t resist sticking just the tip of my finger into their water and letting them nibble on it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-26499225200888236732011-06-15T07:24:00.000-07:002016-01-17T08:22:05.054-08:00A New Job, Part TwoThis story is Part Two in a series. If you haven't yet read Part One, <a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2011/02/stress-of-working-at-humane-society-was.html">CLICK HERE</a>. <br />
<br />
Clutching my backpack with both hands, I walked up the stairs to my first pet sitting client’s home. There were three flats in the building, and hers was the middle. I knocked on the door and it was quickly opened.<br />
<br />
“Hi, I’m the pet sitter.”<br />
<br />
“Come in,” she smiled, and stepped aside to reveal an adorable pit bull puppy. He was fawn colored with a black face and big dark eyes. At the moment, he sat in the middle of the floor concentrating on a red rubber chew toy. <br />
<br />
I went right to him, sat on the floor, and pet his cute face. Abandoning the toy, he climbed into my lap and licked my face.<br />
<br />
His owner looked worried. “You have done this before?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, of course.” Not exactly, but it wasn’t as if I didn’t know how to care for a puppy. Mugsy, as he was called, was Nancy’s first dog. She had just bought this flat and was excited to finally be able to keep a pet. She wanted to do everything right, from diet to training to house breaking. She had called Krystal, my boss, to set up visits twice a day while she was at work. Since Mugsy was so young and not fully vaccinated, all I had to do was let him in the back yard and play with him. Seriously, I thought, I am going to be paid for this? I got all the pertinent info: visit times, routine, where everything is kept, and I had her sign the service agreement. It’s official now, I thought, I’m a professional pet sitter. I shouldered by backpack with paperwork, day planner, and other necessities inside, and headed out the door to meet my next new client.<br />
<br />
My next new charge was bigger, and longer, and thinner. Dolly the Greyhound was a track rescue, a lean dark brindle with a great toothy smile and a tail so long and active it was often bleeding at the tip. Greyhound racing, still legal in 15 states (not including California), produces thousands of unwanted dogs every year. By the age of five years -- or sooner if they don’t place well enough in the races -- dogs are retired, and before the creation of rescue and adoption groups, “retirement” only meant one thing … death. Thanks to these tireless nonprofit groups, many of these dogs are instead placed in loving homes where they soon adapt to life as a pet. <br />
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I don’t believe I ever touched a Greyhound before Dolly. I’d seen them in pictures -- the pointed faces, the huge thighs, the whippy tails -- but meeting one in person was, well, a whole different animal. Since then I have known and loved many of these special dogs, and they never fail to delight me with their positive energy. Dolly was typical with her wide adoring eyes, big smile, and happy-dancing feet. I was in love at once. I pet her super-short fur as I listened to her owner, Jim,talk about her. Jim and his wife Hazel were not new to dogs, but they were new to Greyhounds, so they were eager to learn. Dolly had some goofy habits they couldn’t figure out, like an inability to walk up and down stairs, and a thing for music. <br />
<br />
“Music?” I asked. <br />
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“Yes, we heard that at the track they leave a radio on all the time, so we do that at home and it seems to calm her. She likes classical.” <br />
<br />
At the mention of her favorite music, Dolly’s head popped up and she gave her owner a loving look with her great dark eyes. <br />
<br />
“I’ll be sure to leave the music on,” I said with a smile.<br />
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<br />
“Mugsy, I’m here!” Two weeks had passed since my first day as a professional pet sitter. I was loving my new job and actually eager to start work each morning. I opened the door of the flat to see a great pup who was, as always, larger than yesterday. He came bounding down the stairs and stood expectantly at my feet. He was quite friendly, but also independent, and didn’t whine or make a fuss. I opened the back door and together we walked down the stairs to the yard. While he took care of business, I sat on a bench and unwrapped the breakfast I’d purchased down the street at the bagel shop. Sipping my apple juice, I watched him cavort and felt that all was well in the world. He bounded around, playing with leaves that floated around the back yard in a breeze. After 30 minutes, I gave him a cookie and locked him back in the house. Noticing the shredded (expensive looking) dog bed, I thought to suggest crate training to Mugsy’s owner. Leaving a pup alone anywhere, let alone a nice flat with new furnishings, was not the best idea. I headed out and off to my next visit.<br />
<br />
I didn’t have to call out for Dolly – she knew the sound of my vehicle and was waiting always by the door. I could hear her tail whacking against the wall as I fumbled with the lock and pushed my way in. The house looked like it used to be a store, and the front door, or doors, were swinging glass. There was a living room, bathroom, and kitchen on the ground level and the bedroom, which was formerly an attic, was on the second level and could be accessed via a ladder. The leggy dog wasn’t able to climb the ladder; nor, in fact, was she able to climb down the stairs into the back yard. Her owners, unable to get her to take a step, had to carry her. I slipped the wide martingale collar used for walks around her neck, clipped on the leash, and headed out the door. She was a dream to walk, sweet and attentive, seldom pulling on the leash except for when she saw a small animal running. Her owners had warned me – and I had since read in a book about Greyhounds – of their ability to “run without heed.” Because of this, it was never recommended to take them off-leash except for in a very secure area. Apparently, this “ability” comes in handy when hunting or running on the track, but it can make for a challenging pet. Dolly’s neighborhood was hilly, so we had a good 30 minute exercise by the time we were done. I removed the walking collar, gave her a cookie, and went on my way.<br />
<br />
