Sunday, September 25, 2016

Adventures in dog-sitting

I'd almost forgotten how fun puppies can be with their short-bodied enthusiasm and full-on floppy joy.

Around and around she went. Ears after tail, tail after ears, sending the carpet flying. "She will sleep well tonight," I text her owner, attaching a picture of the mayhem unfolding.

It wasn't very good: just a brown-color blur of fur and tangled leashes but she’d get the idea.

It seems I have added "Doggy Daycare" to my resume. Pictures would make it pop.
It's not really work, but I like to count all the many "jobs" I currently perform be they paid or unpaid. So when you get the notice from LinkedIn of my work status change, don’t forget to congratulate me.

This one I shall list after "Kitchen Detailer" but before "Artwork Registrar” and “Homework Moderator,” since it happens midday. But I like to think of it as sharing my lunchtime walk with a furry friend or two. At least it’s a way to get out of the office and stretch my legs.

Of course, I do have a full staff for this fledgling enterprise.

Our five-year-old pooch does most of the heavy lifting. She has already taught the puppy the art of wrestling, the joys of couch surfing, and the shifty nature of squirrels. But she's only good for short spurts. An old lady by comparison, she takes many a coffee-break, staking out a spot mid-floor and resigning herself to lifting her head and wagging her tail whenever the puppy orbits her space.

The kids, once they're home from school, handle the arduous tasks of cuddling and doling out treats. They also serve as an alert system to any excitement piddles that require immediate sanitation, which, apparently, is my purview.

My husband thinks he's tech support. You know, because he knows everything. Even thinks he’s the boss.

"I know that look in your eye," laughed my husband, as the visiting canine tumbled around the house, her crumb-seeking senses fully enabled and I followed her with my eyes.

"What? I'm just smiling?"

"We are NOT getting a puppy!"

It's cute how he tries to lay down the law, thinking he can read criminal intentions in the upturned corners of my mouth.

But he doesn’t know what that look on my face actually means.

He needn't worry. The expression does not predict that I'm plotting something nefarious. I will not start clearing out humane shelters or become a taxi for deep-south rescue efforts.

Mine is just a smile that would stretch across anyone's face whenever a puppy skids into view and than past it, unable to stop forward momentum without the final sound of "thud."

I know puppies grow up. They become dogs with ravenous appetites and vet bills to match. They will come into our lives in 15-year intervals -- if we're lucky. Our time together will always be too brief.

Playing with a puppy for a half-hour seems the perfect way to get through the day. My husband is just jealous his job doesn't include belly rubs and scratching behind someone's ears.

No sense rubbing his nose in it.

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