the dog story i don't tell people

Doesn't every dog owner have a story they only tell to their closest friends? I have a friend whose dog ate a pair of pantyhose, and then she had to pull the whole darn long mess out of his arse. I have a client whose dog goes bonkers over crayons; so much so that they put them in drawers, but he still gets to them, so now they have to lock them up. I call him "circus poo." You know what I mean, right?

I have such a story. I've touched on it before.

Now that we've known each other for a while (haven't we?), I consider you a closest friend, and I will tell this tale.

When our dog, N.A.S.H.A., was a wee little puppy, she was not a terrier mix, she was a terror mix. She was literally an ankle-biter who drew blood, and she was a yapper. I'm proud to report that she has grown into the universe's most awesome being, but...in the beginning...

We were living in a fully-furnished rented apartment while we waited for our home to be built. She didn't chew the furniture, thankfully. She was easy to potty-train. Never messed on the floor even once. Yet there was this unmistakable smell of poo in our apartment. 

I accused my husband of letting too many fly. I accused my step son of being generally stinky and perhaps not properly wiping "down there." I accused the apartment complex of an improperly-routed ventilation system (like from the sewer to my apartment). This went on for weeks. Months. Our apartment STUNK. We pondered and searched and contemplated and discussed every single day. We considered moving, but it would just be "a little bit longer" on our house. It didn't make sense to move. We searched in every nook and cranny for the phantom poo. 

We were doing some house cleaning one day. I was scrubbing the kitchen and Big was vacuuming. I hear from the master bedroom. "What the BLEEP? Where did that come from? Oh my BLEEP. Bleeping Bleepity BLEEEEEEEEEEP the bleep and BLEEP. No WAY! BLEEEEEEP! Kristen, get in here! BLEEEEEEP! This is so bleeped up. I can't bleeping believe this. That DOG! THAT DOOOOOOOG! This is INSANE! I FIGURED IT OUT! I BLEEPING FIGURED IT OUT!"

I dried my hands and followed the bleeping and inquired further.

"I was vacuuming and bonked the vacuum on the edge of the bed frame, then suddenly a pile of dried up poo appeared on the floor. Kristen. There is a tiny hole in the bottom of the box spring. The BLEEPING DOG chewed a hole in the fabric and has been climbing up inside the box spring to take a BLEEP. Do you know how many BLEEPING piles of BLEEP are INSIDE OUR BOX SPRING?!?" he asked.

N.A.S.H.A. was climbing inside the box spring through a tiny hole toward the foot of the bed. That's where she was depositing the majority of her deposits. She only weighed about a pound and-a-half, so her weight was adequately supported by that thin fabric. 

I can't bleeping tell you what my response was. Because it's okay for me to bleeping tell you how much my bleeping husband swears, but I don't want you to think I'm bleeping like that. 

The dog was not physically or emotionally harmed. Let's just say that. 

So what happened in the end? 

We cut the entire bottom fabric out of the box spring. She became potty trained, for real. 

And we all lived happily ever after. 

And you have to pinky swear you won't tell a single soul. That is some embarrassing bleep. 

living with canine addison's disease: kermit's story, part two (our lives before the disease)

Kermit was an oddball, and, even now, we sit around the campfire with friends, reflecting on his antics. (WARNING: due to the graphic nature of these stories, they may not be suitable for all audiences.)

with us one week

It was the first Saturday night after we adopted Kermit. B had gone to bed, and Brennen was at work late. I was sleeping. A strange noise woke me, and I felt something on my back. It was too late when I realized what was happening. The sound was that of Kermit hacking, standing on my back. On a positive note, he felt bonded to me already. Unfortunately, he vomited all over my back and hair. Totally nasty, right? Now imagine trying to get out of bed, into the bathroom, out of clothes, and into the shower without dripping dog vomit all over the house. Impossible? Why, yes, yes it is. 

meeting the in-laws

Kermit didn't make the best impression on my husband's parents. They are more the "traditional" dog types, and Kermit was as odd in personality as he was in looks. Sweet and sour, basically. We'd planned a nice baby back rib dinner for them the night they arrived from the airport, and, somehow (actual how is a blur), he got a hold of a small bone. 

Kermit tolerating N.A.S.H.A. as a puppy.

We were initially concerned that he would choke as he made splinters of it, so Brennen tried to take it. Kermit went tasmanian devil on him and tried to make mincemeat of his hand, then ran off under, then behind, the couch. "Like hell!" Shouted my darling, practically turning the table over as he bounded after Kermit. In one motion, he pulled the couch from the wall and grabbed Kermit by the scruff of the neck, yanking him skyward. As he did, a fountain of urine streaked up and across the wall and all the way to the patio door. Kermit got his bone, but stayed outside for quite some time. We finished dinner before scrubbing the wall and putting the house back together. My father-in-law, who is not fond of "situations"–especially during dinner–commented when his son returned to the table "I wouldn't tolerate that during dinner." I just about spit my wine out laughing. I may have been the only one.

cheating on Lizzie

If you read part one, you know that Lizzie was a big black sweet-as-can-be pit bull, and Kermit's first "love." His next steady girlfriend was a big yellow stuffed duck given to my step son, who was five at the time. Thankfully B was never very fond of stuffed animals, and after laughing at Kermit's frequent courting rituals toward the thing, generously said "Kermit, you can just have it." That was best.