A month later, I was cruising through my pet sitting days with ease. I’d met a few other new clients and was beginning to do some vacation care for cats and dogs. Mugsy and Dolly continued to be my favorite daily companions, however, and I always looked forward to their visits. Life was good and nothing could possibly go wrong. Opening the door to Mugsy’s on this windy Spring day, I was surprised when he didn’t appear. “Hello?” I shouted in the door, thinking maybe the client was at home. In those pre-cell phone days, immediate communication was not yet a reality, leading to some mix-ups and embarrassing moments. No one answered, so I entered the house and looked around. Finally, Mugsy, who was now four months old and getting quite tall, came walking out of the bedroom. He looked sleepy, and clumsy. “What have you been up to?” I said, petting his head. It didn’t take long to find out: in the bathroom, the medicine cabinet was wide open and all kinds of medication boxes and jars were on the floor. Pain killers, cough syrup, decongestants … all had tooth marks on them and parts of the packaging were missing. “Oh no!” I said as I looked back at Mugsy, who smiled up at me with glassy eyes. I ran down to the car and got his owner’s contact info. Thinking he was going to drop dead any minute, I called her at work and, fortunately, got her right away. At first, she didn’t seem too alarmed. In the future, I would experience this again and again as I called clients to tell them of disasters which had occurred with their pets. As grace under pressure is one of my strong suits, I wonder if my apparent calmness leads people to believe that it isn’t all that bad; perhaps they don’t get the sense of urgency if the caller isn’t shouting and crying? After some convincing, thank god, Nancy agreed to come home immediately and take him to the vet. It was a nerve-wracking 15 minutes waiting for her, and when she did arrive home she seemed shocked at his drunken appearance. <br />
<br />
“What should I do?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Take him straight to the vet,” I said, handing her a stack of shredded papers. Knowing the vet would ask what had been consumed, I had picked up the shreds of the medication boxes with the product names on them: DayQuil, Advil, Pepto Bismol… Putting the pieces in her purse, she took Mugsy and I headed out to Dolly’s.<br />
<br />
The first thing I noticed was no whippy tail sound on the wall. Red flag, I thought … where is Dolly? I pushed open the double frosted glass door and peeked in. “Hello?” I called out. My voice echoed through the cavernous house, and no one answered. Locking the door behind me, I went straight to the kitchen where Dolly’s owners often left notes for me. On the wood table was a basket of apples and a phone bill, but no note. Hmm. I searched all over the house and yard, thinking Dolly was stuck somewhere, but I saw no sign of her. I picked up the phone and dialed Jim’s work number. Fortunately, he answered right away.<br />
<br />
“Hi Jim,” I said. “I’m here to walk Dolly, but she’s not here. Was I supposed to come today?”<br />
<br />
Jim’s voice cracked as he told me what happened. That morning, Hazel had taken Dolly to a big field in the neighborhood where many people ran their dogs. Hazel was very bonded with Dolly at this point, and found her to be very attentive and obedient. Eager to allow Dolly some socialization, she thought it would be okay to allow her off-leash as she would stay with the other dogs and always came when called. Dolly was having a great time running around with the local Labs and Pit Bulls, until a cat darted across a yard … across the street from the field. Like an arrow released from the bow, Dolly shot straight towards the cat, right into the street, her ears deaf to Hazel’s shouts. A Toyota Corolla was coming along at that moment, and the driver had no time to stop as the dog suddenly appeared from behind other parked cars. He hit her and she went airborne, to the horror of everyone watching. The driver stopped and spoke briefly with Hazel, but soon went on his way. Since dogs were not actually allowed off-leash there and he was not speeding, he was not at fault. <br />
<br />
“Will she be okay?” I asked, having terrible flashbacks of one of my dogs being hit by a car, having major orthopedic surgery, and never being the same again. <br />
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“We don’t know,” Jim replied. “She’s at the vet now.”<br />
<br />
My heart sank as I hung up the phone. Tears in my eyes, I drove on to my next visit.<br />
<br />
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<br />
“How’s my Mugsy?” I called out as I entered the flat. A week had passed since the terrible day he'd eaten a cabinet full of medicines. I heard a great metallic clanging as his long tail hit the sides of his shiny new dog crate in the kitchen. “Good dog,” I cooed as I clipped the collar to his leash and took him out for a walk (quickly, as he had to pee immediately and a hesitation would equal a puddle). Now old enough and fully vaccinated, he was good to go for walks off the property. People crossed the street when they saw us coming. Adopted as a “Boxer mix,” Mugsy’s startling growth was making “Mastiff mix” his more likely breed. We enjoyed a stroll around the neighborhood, then I gave him a chewy bone and locked him in his crate. Thank god, his brush with death had left him no worse for the wear, and it had taught his owner an important lesson. She had initially resisted crate training because she thought it was cruel, but after almost losing her puppy and running up a $1000+ vet bill, she decided it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. <br />
<br />
By the time I got to Dolly’s, I was tired. I hadn’t slept well the previous night, and the driving was making me drowsy. My spirits were raised, however, when I saw my friend walk happily up to the door and whack her tail on the wall. “Good dog,” I said, stroking her muscular body which was intact except for a few abrasions. Amazingly, the only thing she suffered as a result of the accident was shock. She had no broken bones or other permanent damage. An afternoon at the vet had pulled her out of shock and back into the land of the living, where she would never again be let off-leash in a non-secure area. I closed the swinging glass doors behind me and flopped down on the big comfy couch. It’s a little-known fact that Greyhounds, although one of the fastest land animals, are actually quite lazy. They love to lounge around, and most Greyhound owners will have a large collection of thick, fluffy beds in every room. Dolly hopped up on the couch next to me and put her pointed head in my lap. I stroked her and played with her little ears, getting very comfortable as the warm sun poured on me through the glass doors. The next thing I knew, I heard the front door opening. The couch was directly facing the front door, so there was no escape. Jim had come home early, and caught me sound asleep! Stammering and wiping the drool from my mouth, I grabbed the leash and hurried out for our walk. He just smiled.<br />
