Happy Memorial Day weekend! Or, as I like to call it, Happy Can’t Get A Decent Price On A Plane Ticket So Instead Of A Naked Weekend With Your Husband You’ll Be Stuck At Home Taking Care Of Someone Else’s Dog weekend!
Oh, like YOU don’t call it that, too.
I really LIKE dogs, you know. And I especially like other people’s dogs because I can GIVE THEM BACK after a while. You may recall that I had a very exciting dogsitting adventure a couple of years ago, from which I have only recently recovered. But I’ve kept this particular (smallish) dog for my friends before, and so when they asked me if I could PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE take her at the last minute, I said “Are you kidding me? I’m trying to sell my house! There are people here all the time!” Um, well, I said that at FIRST, but then I realized holiday weekend = no showings, and they were desperate, so I took the dog.
I went and picked her up on Saturday while my house was being shown. I never really know what I’ll be returning to, these days, after there’s been a house showing, you know. In this case, I arrived home to discover that either a small child had used the downstairs bathroom or the people who looked at the house just felt the need to yank on the toilet paper roll and then shred the bottom square for no particular reason. Also the hand soap had traveled halfway across the counter and the towels were all askew.
[Digression: Who walks into someone else’s house and uses their bathroom and leaves it in a state of disarray? WHO?? I mean, okay, if you bring your children along and Junior’s GOTTA GO RIGHT NOW, fine, use my bathroom. I don’t care. But at least PRETEND you give a damn and set the place back to rights. Sheesh. I’m just saying that MAYBE the person whose bathroom you’re messing up has had over 20 showings and is nearing the breaking point, and the carnage done to the toilet paper may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. If you can live with that, then by all means keep on keepin’ on.]
Anyway, the dog was VERY INTERESTED in the trailing toilet paper, but other than that was a model guest for the day. It was nice to have her here to keep me company. She’s very cuddly and playful and I made sure to let the kids know they’d been replace when I talked to them on the phone that night. (“Do you miss me?” “Nope, I’ve got the dog here, you know. She’s sleeping in your bed.”)
Today was a different story, though. I was out most of the day. First I was off at church and then out to lunch and getting groceries, then I was only home for a little while before I headed out to a friend’s barbecue. By the time I got home late tonight, the dog was feeling neglected.
I took her out and gave her a treat and played with her. I even brought her up to my room with an armful of toys so that she could hang out with me while Otto and I had our nightly phone call. I closed the door so she couldn’t go wandering, and we were having great fun in here. In fact, I was considering letting her sleep up here with me instead of putting her downstairs in her crate. The poor thing had been alone most of the day, so I thought maybe bending the rules was in order. I threw her ball for her and we played tug and finally I lay down on the bed and left her to amuse herself on the floor.
Otto and I had been chatting for about 20 minutes or so when I realized that although I could hear the dog at the foot of the bed, chewing away, ALL OF HER TOYS were piled up beside the head of the bed, by me.
“Hang on,” I said to Otto, “I think maybe the dog is chewing something she shouldn’t.”
Here is what touches the floor in my bedroom: My bed, an elliptical trainer that doubles as a clothes tree, a Roomba, my nightstand, a dresser, and a wooden bed tray that my laptop sits on when it’s not in use. It’s not as though there’s a lot of stuff laying around, is my point. The house is constantly being shown. It is pretty tidy here at Casa NeverSell.
So imagine my surprise and horror when I discovered that the dog was very busy destroying one of Monkey’s slippers. (They were, it turned out, tucked underneath the bed tray.)
Thus ended any ideas about a puppy slumber party. Down to the crate she went, ears flat to her head with remorse. She didn’t MEAN to chew that slipper. She didn’t WANT to chew that slipper. It’s just that, well, it smelled so yummy, all Monkey-like and irresistible. And although I’d brought so many of her very favorite toys in to play with, none of them tasted quite so much like DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE AGAIN as that slipper.
Yeah. This is WAY better than spending the weekend with my husband. Although, when I get annoyed with him, I can’t put him in a crate.