I couldn’t walk her until I located and cleaned up her mess, or messes. This was a trick, considering the living room was carpeted in a fraying, elaborately patterned rug, with flourishes and arabesques that perfectly masked a urine stain or a pile of dog shit. Luckily, this time she had soiled the hallway, which led to the downstairs bathroom. The planks were honey wood and contrasted helpfully with the pile of poop upon them. By this time, Patrick had ventured into the living room.
“Oh my god, what a mess,” he said softly, taking in the piles of books and papers that covered every surface. “Are they hoarders?”
“I have no idea. I try not to look too hard at what all is here and just focus on getting in and out without too much trouble,” I said, as I leaned over with my mitt of paper towels, wrapped four-layers thick around my hand. I grabbed her little goat-pellets of poop and shoved them in a Safeway bag, spraying down the site with Trader Joe’s all-purpose cleanser. I’d started to associate the pungent sage scent of the spray with this hellish job and stopped using it at my own house for its negative connotation.
With the shit all cleaned up, I started the dance of hooking Bitsy up to her leash. Holding a biscuit in front of her with one hand, I poised the leash clip with the other. She caught the scent of the treat, and, just as she was about to lunge at my biscuit hand with her sharp little teeth, I dropped it in front of her and attached the leash clip to the loop on her collar.
When I was successful, she’d fiercely gobble her treat before she realized she’d been hooked up to the leash, and I could get my hands well away from her mouth. But it didn’t always go so smoothly, and she’d clamp her mean little jaws around the fingers offering the treat, or else see my other hand in her peripheral vision and snap her angular head around to chomp down on that hand instead.
I hated biters. I couldn’t help but radiate anxiety when working with them, and I knew she could sense the tension coming off me. When I initially met with her owner for our consult, she’d laughed about Bitsy’s biting and her boyfriend’s indignation at being on the receiving end of so many painful nips. “She just prefers me,” she had said airily. I realized later—too late—that Bitsy had been so well-behaved on that visit because the owner was there. But with Mommy gone, all manners and any semblance of good behavior flew right out the window. I was comforted, however, to know that I wasn’t the only one she was biting. That poor, poor boyfriend.
I prompted Bitsy toward the front door and, placated by the treat, she followed. I led the way out onto the porch, down the steps, and into the snarl of a garden. I waited as long as it took for her to do her business, either in the garden or on the street. It was a certainty that if she didn’t do it in my presence, she’d do it in the house before I returned for the next visit. In the evenings, the house was pitch-black inside, and I ran a greater risk of putting my foot in it. Today she waited until we were out on the street in the sodden leaves by the side of the road to squat, piss, trundle a few steps, shit, and then kick, kick, kick her stumpy legs in an effort to cover it up. Did she kick inside the house as well when she shat on the rug? I wondered. Were there pellets lurking feet from the scene of the crime that I had yet to discover, propelled by a well-placed kick from her sharp little paw?
Back in the house, I still needed to feed Bitsy, which was another dangerous endeavor. She was fiercely food reactive, and, as soon as her bowl was filled, I could not even be in the room or she would snarl menacingly, even going so far as lunging at me at with her teeth bared. I demonstrated this for Patrick’s benefit, and he let out a short bark of disbelief.
“Let’s just go,” I said. I had screwed up and fed her before refilling her water bowl, but getting near that bowl was never going to happen now unless I waited until she was done eating. Even if I used my foot to maneuver the water bowl far enough away from her to pick it up, she would bite at my shoes until I surrendered and backed away. Crazy beast. She had enough water remaining in her bowl that I could wait to refill it when I returned.
“Ready?” I asked. He nodded, a bemused look on his face.
I went back to turn off the light.
“Why don’t you just leave it on? Then you don’t have to stumble around in the dark tonight,” he said.
I chuckled to myself. “Client’s orders,” I said. “They like to save energy.”
“And you honor that? At the risk of walking into furniture or stepping in dog shit?”
I shrugged. It hadn’t occurred to me not to honor it. I said I would, so I did. My comfort and the convenience or practicality of the clients’ requests weren’t really factored; they asked, and I acted accordingly. “Well, yeah. I mean, what if they found out that I left it on?”
“Yeah, what if they did? Are they gonna fire you? From never coming here to clean up shit and get bitten by their dog?”
“Maybe!”
“And would that be so bad?” He looked back into the kitchen in Bitsy’s direction and, seeming to know she was being derided, she bared her teeth right back.
I hesitated with my hand on the switch.
“No, actually that would be the best-case scenario.”
So many things could go wrong with the animals or their owners’ houses that were entirely out of my control; I didn’t see the need to tempt fate by intentionally going against orders. Even if I reviled the mean little mongrel I was charged with watching, or I thought the clients themselves were rude or unreasonable, I had zero desire to be found in the wrong in any way at all. Or worse, to be responsible for some greater catastrophe that could have been avoided had I followed all instructions to the letter.