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To read part three of this story<a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2011/09/new-job-part-three.html"> CLICK HERE.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-58735093431188023072011-02-26T09:03:00.000-08:002011-02-26T09:07:01.509-08:00Recommended Reading: Territory by Emma Bull<iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?lt1=_blank&bc1=000000&IS2=1&bg1=FFFFFF&fc1=000000&lc1=0000FF&t=adveinpetsitt-20&o=1&p=8&l=as4&m=amazon&f=ifr&asins=0812548361" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe><br />
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Readers often ask me what my favorite books are, so I'm going to start sharing them here. I enjoy fiction, creative nonfiction (what this blog is all about), memoirs, and sci-fi/fantasy, among others. I'll also post books about writing that aspiring authors may find helpful.<br />
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<u>Territory</u> is an interesting twist on historical fiction, blending elements of drama, myth, and magic around some very compelling characters. Newspaper typesetter and aspiring author Mildred Benjamin finds her life turned on its ear after meeting traveling horse tamer Jesse Fox. Fox, although white, has been educated in the ways of Chinese language, medicine, and magic by his friend and mentor Dr. Chow Lung. This education gives him a unique insight into the goings-on of Tombstone, Arizona in 1881 during the reign of the Earp brothers. What seems like an ordinary power play opens up to reveal a dark heart of sorcery into which Mildred and Jesse find themselves inextricably bound.<br />
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I enjoy straight-up fantasy, but I find even more compelling a story in which the reader is never sure if the events are ordinary or magical. Emma bull achieves that effect in Territory, leaving the reader wondering for some time afterwards what "really" happened.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-77544516994389834272011-02-24T17:35:00.000-08:002011-06-17T21:50:57.899-07:00A New Job, Part OneThe stress of working at the humane society was taking its toll. Anyone who has worked in this field is familiar with the term “compassion fatigue.” Now a recognized mental illness, compassion fatigue occurs when animal lovers go to work at a place where they believe they can save animals and make a difference … and then end up killing them. “Euthanasia,” as it’s more commonly – and gently – called, is done for a number of reasons: the animals are too young, too old, too sick, or too aggressive to be adoptable. In high-volume shelters, many animals are euthanized simply because all cages are full and there is nowhere to put them. If that isn’t bad enough, shelter staff face abuse from the public in the shelter and at large. Upset customers shout and curse at front desk staff, blaming them for their problems. Members of the public donate to wealthy national animal welfare organizations but refuse to give to their needy local shelter – which they insist on calling the pound -- because “they just kill all the animals.” Animal Control Officers are called “dog catchers” and lampooned in movies. It’s an unglamorous and soul-crushing industry, to be sure.<br />
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I’d never heard of compassion fatigue – all I knew was that I was drinking heavily, I couldn’t sleep, and I got stomach cramps every time I thought about going into work. I realized that I couldn’t do it any more, physically or psychologically, so I turned in my resignation. I knew I had a few weeks’ vacation that would be cashed out, so I had a little time to job search.<br />
<br />
Miraculously, as soon as I turned in my notice, the symptoms went away. I woke up the next morning refreshed and walked down to the local coffee shop to get a newspaper. This was before the internet days, so I was doing my job searching in the classified ads. I sat outside in the pleasant San Mateo sun sipping my latte and circled anything pet-related: pet supply shop, veterinarian, groomer, and something about in-home pet care in San Francisco. Downing the last bit of coffee with all the sugar on the bottom of the cup, I got up and walked to the payphone (yes, this was also before the cell phone days) and called each potential employer. Some of the positions were already filled, and some were too low-paying or only part-time. For the in-home pet care I got a voicemail, and left a message. <br />
<br />
Checking my voicemail the following day, I listened to a long rambling message from a woman about care giving, dog walking, and a bunch of other stuff that made no sense. Dog walking, I wondered. Isn’t that something people do in New York with like 10 dogs on leashes? I’d never seen such a thing around here. Since none of the other jobs had panned out, I went ahead and gave her a call back. After a few rounds of voicemail tag, we managed to set up an interview for the following week.<br />
<br />
I shivered as I rolled down the window and drank in the San Francisco fog. I was parked next to Golden Gate Park in the Sunset district, just a stone’s throw away from the beach. Krystal, the owner of the in-home pet care business, didn’t have an office; she operated out of her home. I stepped out of the car, zipped up my jacket, and walked up to the old, small house. I knocked and rang the door bell, but got no response and heard no sound coming from inside. After a few chilly minutes, I got back in the car to wait. I checked my watch and it was 3PM, our scheduled time, but there was no sign of her. Oh well, I thought, she must be running late. I picked up a magazine that was on the floor of the car and started to leaf through it.<br />
<br />
About ten minutes later I heard a car honk and I looked up, then did a double take. Crossing the street from the park was a slender lady dressed in pink sweat pants and a too-big man’s undershirt. Her longish hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was walking three dogs on retractable leashes, and they were going in three different directions. She had her hands full, and she looked lost. A car was stopped in front of her and the driver looked cross – this must have been the person who honked. Despite the fact that a car was waiting for her on a busy street, she did not hurry to get out of the way; rather, she seemed to be talking to one of the dogs, a fluffy small terrier. I marveled as she conversed with the dog, apparently in an attempt to get the animal to follow her instead of run off after something more interesting. The driver honked again, the terrier decided to follow his mistress, and I wondered who this wacky person was … until I saw her pull out keys and open the door that I was just knocking on. Oh lord, I thought, that’s my potential boss.<br />
<br />
Collecting myself, I got out of the car and walked up to the door. It took her several minutes to respond to the knocking, and when she saw me she looked surprised. <br />
<br />
“Hi, I’m here for the job interview,” I said. <br />
She blinked, then said, “Oh, oh, come in.”<br />
<br />