learning to use the remote

Brennen and I were chatting in the kitchen over a glass of wine, making dinner together, while B and Kermit sat on the couch watching a show. They were peaceful, and so were we. Until we heard a snarling tizzy, then crying. We ran out to the living room and asked what happened. It took B (unhurt, but shaken) a few minutes to calm down enough to be understood. Through the sniffles, he finally choked out "I...was...just...trying...to teach...him how...to use...the remote! Waaaaaaaahhhhh!" We didn't see it either, but I think we all know what happened.

i can't see out the window

Kermit absolutely loved to ride in the car. During most of his life, I drove a Jeep Wrangler. He would basically surf on the center console, panting the whole time, giving me an occasional kiss on the cheek. When he got tired, he'd wander the car. He could even stand on the passenger seat and put his front paws on the giant grab handle above the glove compartment. He'd ride along like that forever and deposit about a million nose smudges on the vertical windshield of the Jeep. Any time I took an actual human passenger, they'd ask "What is all over your windshield? I can't even see out of it!" Thanks, Kerm.

the office dog flop

When we adopted Kermit, I worked at a graphic design firm. It was a family-like environment, and the ultra-cool owners were a dog-loving couple who were happy to allow me to bring Kermit to the office. He would mostly sleep under my desk, but whenever a coworker would open the office door, he would trot over and flop down in front of them, then roll over on his back requesting a belly rub. We coined it "doing the Kermie flop."

um...what the fu¢& is your dog doing? 

My brother-in-law, Greg, was visiting. We'd left Kermit to socialize with him in the living room while we prepared dinner. Greg said "Dude, get in here! What the fu¢& is your dog doing?"

There's Kermit in our papasan chair, leaning back in a semi-standing position, reaching down with his two front paws to his nether-region, pleasuring himself. Only that dog. I swear. We just shook our heads. Greg said "Good for you, Kermit."   

If any of you who knew Kermit have a story to add, feel free to chime in!

Further reading:

living with canine addison's disease: kermit's story, part one (the adoption)

living with canine addison's disease: kermit's story, part three (the diagnosis)

living with canine addison's disease: kermit's story, part four (the disease and the end)

what's grosser than gross?

You want to know the dirt, right? People ask me about what crazy clients I've had or if I've ever been bitten, or whose house is the filthiest. It's true that I've "seen it all." When enough time passes and I don't name names, these things become stories of lore. So let me tell you about the grossest job I ever did.

Pet sitters often network and get to know one another and sometimes rely upon each other in times of need. Many several of few years ago in a land far, far away and gone, one of my colleagues/competitors explained that she was "beyond fully booked" for the weekend, and could I care for a couple of dogs for her. It was a long-standing client of hers, and it would be easy, she assured me.

This is different than a referral. She wasn't offering the client to me, just asking me to be an "employee for a day," kind-of taking away the beauty of self-employment. I was happy to do it. Put in a good deed for someone, and it might one day come back to you, right?

Long story short: Two sweet, delightful Scottish Terriers, each in their own crate when no one is around, released upon my arrival, and tucked back in to cozy upon my departure. I was informed that they could sometimes have nervous tummies when their owners were away. Well, who doesn't? The standard wait-time for eating in nervous-bellied pooches is three days. They drink, they eat treats, and they survive until the third day, when they decide they want to live to see their family return and give in to the kibble. Textbook.

The first time I entered the home, I was startled by the unmistakable odor of uncontrolled, explosive, liquid poo. The sight was far beyond what I'd imagined in my nightmares. Each dog was frantic, friendly and excited to meet me, yet, alarmed, splashing around in a pond of their own excrement, with a pattern of crusty fireworks on the white wall just behind them. Clearly, I hadn't been given the full story about these cases of "nervous tummies," and, certainly, these dogs had been carefully selected for me as the créme de la créme of jobs to pass along to gullible competitors.

I spent the next two hours bathing the dogs, laundering their bedding, and hosing off their crates. I, of course, let my "boss" know, and requested that she inform her client that her animals were quite ill. I doubt that she did, as my concerns were promptly ignored, and I was told that all of this was quite normal. I, too, had to be disinfected...legs scrubbed free of graffiti left by happy paws. Best not to go into detail.

For the next four days, the dogs' situation was much the same. I felt awful for them, but also became resentful and curious as to why such a problem was passed on to me, and, even more so, why my "boss" had no desire to check on them herself. Maybe that's a story for another time.

Don't worry. The dogs lived and fared well. My lesson was learned. I experienced what is grosser than gross, and, that, I must censor for your own good. To put on a positive spin, the dogs and I certainly bonded. I think I perhaps provided the best care they had ever received.

So you ask about gross? All I could do was use it as a learning experience. Don't pet sit for competitors' clients. Always have direct contact with pet parents. Know that "nervous tummy" is a cute euphemism. Love the animals, no matter what (they actually enjoy nine bubble baths in four days). And always know where your nearest barf bag is.

Oh, and when the client tells you that he'd like to hire you for future visits because you did much, much better than the pet sitter they hired in the first place, take the high road and teach him a thing or two about loyalty.