Many months prior, I’d taken on a cat-sitting client—not one with great long-term promise, as their regular pet sitter was unavailable and I was effectively a sub. They had seven cats, a mix of indoor only, indoor/outdoor, and exclusively outdoor. I took extensive notes on which cats were equipped with the special magnetic collar that triggered the raccoon-proof cat door, minding when they usually came inside and where their food bowls were so I could keep track of whether they’d returned and eaten throughout the week. At my introduction, I didn’t actually lay eyes on all seven cats, as some were off gallivanting in the great outdoors. But I had physical descriptions and names to go by, and the owners felt confident I’d have no problems keeping track.
But I never did see one of the cats, and its whereabouts gave me no end of anxiety. I emailed the clients about it, letting them know I was concerned, and that it didn’t appear that Missing Kitty had either returned or eaten at all. Where was this mystery cat? Had she ever existed? Was this a test to see if I was paying attention?
Upon their return, they hadn’t spotted her either. They were terse with me (and that’s a generous word) when I gave back their keys and picked up payment, and—while I didn’t expect them to—they never employed me again. I wondered what in the world could I have done differently to prevent a cat I’d never seen in my life from never showing up or coming home?
So against all logic and reason, I still turned off the light in Bitsy’s living room, and we exited the house silently, the only sound the bolt of the big door sliding into place as I locked it. But Patrick’s point wasn’t lost on me. This anxiety I had over screwing up permeated every moment I spent with the animals anymore and seemed to cancel out any joy I derived from their company. Somewhere along the way, my baseline confidence that everything would be all right, so long as I tried my hardest to provide the best care possible for these often-complicated creatures, had been lost.
I didn’t ever take care of Bitsy again after those aggravating two weeks, and not because I’d screwed up in any discernible way, or even because I refused the offer, but because she died a short four months later. She was, after all, extremely aged; it was bound to happen, and sooner rather than later.
I also didn’t take Patrick on another job, not because he didn’t ask, but because I’d glimpsed my work from his perspective for that short half hour and I didn’t feel the need
to expose either of us to that feeling again. At least not for a very long while.
It seemed increasingly apparent to me that I was unable to address my own fundamental needs simultaneous to those of the pets I spent my days, and so many nights, caring for. Following our visit with the biting dachshund, I feared Patrick had spotted my inability to manage the two—fulfillment for me, contentment for them—and that he saw this as a failure. Feeling deeply unsettled, and like my vulnerabilities had been laid bare, I finally asked him if I was right in my assessment.
“You’re making a mountain out of a messy house and a mean dachshund,” he said. “That dog was completely unloveable, and you’re great.” He kissed my forehead as though to reinforce his statement.
His innocuous comment regarding the lights in Bitsy’s house—such a simple suggestion to make my life easier—had been just that. But it had prompted me to question whether I could find a way to compromise that didn’t compromise the integrity of my work; to ask which was ultimately more important, my happiness or the dogs’.
More than ever, I longed for the changes that grad school might afford me: the chance to work toward my own betterment, to address some of my own needs over those of the pets I was tending to. In very concrete terms, going back to school included the enticement of a student health insurance plan, which meant getting back on antidepressants. The prospect of scholarships to help with cost of living, and the greatly reduced laundry and sunscreen requirements didn’t hurt, either. This would be good for mind, body, and wallet. Even as my desire to continue my studies intensified, I was starting to give up on the likelihood that any grad school was going to admit me. I had given my colleagues ample warning that this was a possibility, and one woman I contracted for was even interested in buying my client list. As the weeks wore on, though, my chances of admittance were dwindling.
Saint Mary’s had been in touch, and—thanks in part, I’m sure, to my snoozing through the class visit—I’d been demoted from the wait list to the non-acceptance list. I can’t say I was surprised; I’d suspected that my inexcusable in-class napping would be the killing blow to any future between me and Saint Mary’s, and I wouldn’t be forgiving myself for it any time soon.
I was bracing myself for a big decision ahead: either restructure my business model to compete for group-walk clients, or find a new job that didn’t involve me getting pooped on or bitten or sleeping with dogs instead of this handsome man I was trying not to scare off.
To further complicate this imminent reckoning, I received a panicked email that Tickles had disappeared. Her gate was open, and she was missing. The immediate theory put forth by Diane was that some hooligan had opened the gate in one of those random malicious acts without motivation. (A one-armed man did it!) But did this hooligan steal her, too, or just release her? I wondered. She was, after all, a purebred dog. Dognapping didn’t seem to be part of the leading conspiracy theory, though. Diane was convinced that between canvassing the neighborhood and searching area shelters, we’d find her. “We,” meaning, of course, her and me, together.
I sent out an urgent message to the email list of fellow dog walkers, attaching a photo of the dog and a description of the situation. A few extremely kind (or bored) members wrote back and said they’d help post fliers. So on a Wednesday afternoon, during the hour that I would normally be walking with Tickles, I was tracing our various routes posting flyers bearing her image, head cocked to the side, eyes seeming to say, “Find me! Bring me home!” in a most heart-wrenching manner. I was sure we’d find her. It was only a matter of time and a question of determination, and I had both. If I lost her as a regular walk, my business and bank balance were both all but doomed.