I stepped into the house and immediately breathed the scent of funky dog. The two terriers, one fluffy and the other wiry, jumped about my feet. The third dog, a large tan female of uncertain origin, sat in the corner and kept her eye on me. I looked around and saw that the whole living room was an office. There were stacks of papers on a large desk, more papers on the accompanying chair, and yet more papers on the floor nearby. There was no other furniture in the room except for a futon couch, which the two terriers parked themselves on, leaving no room for me. I stood by the desk for the “interview,” which basically consisted of Krystal telling me all about the job, and how her last employee had made a variety of mistakes then decided to quit. I’ll admit I was getting some red flags from this lady, but the job sounded very appealing: I was to walk dogs and feed dogs and cats in the clients’ homes. I would start with a few clients, but build up a busier schedule over time. Best of all, I would be working alone and managing my own time. By the end of the conversation I realized she was offering me the job. I mentally calculated my last day at the humane society, then said I could work a couple days later. She gave me some paperwork to take home, fill out, and sign. <br />
<br />
I drove away, paperwork on the front seat and a strange sense of excitement in me. Little did I know of the long, rewarding journey on which this new job would take me.<br />
<br />
To read Part Two of this story <a href="http://adventuresinpetsitting.blogspot.com/2011/06/new-job-part-two.html">CLICK HERE.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-45259780051596720832010-06-28T08:53:00.000-07:002010-06-28T09:03:43.420-07:00Train WreckTo this day I’m not really sure what happened that night.<br /><br /> I was finishing late; it was at least 10PM and I was pooped. Twice a day visits were great for revenue, but tough on the body. These visits were typically for dogs who were confined indoors and needed to be walked, or for dogs who were let out in the yard during the day and confined in the house at night. Unless I wanted to clean up a mess and/or have some explaining to do with the client, I had to get up early and finish late to care for these dogs. This night, I had just walked and locked in a friendly Great Dane. He had to stay in the house at night or else the neighbor would complain about barking. <br /><br /> I was driving through Redwood City towards the 101 freeway entrance. Yawning, I looked around me at the evening street scene. Well dressed couples dined on Mexican food in an outdoor patio strung with lights shaped like chiles. Rougher-looking folks in jeans and work boots stood outside the small local bar smoking cigarettes and talking loudly to each other. Men walked out of the corner liquor store with paper bags filled with the night’s entertainment. I smiled to myself as I remembered a friend telling me that they sold badly-copied VHS tapes of porn movies from under the counter. <br /><br /> Leaving downtown, I approached the railroad tracks which were dark and deserted. I started to cross them when WHAM, something hit me from the left. Reeling in confusion, I started to panic when I realized that whatever hit me was now dragging me along the tracks. It wasn’t a train – in fact it wasn’t anything I could see. Some invisible thing was dragging my truck along in the dark. As soon as it began, it ended. The thing that hit me rolled on along the tracks and left me parallel to them. Stunned, I sat there wondering what to do when I saw a man running up to my window. Assuming he was coming to help me, I rolled down the window.<br /><br /> “What the f*** are you doing?”<br /> “What?”<br /> “You stupid f***ing bitch! What were you doing? Didn’t you see us?”<br /><br /> I started to get scared. Someone ranting like this wouldn’t have been a surprise coming from the local bar or the residential hotel, but I was too far away for someone to have walked. I was alone, in the dark, with a crazy person and a disabled vehicle. Then I noticed there were two other men, and they were all wearing vests with a company name on the back. This wasn’t a lunatic, he was some kind of a worker for the railroad. He continued to shout and curse at me, then he walked away. Realizing he was going to just leave me there, I went from shocked to scared to angry. I grabbed a pen and paper and got out of the truck.<br /><br /> “I need your name and phone number.” I said.<br /> The man turned and gave me a dirty look, then went back to speaking with his coworker. <br /> “I said I need your name and phone number.”<br /> “Look, we’re trying to finish this job here. Can you just get the f*** out of here?”<br /><br /> I don’t know what made me so brave, I suppose it was anger and indignation, especially when I realized the nature of the problem. It was late and there was little traffic going that way. Probably figuring it was an unnecessary and time consuming step, the workers had put up no barrier or marker of any kind to indicate that work was occurring on the tracks and cars should stop and wait. I was not leaving without the information. I looked at the business name on the vests and wrote it down.<br /><br /> Walking around to face the man’s front instead of his back, I said, “Okay, I’ll just call 411 tomorrow and report this to your boss.”<br /><br /> Now it was his turn to look scared. He gave me his name, and the phone number, then quickly got into a truck with the other men and drove away. <br /><br />Surveying the damage to my vehicle, I picked up my cell phone and called AAA. It was now 11PM, my vehicle was wrecked, and I was alone. Waiting for the tow truck, I was too shocked to be worried about the fact that I was a sitting duck in a bad neighborhood. I looked up at the sky and watched the stars twinkle, at least the ones that I could see through all the light pollution. About midnight, the tow truck appeared like an angel and a middle-aged, bearded man changed my flat tire. <br /><br /> “You need a new rim,” he said, pointing to the bent metal. “You can get this into the shop tomorrow?”<br /> “Yes, thank you.” At least someone was showing some concern for my predicament. Bleary eyed, I drove home and went straight to bed.<br /><br /> The next morning when I looked at my truck, I realized how in shock I must have been after the accident. In a sane condition, there was no way I would have driven this vehicle. The front quarter panel was smashed and the wheel well was so dented that, had I made a sharp turn, the tire would have scraped against it. I felt lucky that it hadn’t been worse for me. I immediately called AAA and reported the accident.<br /><br /> “So you hit a train?”<br /> “No, I didn’t hit anything, it hit me.”<br /> “You were hit by a train?”<br /> “No, it wasn’t a train, it was something moving along the tracks but it was short, I think.”