Several of my friends have noticed I’ve really been struggling to make ends meet ever since prices on absolutely everything have inflated to epic proportions. So they have been trying to help me find a side job, or as it’s called nowadays, a side hustle, which kind of makes it sound as if they want me to sell questionable merchandise out of the trunk of my car.
Actually, I’m so desperate, I might even consider doing that …that is, if I could afford to buy gas for my car.
Many of the jobs my friends have suggested (handcrafts, ghostwriting, creating and posting humorous videos on social media, etc.), I’ve already tried in the past with very limited or short-term success. And the side jobs that did succeed for years, such as writing books and selling collectibles on Ebay, have ceased to be profitable in recent months, perhaps because everyone else also is too broke to buy them.
Anyway, the other day one of my friends called and said she’d come up with the ideal job for me because I love animals so much…a pet sitter.
“It’s perfect for you!” she said. “All you have to do is go over to the pets’ houses a couple times a day and walk them, feed them and give them a few cuddles. It’s easy money, and I really think you’d have fun with it.”
I’m sure my response wasn’t what she’d anticipated. I burst out laughing.
My thoughts immediately went back to the time many years ago when my new neighbors, Gregg and Gordon, who were planning a trip to Scotland for 10 days, offered to pay me to run across to their house a few times a day while they were away and check on, feed and care for their dogs – two African-Basenjis and one Basenji mix. I wouldn’t even have to take them out for walks, Gregg said, because they had a huge fenced-in yard to run around in. So I could play ball or fetch with them and give them plenty of exercise that way.
I didn’t hesitate to say yes. Their three dogs – Abu, Tegga and Apit – always had seemed so calm and affectionate whenever I saw them, I figured my dog-sitting job was going to be a snap. I wasn’t even concerned about them barking and making noise because Basenjis have these weird voice-boxes that don’t allow them to bark like other dogs. They are able to make only soft yodeling sounds.
After dinner the first night of Gregg and Gordon’s vacation, I ran over to their house to check on the dogs. I unlocked the door, flipped on the light…and stopped dead. The place looked as if a cotton factory had exploded in it.
My first thought was a burglar had broken in and ransacked the place.
It took me a few minutes before I realized the dogs had torn apart the couch.
I gasped and clutched my chest. My first day on the job and already there was mass destruction?
“Oh, God! I'm going to end up in court being sued for this!"
Meanwhile, the dogs sat there looking so angelic, I could have sworn I saw halos shining over their heads.
After I cleaned up (a.k.a. hid) the mess, I ran home and told my husband what had happened. He said it sounded as if the dogs already were suffering from separation anxiety, and he’d once read that leaving a radio tuned into a station that played soft music often helped pets feel more relaxed and less lonely.
At that point I figured had nothing to lose, so I dug out my radio and brought it over there.
When I returned the next morning to check on the dogs, the carpet was littered with chewed ink-pens, a shredded scatter rug, two mutilated bed pillows and a knitted scarf with a hole in it big enough to put my fist through. I thought I must have inadvertently left the radio tuned to a party-rock station and the dogs had gone wild, turning the place into "Animal House."
For a brief moment, I once again thought the house might
have been burglarized…until I spotted incriminating black ink on Tegga's face,
and yarn sticking out from between his teeth. He, the mixed breed, was the
ringleader, I concluded. And his expression told me he was pretty pleased with
himself about the whole thing.
TEGGA ADMIRING HIS MESS!
I did notice that the dogs knew no basic commands whatsoever, and just stood and stared blankly at me whenever I said, “Sit!” or “Stay!” So I was very grateful they at least were housebroken.
When I got home, I immediately started flinging clothes into a suitcase.
"Going somewhere?" my husband casually asked.
"Timbuktu!" I said. "I don't want to be anywhere around here when Gregg and Gordon get home and see their house…if they still even have a house left by then!”
“If you’re that worried, then maybe you should sleep over there every night to keep an eye on the dogs,” he said.
“I can’t just go sleep in Gregg or Gordon’s beds!” I said. “Bedrooms are people’s private, personal spaces.”
He shrugged. “Then sleep on the couch.”
“There is no couch. The dogs ate it.”
So instead, I just increased the number of times per day I checked on the little darlings – like about 150. I was so exhausted by the end of each day, I think I actually could have slept on the couch with the bare springs popping up and stabbing me in the ribs.
Yet even with my increased visits, there still were endless daily chewed-up souvenirs, like the entire hem of one of the drapes and a pile of yarn that once had been part of an afghan, awaiting me every morning.
Alas, the entire time Gregg and Gordon were away, I rehearsed how I was going to break the bad news to them upon their return.
Something like…“Um, while you were gone, the dogs decided to do a bit of their own interior decorating in your house (insert nervous laugh).”
A part of me still was considering hopping on a plane instead of facing the consequences, but I ultimately decided to be brave and stick around to make a full confession about what a total failure I was as a dog sitter. Also, as a peace offering, I would insist upon paying for everything that had been destroyed while the dogs were in my care, even though I had nothing in my bank account with which to pay anyone. After all, that was the reason why I’d accepted the dog-sitting job in the first place.
By the time I saw Gregg’s car pull into their driveway on the day of their return, I felt as if I were on the verge of fainting – dizzy, sweaty, rapid heartbeat, dry mouth.
Either that, or I was coming down with a bad case of the flu.
“Hurry up and get over there before they unlock the door!” my husband said, frantically waving at me as he wedged his nose between two of the slats in the blinds so he could peer out.
I took a deep breath, said a silent prayer and then ran across the road and did the only thing I could do under the circumstances.
I welcomed Gregg and Gordon home and then threw myself at their mercy and begged for forgiveness.
Both of them chuckled and shook their heads.
"Don't worry about it!" Gregg said, patting me on the shoulder. "The dogs always do that whenever we go away. That's why we make sure we buy cheap furniture at thrift shops and yard sales, so we don’t have to worry about them destroying it. We just let the dogs do their thing.”
I really wished they’d have thought to tell me that bit of information before they’d left on their trip, so I could have avoided adding about 100 new gray hairs to my head.
“But what about that pretty blue and white afghan?” I dared to ask, thinking it might have been a family heirloom from Grandma before the dogs turned it into a pile of yarn.
“Two dollars at Goodwill,” Gordon said.
They then invited me inside. I held my breath, wondering what we were going to find torn to shreds when we entered. Sure enough, their three-legged footstool had only one leg still attached to it. The other two, severely chewed, were lying next to a pile of wood scraps the size of toothpicks in the middle of the room. Gregg and Gordon were too excited to be reunited with their dogs to care.
Two days later, Gordon mentioned they were thinking about taking another vacation in a couple of months and were wondering if I'd be available to dog-sit again.
I told him I’d think about it.
Luckily, they changed their minds about that trip, so I never did have to give them a solid answer.
But I’m pretty sure it still would have been no.
My conscience just wouldn’t have allowed me to witness any more perfectly good furniture, cheap or otherwise, being dismembered.
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