The weekend came, with no word. No calls, no sightings, no nothing. I was not only baffled but was also starting to face the reality that that $100 a week, $400 bucks monthly, had disappeared right along with Tickles’s furry little heft. I was in a bit of a panic.
Diane informed me that she had told Mia that Tickles was at the vet. She didn’t tell her she was missing. Apparently she felt this worry was too much for an eight-year-old to handle, or perhaps she was avoiding an unnecessary upset if the dog could be found and the incident forgotten. I worried for this little girl, with her physically incapacitated mother, her mentally incapacitated father, and now her friendly little companion missing. She didn’t even know yet! I was tempted to go over to the house, pull the little girl aside, and give her a quick but gentle life lesson on love and loss.
Then Tickles was found. She had been scooped up by a responsible citizen and taken to the Berkeley Humane Society. Diane called me in tears, overjoyed that the dog had been found and was unharmed. I, too, was overjoyed and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The terrier was safe, and so was that income.
That was on a Saturday. On Sunday, Diane called again, once more in tears. When she brought Tickles home, “back from the vet,” to Mia’s understandable delight, Frank declared that the dog could not stay.
He then confessed, out of range of his daughter’s hearing, I hope, that he was the one who had let Tickles out. Instead of having explained calmly and rationally that the dog was too much of a burden and they would have to find another home for her, he’d crept out in the middle of the night and unlatched her gate, hoping that the rest would take care of itself.
His poor wife. She tried to collect herself on the other end of the line, but she couldn’t seem to stop repeating the facts, mostly for her own benefit. She couldn’t figure out how she was going to explain this to her daughter. Or forgive her husband for his callousness and cowardice, his deceit, and his shocking cruelty to both family and animal. I was with her on all counts.
For my part, I was beyond fury. I felt exhausted to my very core and could hardly fathom that this was the explanation for the past week’s suspense and community effort to locate Tickles and bring her home. How, I wondered, could anyone ever safeguard against this kind of insane scenario? Baffled as I was by this unexpected turn of events, I redoubled my efforts, now to find Tickles a new home, instead of just to find her at all. With some bribery in the form of free walks and some convincing that she was the best and cutest and most loveable and perfectly sized dog, I was able to work out a temporary fix with a friend and nearby neighbor who had been wanting a dog.
So now, not only was I out many hundreds of dollars, I was also out a walk slot that would still go to Tickles, with no monetary benefit to me.
This didn’t last for long. I kept up my end of the bargain, walking her every day, but Tickles was not a fit for this home. My friend and her fiancé didn’t take too well to Tickles’s barking; her assertive terrier nature, and her manic aggression toward all other fauna; or her general need for feeding, cleaning, love, and attention. They hadn’t actually wanted a dog, but maybe a stuffed animal or wind-up toy.
This time, my friend led the charge in finding Tickles a more-permanent home; she was that motivated to offload this pitiably displaced dog. A few interested parties came and met Tickles, and my friend ultimately sent her home with a woman who lived on a farm in Orinda. On the day she came to pick up Tickles, she brought her daughter along, as well as a bouquet of flowers as thanks for this precious, purebred, and entirely free pet she was taking home. She was also in tears, so happy was she to have found a dog just like their little Maisey, may she rest in peace. I hoped with all my heart that Tickles would be happy on the farm, and that she would fill the terrier-shaped void in these people’s lives.
I still wonder what in the world Mia’s parents ever told her, and how many years down the road she would learn the bizarre truth about her father’s betrayal. That family had seemed on shaky ground enough with the dog, but I had a hard time imagining how they’d be able to move beyond the unfortunate series of events leading to the permanent loss of their pet.
Ian’s and my lease on our shared apartment was ending, and he’d declared that he was moving to San Francisco. Not knowing where I might move and with whom, if
anyone, and what job, if any, might pay for this next rental, I started packing up our apartment.
Though I liked to daydream about my future with Patrick, I knew that it did not realistically include moving in together within the next month or so. He already lived with three other guys and had recently declared that it felt too soon for me to meet his parents. They had been in town and had taken him out to a dinner at which his sister and brother-in-law were present, while I was not. I appreciated his forthrightness, and even kind of believed him when he explained that it was less that he wasn’t ready for them to meet me and more that he wasn’t prepared for me to meet them. He wanted to keep me to himself for just a bit longer. Either way, whether this was the truth or not, moving into a love nest with him was off the table for the present.
I was in the bathroom preparing for a day like any other when I missed a call. I’d heard the ring from my perch upon the toilet and figured it was either a client canceling or positing a special request, or else my parents checking in on how things were going. In either case, I could call them back.
When I checked my phone, however, the missed call came from a new number, one not saved in my contacts. I opened my voice mail.
Perhaps it was the unfamiliar voice or sheer disbelief that was impeding my brain’s ability to translate the words I was hearing into any semblance of meaning, but I had to listen to the message a full three times before flipping my phone shut and letting out a strangled squeal.
According to the professor who had phoned, I’d been enthusiastically admitted to the graduate creative writing program at Mills College, right down the highway in Oakland, and she was extremely excited to speak to me about it. But not, I’m certain, as excited as I was.
Sleeps with Dogs Page 20