<br /><br /> The conversation continued in this way – and would ring the same when I tried to explain to friends and family what had happened to me – and the insurance report ended up saying “Hit a metal object next to train tracks.” <br /><br /> “Hi! How can we help you?” A cheerful blonde-haired lady sat at the reception desk of Moon’s Auto Body with a telephone receiver in one hand and a pile of mail in the other. There were papers and boxes all over her desk, and plastic-wrapped auto body parts all around it. <br /><br /> “I called earlier, about the AAA claim. The Toyota truck?”<br /><br /> “Okay hon,” she said, picking up one of the papers from her desk and reading it. “Have a seat.”<br /><br /> As she asked me a number of questions, I looked around the shop. I’d been here several times before and knew the mechanics on a first-name basis. With all the driving I did, I exposed myself to more potential accidents, and they found me. Mostly people liked to back into me in parking lots, leaving me to scratch my head and wonder where that new big dent came from. Thank goodness for hit and run coverage. Suddenly I jumped a little in my seat as I realized the contents of one of the boxes on her desk was moving. Leaning forward, I peered into the box and saw a very sorry looking kitten. He was all grey and tiny, no bigger than the palm of my hand and probably about four weeks old. His eyes and nose were snotty and his coat was dull. <br /><br /> “Where’d you get him?” I asked.<br /> “I hate people!” she said. “Someone threw him in our dumpster. I was taking out the garbage when I heard him crying in there. Had to climb in and get him out.”<br /><br /> I picked up the tiny person and held him in my lap. He felt weak but spirited. He looked up at me with green eyes in a great wise face, and purred. <br /><br /> “The boss said ‘No animals in the office,” she continued, leaning closer to me as she told this part of the story. “So I said, ‘Fine, I’ll just quit!’” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. I assumed that her threat made the boss back off of his ultimatum. Looking at the kitten, I imagine he figured it would be dead in a few days anyway. I continued to hold the little ball of fluff as we finished the paperwork, then I waited for the rental car to be dropped off. He liked to be scratched on his cheeks and purred very much when I did that. When the rental car arrived, I was sorry to give up my new friend. <br /><br /> “I hope he’s okay,” I said to the receptionist. “I’m so glad you found him.”<br /> “He’ll be fine,” she said, “Then I’ll try to find a home for him.” <br /><br /> I thought of the little kitten as I struggled with the insurance claim over the next two weeks. The workmen on the train tracks denied any wrongdoing, and their boss sided with them. The only thing I could get them to agree to was to pay for the damage to my truck. Later, people told me I could have sued and collected a lot of money, but I didn’t know anything at the time and couldn’t afford to call a lawyer anyway. The truck was fixed and my life as a pet sitter went on … until two years later.<br /><br /> WHAM! It was like déjà vu, some strange thing coming out of nowhere and hitting the left side of my truck. This thing, however, was not invisible; it was a large deer. Startled by something, the animal had jumped out of the bushes as I was driving through the wooded hills of Belmont and slammed right into me. Stunned, it lay on the ground for a few seconds, then scrambled to its feet and bounded away. I didn’t realized how much damage it had done till I reached my client’s house and got out to take a look.<br /><br /> “Oh, you’re got to be kidding!” I said to myself as I saw the huge dent in the front quarter panel, the same one that had been replaced after the train track accident. It looked like it had been punched with a very heavy basketball. I sighed as I thought of the trouble: the insurance claim, the time at the repair shop, the deductible I’d have to pay. What a nuisance. At least I hadn’t killed the deer … or it hadn’t killed itself. <br /><br /> The next day I drove to Moon’s and walked into the office to see a different receptionist from the last time. This lady was heavier, and had brown hair pulled up into a pony tail. <br /><br /> “Hi, I called about the Toyota,” I said, sitting down in front of her desk. <br /> “Okay, here it is,” she replied, pulling a paper from a file. The desk top was very neat, and now my paper was about the only thing on it. <br /><br /> We took care of business, then I went and sat in another chair as other customers were waiting. I leafed through a gossip magazine, marveling at how many articles could be written about who is having a baby and who is a fashion disaster. If I could spend $10,000 on an outfit, I mused, I wouldn’t care if I was a fashion disaster. While reading the list of Academy Award winners, I saw someone – or something – coming down the stairs from the manager’s office. Whoever it was jumped into the chair beside me, and looked up at me with green eyes in a great wise face. I looked down and saw a big grey cat with shiny long hair and a great plume of a tail. I reached down and stroked his cheek and he smiled and purred. I’ll admit it took me a minute to put two and two together, as it had been two years and I’d forgotten about the sorry creature the previous receptionist had rescued from the dumpster. Could it be? <br /><br /> At this moment the manager came down the stairs, and I greeted him.<br /> “You again?” he joked.<br /> “Yeah, I’ve managed to not have an accident for a while.”<br /> “That’s Auto, our shop cat,” he said, gesturing to my new friend. “He usually sleeps in my office.” <br /><br /> Auto looked up at me and purred, and I’ll swear he winked.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-90792156955124888462010-06-11T17:39:00.000-07:002010-06-11T18:18:00.589-07:00Poetry<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VzyWhzg87N4/TBLf_zPD3HI/AAAAAAAAACY/qBRvbDzxteU/s1600/celtic+dogs.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VzyWhzg87N4/TBLf_zPD3HI/AAAAAAAAACY/qBRvbDzxteU/s320/celtic+dogs.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481689983641443442" /></a><br />Sometimes the words really flow through me when I'm too tired to think. I didn't sleep well the last two nights, so I was really a space cadet today. Lying on the bench in the dog play yard at the shelter with a white pit bull cavorting around me this afternoon, I thought of the <a href="http://www.amergin.net/songofamergin.html">Song of Amergin</a>. The Song of Amergin is an ancient poem spoken by a Celtic bard upon arriving in Ireland a very, very long time ago. It was first written down -- as far as we know -- in Irish Gaelic during medieval times. There is much debate about its exact translation and its meaning. I find that the best way to understand a work is to write it yourself, to create your own version and in so doing understand the spirit of the original work. This is one of my favorites to re-write. Give it a try. What do you think it means?