Dog-sitting, a misnomer

I’m dog-sitting this week, which I misunderstood at first to mean I’d be sitting on a couple of dogs for five days. Fortunately for me, I realized pretty quickly that maybe I could just tie them to a chair and call it a day.

Anyway, this stint has confirmed what I always suspected: I should never get a dog. And definitely not two dogs. As cute as they are (oh, cute button eyes! oh, little schnauzer beard!), dogs require walking, feeding, and endless care. Dogs need to stretch those legs every day, several times a day, even when it’s raining or snowing or both.

And as cold as mornings are, the before-bed walk is brutal, the wind whistling through your coat as they poke along sniffing every other leaf for clues to an unsolvable cold case. You wait and gaze around the desolate town common, the moonlight illuminating old mariner mansions and glinting off the snowy paths; it might even be beautiful.

But then those furballs try to trip you up, weaving around your legs looking for crumbs, and sitting sentinel as you eat, staring at you in a way that makes you feel like a hardened criminal for not sharing your food, all quizzical and astonished at your selfishness.

They stick their wet noses in your book, pawing and nuzzling (shake my hand!) with those furry little faces (softening! softening!) until you notice an odd smell coming from somewhere and you have to hunt around until the culprit leads you to it, and you think: no dogs, ever. Not even a hamster.


I left you a surprise by the plant




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