As you are reading this, my wife and I are out of town for a few days.
Well, I am out of town. My wife is not completely with me, as she spends half the day making one of the 12 calls a day back to Auburn to speak with the dog sitter we hired, making sure that the dog is sleeping, eating, pooing, standing, running, barking, sitting OK, and can you please put him on the phone so I can wooo-wooo-is-momma's-little-cutie-behaving-himself-for-the-nice-lady-are you-coochie-coo?
Just three days earlier, my wife had swallowed her fears and two Valium and allowed herself to hire a complete stranger, also known as insured and bonded dog sitter, to watch her prized baby boy while we were away for five days. We have no children, but you wouldn't know it at our house.
My wife ran background checks, reference checks, credit checks on the prospective sitter, and then had her fingerprinted, polygraphed and x-rayed.
And if that wasn't enough, my wife arranged for a “meet and greet” - an event normally reserved for political fundraisers and job fairs - designed for our dog to get to meet the sitter, ask questions, check her references, speak to other dogs she has sat. Fortunately, the sitter and our dog got along famously from the start, but that's because the sitter gave our dog a treat from her purse every 15 minutes, and our dog will give a burglar our ATM pin number in exchange for a treat.
And then my wife gave the sitter a tour of the dog's portion of our house, a tour which took 200 percent longer than a tour of the Seward House and was only 5 percent as interesting, but left me realizing that I am really living in my dog's house, and only the mortgage company has proof that it still belongs to me.
“And in this drawer is his brush and grooming things, and in this drawer are his nail clippers and scissors, in case you need to cut away some of his fur from back there, you know, in case he has a bad poo poo. And in this drawer is his leash and some Wet Naps, in case you need to wipe him after a bad poo poo. Oh, and over here is his toy drawer ...”
There are more drawers dedicated to my dog's life than to mine.
“If he finishes his whole bowl of food, I give him either the bacon, pork or cheese treats which are over here. And if he poo poos, I give him one of the treats in this jar, and when he behaves during one of his trips in the car, I'll give him a treat from these specialty bags I bought at the pet store ...”
If I knew I was getting a treat, I'd mow the lawn a lot more often. But I don't even get an ...
“Attaboy, good boy, yes, that's a good boy,” said my wife, reaching for a treat to reward our dog, who probably achieved another treatable form of greatness, like peeing somewhere other than the living room.
“Does he have the run of the house?” the sitter asked.
Run of the house? Hah. He has the run of our lives.
“Yes, he does,” answered my wife. “He's allowed to be on the furniture, go upstairs, in the bathroom, in the closets ... nothing's real off-limits.”
He has more access in my house than I do.
“Be sure to leave a light on for him at night,” she added, “because I wouldn't want him sleeping alone in the dark at night,” though she never worries about me tripping over her shoes in the pitch-black darkness on my way to the bathroom at 3 a.m.
After 30 minutes, my wife's dissertation on our dog was mercifully over. My parents didn't give our babysitter as many instructions. You'd think we were leaving Prince William in the care of a new nanny.
My wife gave the sitter 11 phone numbers in case of emergency, from our veterinarian to our neighbors to our family to our preacher to the Seneca-Cayugas, who promised they would pay all medical expenses for our dog in exchange for our support of their casino.
But I knew our dog would be fine. He knows how to work the remote, my wife unwittingly keeps the Pringles on a shelf that he can reach, and he can lick himself when necessary. What more is there?
But I cannot tell that to my wife, who is back on the phone again with the dog sitter, discussing the nature of this morning's bowel movement, presumably our dog's.
After this trip, now when I am asked if we have children, I will say: “Yes, one.”
My wife may tell you she has two.
Editor Mikel LeFort can be reached at 253-5311 ext. 230 or e-mail mikel.lefort@lee.net
Just three days earlier, my wife had swallowed her fears and two Valium and allowed herself to hire a complete stranger, also known as insured and bonded dog sitter, to watch her prized baby boy while we were away for five days. We have no children, but you wouldn't know it at our house.
My wife ran background checks, reference checks, credit checks on the prospective sitter, and then had her fingerprinted, polygraphed and x-rayed.
And if that wasn't enough, my wife arranged for a “meet and greet” - an event normally reserved for political fundraisers and job fairs - designed for our dog to get to meet the sitter, ask questions, check her references, speak to other dogs she has sat. Fortunately, the sitter and our dog got along famously from the start, but that's because the sitter gave our dog a treat from her purse every 15 minutes, and our dog will give a burglar our ATM pin number in exchange for a treat.
And then my wife gave the sitter a tour of the dog's portion of our house, a tour which took 200 percent longer than a tour of the Seward House and was only 5 percent as interesting, but left me realizing that I am really living in my dog's house, and only the mortgage company has proof that it still belongs to me.
“And in this drawer is his brush and grooming things, and in this drawer are his nail clippers and scissors, in case you need to cut away some of his fur from back there, you know, in case he has a bad poo poo. And in this drawer is his leash and some Wet Naps, in case you need to wipe him after a bad poo poo. Oh, and over here is his toy drawer ...”
There are more drawers dedicated to my dog's life than to mine.
“If he finishes his whole bowl of food, I give him either the bacon, pork or cheese treats which are over here. And if he poo poos, I give him one of the treats in this jar, and when he behaves during one of his trips in the car, I'll give him a treat from these specialty bags I bought at the pet store ...”
If I knew I was getting a treat, I'd mow the lawn a lot more often. But I don't even get an ...
“Attaboy, good boy, yes, that's a good boy,” said my wife, reaching for a treat to reward our dog, who probably achieved another treatable form of greatness, like peeing somewhere other than the living room.
“Does he have the run of the house?” the sitter asked.
Run of the house? Hah. He has the run of our lives.
“Yes, he does,” answered my wife. “He's allowed to be on the furniture, go upstairs, in the bathroom, in the closets ... nothing's real off-limits.”
He has more access in my house than I do.
“Be sure to leave a light on for him at night,” she added, “because I wouldn't want him sleeping alone in the dark at night,” though she never worries about me tripping over her shoes in the pitch-black darkness on my way to the bathroom at 3 a.m.
After 30 minutes, my wife's dissertation on our dog was mercifully over. My parents didn't give our babysitter as many instructions. You'd think we were leaving Prince William in the care of a new nanny.
My wife gave the sitter 11 phone numbers in case of emergency, from our veterinarian to our neighbors to our family to our preacher to the Seneca-Cayugas, who promised they would pay all medical expenses for our dog in exchange for our support of their casino.
But I knew our dog would be fine. He knows how to work the remote, my wife unwittingly keeps the Pringles on a shelf that he can reach, and he can lick himself when necessary. What more is there?
But I cannot tell that to my wife, who is back on the phone again with the dog sitter, discussing the nature of this morning's bowel movement, presumably our dog's.
After this trip, now when I am asked if we have children, I will say: “Yes, one.”
My wife may tell you she has two.
Editor Mikel LeFort can be reached at 253-5311 ext. 230 or e-mail mikel.lefort@lee.net
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