<br /><br /><br />I am your journey; I am the way<br />I am your destination; I am the place you leave behind<br />I am fire on the hill<br />I am wind in the manes of horses<br />I am the dance of spring; I am the death of winter<br />I am the laughter of friendship; I am the groan of loss<br />I am the goodness of dogs<br />Who but I knows the song of the earth from beginning to end?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-83853493963857636192010-05-31T08:32:00.000-07:002010-06-03T18:34:50.801-07:00Dogo Argentino<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VzyWhzg87N4/TAPYoWJAmNI/AAAAAAAAACQ/F0Vr-DM7FXg/s1600/brigid-king.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 296px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_VzyWhzg87N4/TAPYoWJAmNI/AAAAAAAAACQ/F0Vr-DM7FXg/s320/brigid-king.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477459759462389970" /></a><br /><br />“Dogo Argentino.”<br />“Excuse me?”<br />“Dogo Argentino,” said the man’s voice on the phone, “The national dog of Argentina, very rare in the U.S.” <br />I agreed, amazed that there was a kind of dog I hadn’t heard of. Always a bookworm, I had numerous books on dog care and behavior including several large colorful volumes with photos and descriptions of each breed. I had no problem identifying a Cane Corso, a Hartz Polski, or a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, but a Dogo Argentino? This I had to see. <br /><br /> The door opened and I was almost knocked over by something very large and white. “King, no, bad dog!” I recognized the voice of John, the dog’s owner, from our phone conversation the previous day, but I could see nothing past the wriggling mass of white. Pushing my way in the door and closing it behind me, I got a look at the creature who was loving me to death; it looked very much like a pit bull, with muscular body, big shoulders, small waist, and a great jowly maw that was wide open in a pink smile. The only difference between it and a pit bull was size ... this animal was about the height and weight of a Great Dane. <br /><br /> I sat on the couch with King, who attempted to crawl into my lap, and John, who said, “Sorry about that, he’s still a puppy.” Wondering how large this animal would be as an adult, I managed to squeeze my arms out from under his bulk to hand John the paperwork, and we started to discuss the service I would be providing. I was to walk King five days a week while John was at work. King was confined in the kitchen when John was away, and there was no yard so he would have to be leashed and walked down several flights of stairs to the street to relieve himself. Because he was not neutered, King would lift his leg all over the house if left to his own devices. When I inquired why he was not neutered, his owner indicated an interest in going to special breed shows and get-togethers. I would find a leash, treats, payment, and anything else I might need on the kitchen counter. While we were talking, another man came into the apartment, said not a word, and went into one of the bedrooms. John looked uncomfortable. “One of my roommates,” he said. Roommates? The small San Mateo apartment was hardly large enough for one human and one 100-lb dog. As if to answer my unspoken question, John quietly said, “Um, you might see my roommates when they are at home. They don’t handle King.” It wasn’t long before I discovered why the roomies did not want to handle the adorable creature.<br /><br /> I had a couple of days before the service started, so I visited my favorite library in Burlingame to learn more about the Dogo Argentino; the results were not encouraging. I sat on the floor, legs cramping, always too involved in the books to make it to the table and sit in a chair like a civilized person. According to the books, the breed’s most notable characteristic was its aggression, “So aggressive they will attack each other while mating.” Yikes. In the pictures, they all looked the same: large and white with cropped ears and a baleful expression. Oh well, I sighed, I do enjoy those difficult cases after all, this should be no different than my other successes.<br /><br /> I walked up the stairs to John’s apartment and listened with a smile to the whining and thunking of a great tail against the wall as I unlocked and opened the door. There was King, as immense and white as I remembered, doing the happy dance. Piece of cake, I thought as I reached for the leash. I was surprised to note its flimsiness, and that of the attached choke chain which was small and thin; the rig looked more appropriate for a chihuahua. Oh well, I thought, that’s what the owner uses, so it must work. After reading the note that read, “King is happy to meet you, have a nice walk!” I slipped the choke chain over the big white jowls and stepped out the door. I was immediately catapulted down the stairs by an excited mass of dog and almost lost my footing. “Easy!” I shouted, pulling on the leash. King slowed down a bit, but this display of self-control was tempered by the pee that started dribbling out of him. I walked as fast as I could down the crumbling staircase, stepping in the urine which was splashing everywhere. We finally reached the bottom where he released a flood of water, then looked very much relieved.<br /><br /> Regrouping, I started to walk and was pleased to find that my new friend stayed pretty much by my side. We explored the neighborhood and stayed out long enough for him to get exercise and do his personal business, then we headed back towards the apartment building; I didn’t want to wander too far, as this was an area known for drug and gang activity. Rounding the corner , we suddenly came face to face with a pit bull, an unneutered male, tied in the bed of a pickup truck by a stout rope. The words, “So aggressive they will attack each other while mating” rang in my ears as I was yanked off my feet. I looked down and saw that my sweet friend had transformed into a snarling, lunging beast who not only wanted to kill the other dog, he wanted to eat him and pick his teeth with his bones. I quickly regained my footing and used every leash-pulling technique I remembered from dog training class to get control. I damn near had to drag King the entire length of the block and into the apartment before his fury subsided. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the couch, with the great white pup soon in my lap.<br /><br /> After a few weeks I got into the groove, learning which streets to walk on for maximum conflict avoidance. When he wasn’t in attack mode, King was sweet and easy to control, but when he saw another male dog, there was nothing I could do to get his attention. I was quite concerned that he would actually break the leash or collar, so I put a call in to his owner to see what we could do. I had recently become a member of the Association of Pet Dog Trainers, and at their latest conference I had learned how to use the Gentle Leader head collar. Similar to a horse’s halter, the device goes around the dog’s head rather than his neck, maximizing control in a humane way. I explained the concept to John, who had never heard of it but was willing to let me give it a try. I suspected that there wasn’t a long line of pet sitters willing to handle Dogo Argentinos, so a suggestion to walk King in a party hat probably would have met with agreement. <br /><br /> Gentle Leader Day. I walked up the steps to the apartment and put the key in the lock, smiling as I heard the thump-thump-thump of a tail inside. “Well now King,” I said to the smiling face, “I have something new for you.” With some difficulty, I fitted the head collar onto the wiggling dog; it was royal blue and looked very nice against his white face. To that I attached a stout leash, and off we went. I didn’t have long to wait for a test situation I rounded a corner and there were two young gangster wannabe guys with their oversize pants and puffy jackets, walking an intact male pit bull. King didn’t hesitate as he leaped towards them snarling, but a little twist of my hand brought him right back to earth. He looked startled and tried again, but I was able to easily control him by simply turning his head away from the threat. Because his head was turning away, the other dog thought he was showing respect, and the situation was quickly diffused.<br /><br /> “Damn!said one of the youths. Look at the SIZE of that dog! How old is he?” <br />“Ten months,” I answered, to which the other man replied,<br />“Damn, he’s just a puppy, his nuts ain’t even dropped yet!”<br /><br /> I continued walking him with my leash and head collar, thinking our troubles were over. That changed one afternoon when I returned from our walk to find one of the roommates at home, a young woman named Judy. I had a bad feeling about her right away, something about the way she looked me up and down with a judgmental expression. I introduced myself and made small talk, and the conversation quickly turned to Judy’s complaints about the apartment. She ranted about how John so often left King alone until late in the evening, forcing the roommates to either take him outside or to clean up the pee in the kitchen. She said she wanted to move out but she was afraid of losing her deposit money because of the damage done by the dog. I sympathized, but moved for the door; the last thing I wanted to do was get involved in a stranger’s personal problems, especially if it jeopardized my relationship with a client. The bad feeling continued as I drove to my next pet sitting visit. <br /><br /> That night I got a phone call from John who sounded very upset. He said that Judy had told him about meeting me earlier that day. I said yes, we had met, and wondered what she told him. “She said you’re walking King with a muzzle!” Exasperated, I explained that the Gentle Leader is not a muzzle, that it does not restrict the mouth at all, that it is merely a humane way of having better control over a large, active (and I didn’t say, vicious and out of control) dog. Today, the Gentle Leader is in common usage, so most people understand how it works, but back then, in the mid-1990's, it was pretty new, so people often mistook it for a muzzle. I was not entirely sure that I had convinced him, so I was uneasy when I hung up the phone. One thing I was sure of, that I had not seen the last of Judy.<br /><br /> Things went smoothly for the next two weeks. I became very attached to King and was always happy to see his wagging, wiggling self. His behavior improved and our walks became easier; after each walk, I would spend some time snuggling with him on the couch, which became increasingly difficult as he grew larger! All was well until I got another phone call from John. “I’m sorry, I have to cancel the dog walking service.” I groaned. I relied on daily dog walking for steady income in addition to the seasonal holiday/weekend pet sitting, and losing a regular client was always a blow. He explained that he was being evicted from his apartment, and he was going to have to move in with his parents. It seems that Judy, concerned about losing her cleaning deposit, had called the landlord and asked for an inspection without notifying John. When the landlord came over, there was King, in his apartment building which had a no pets policy...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-75325192228718768662010-05-29T10:43:00.000-07:002010-05-29T11:23:28.992-07:00Writing and Rabies<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VzyWhzg87N4/TAFbcglg7II/AAAAAAAAACI/fYBwq1Yw3HE/s1600/IMG00092.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VzyWhzg87N4/TAFbcglg7II/AAAAAAAAACI/fYBwq1Yw3HE/s320/IMG00092.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476759167200980098" /></a><br />I am enjoying a day of writing not because I voluntarily took a day off, but because I am sick. Yesterday, I received my second rabies shot in a series of three. I wasn't a bit worried, as I'd had no reaction to the first shot, so imagine my unpleasant surprise when by evening I felt stiff and developed a blinding headache. Trying to sleep, I tossed and turned with chills and nausea. I got up this morning feeling as if I'd been beaten about the head and neck with a lead pipe. <br /><br />Why, you may wonder, did I subject myself to this? Hasn't rabies been eradicated in the U.S.? Not quite...<br /><br />About 50,000 people die of rabies worldwide each year. Only a handful of these are in the U.S., where vaccination programs are in place for all dogs and cats, and for people who may be exposed to the virus. Here in California, a number of wild animals do test positive for rabies, mostly bats and skunks. Occasionally dogs and cats, after coming into contact with these animals, also test positive. Since the disease is 100% fatal once contracted, it's nothing to take lightly. <br /><br />Dogs, cats, and horses can be vaccinated against rabies. Ask your veterinarian what is recommended for your area. Human pre-exposure vaccines are only recommended for people who have direct contact with possibly infected animals, as I do every day at the animal shelter. For now, I'll take this time to work on some stories about my very first pet sitting experiences in San Francisco. Stay tuned!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-73027403718196624682010-05-25T14:32:00.000-07:002010-05-25T14:41:08.029-07:00Four Kittens on the Road to HeavenI didn’t know that Pearl was blind.<br /><br /> After several months of walking her granddaughter Amy’s dogs, we’d gotten to know each other pretty well. Pearl was frail and spent most of her time at home listening to a police radio; because she lived in the crime-ridden city of East Palo Alto, many of the broadcasts involved shootings and pit bull fights. After listening, she’d advise me where not to walk the dogs that day. I enjoyed her company very much, and it seemed we always had a lot to talk about. This day, we were discussing nationality. I said something about being Irish-American, and she replied, “Do you have red hair?”<br /><br /> “Excuse me?” I asked. <br /><br /> “Do you have red hair, and freckles?”<br /><br /> I replied that I did, and felt a bit strange, because my hair is not just reddish but bright red, and my rosy freckled cheeks can be seen for miles. Sensing my discomfort she laughed and said she was vision impaired, almost completely blind, but she got around all right with the help of her granddaughter. The conversation continued and moved, as it often did with clients’ family members, to pets. It was then she told me the most interesting story.<br /><br /> Pearl grew up in a very different world, one without birth control for humans and animals alike. Her family was large, as were most families at the time, and many sadly died young of diseases and accidents. People didn’t bother with adoption agencies in those days, she explained; unwanted babies were often given, or sold, to childless couples. The animals weren’t so lucky; spaying and neutering of pets was unheard of, so the unfortunate method of getting rid of unwanted puppies or kittens was to drown them in a sack, or dump them somewhere far from home and hope they died or became someone else’s problem. Pearl’s family were farmers, and like all farmers they needed cats to keep down the rodent population which could destroy hay and grain stores. <br /><br />Pearl’s favorite cat Mollie had just given birth to a lovely litter of kittens, two calicos and two orange tabbies. She snuck into the barn every day to play with them, dreading their fate. One day she entered the barn and they were gone. Mollie was crying and looking all over. When she asked her father what happened, he said he didn’t know, and his face had the expression saying "Don’t ask about it any more." Like lots of other things, some topics just weren’t discussed. Pearl said nothing more, but when night fell she snuck outside, climbed into her father’s car, and drove away into the countryside. She was only 13, but at that age most farm kids knew how to drive. There was only one real road leading away from their farm, so she figured she had a pretty good idea where those kittens had been dumped. Her gamble paid off, and after a long drive she spotted them, eyes glowing by the light of the head lamps. She carefully rounded them up, placed them in the car, and drove home. <br /><br /> The next morning, Pearl’s parents did not ask where she had been, nor did they question the reappearance of the kittens. They probably figured she’d endangered herself enough by driving off alone into the night, and they just let it go. The kittens thrived and lived long lives on the farm. When I asked Pearl why she had taken such a risk, chancing not only the dangers of the night but her parents’ wrath, she grinned and replied, “Well, I figured there was already enough on the road to Heaven for me to trip over, and I didn’t want those kittens there too!”<br /><br /> Pearl’s last day on earth was a happy one. We enjoyed the usual afternoon tea and conversation with many laughs. Pearl said that, despite her heart trouble, she was feeling especially good that day, almost euphoric. At some point I looked at the clock and couldn’t believe it said 3PM. “Yikes, I’d better get on the road!” I said, rising from my chair. She was all smiles as she said good-bye. <br /><br />At 9PM I got a call from Amy. “Grandma passed,” was all she could say. I later learned the details; when Amy arrived home from work at 6PM, Pearl said she was feeling lightheaded. She insisted a good night’s sleep would put her right, but Amy took her to the hospital. By the time they arrived she was losing consciousness. As the hospital staff wheeled her away, she waved frantically for Amy to come and hear something. <br /><br /> Bending low she said, “What is it, Grandma?”<br /><br /> In a whisper she said, “Don’t forget to call Brigid [with next week's dog walking schedule],” and they wheeled her away. Her heart stopped minutes later. <br /><br /> With the loss of Grandma’s pension, Amy had to economize and could no longer afford dog walking. I sadly arrived for my last visit two days after Pearl had passed away. Before leaving I touched each precious thing of hers: her cane, her Bible (which she could no longer read but still kept in the living room), her police radio, the little tin of cookies we had dipped into just days before. As I touched each thing I said good-bye, and by the time I stepped out the door I was no longer crying. I had a wonderful vision in my mind of Pearl walking down that long road from her family farm, not in darkness but in the midday sun, with Heaven in the distance and the road lined with old friends including two calicos and two orange tabbies, waiting not to trip her up but to lead her home. A smile on her face, she reaches down and strokes them, then walks on.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6631200329232305464.post-62185663493386100682010-05-25T08:18:00.000-07:002010-05-25T10:54:39.791-07:00Adventures in Pet Sitting to Become a Book!<a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs456.snc3/26094_1372691207417_1535884379_950851_1323651_n.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 413px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 257px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs456.snc3/26094_1372691207417_1535884379_950851_1323651_n.jpg" /></a><br /><p><div>My Dear Readers, </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></P><p>Thank you for being a part of the creation of this book, or series of books! My model is James Herriot's <em>All Creatures Great and Small</em>. If you like my stories and haven't read his, I highly encourage you to do so. </p></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><p>I apologize for having not posted a story in so long. Work in the animal care field can be all-consuming, but this year I have made a conscious effort to make time for my passion, writing. I have 35,000 words in this particular book and need 50,000 for it to be "novel length." I can't do it alone, so here's how you can help me: first, I need a title. <em>Adventures in Pet Sitting</em> will be a sub-title, but I need something more appealing and attention grabbing for the proper title. Second, those of you who knew me in the pet sitting days, please remind me of funny or touching things that happened. I have a good memory but your jogging it has been a big help.</p></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><p>I am reformatting this blog and promise to post something every week: a story or part of a story, a picture, a request for your input... Comments are welcome and encouraged! I'll post more info and a story later today. Off to walk the doggies now...</P></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3