I like sitting quietly in empty houses. I rarely turn on music. I occasionally open iTunes and play a podcast. I relish the silence of this large home full of faces that feels so empty when the dogs are outside playing and when Troy is off at work.
The Kellehers and Millers flew to the Caribbean on Sunday afternoon, leaving me with a fridge full of food, three dogs, a gazillion koi, several house plants, a somewhat reclusive cat named Morrison and a DVD collection so large that Netflix looks quite shabby in comparison.
The first night of house/petsitting was... errr... moderately exhausting. I spent the afternoon getting the dogs to sit and to come and distributing treats and affection with magnanimous abandon. Shamelessly trying to get the puppies to associate my presence with tasty goodies and to realize that even though their respective moms were in the process of flying out of the country, the treat basket had stayed exactly where it was.
I'd settled into the TV room with a glass of red wine, a fuzzy blanket and a Pixar film when Troy blew through the door.
"Are you ready?"
"What for?"
"Are you ready?"
"I just got a glass of wine."
"I'll finish it."
"You're on call. You can't drink."
"No I'm not," Troy took my wine. "Are you ready?"
"What for?"
"Hurry up, we'll be late."
"FINE."
I stomped off to my room and struggled into something slightly less comfortable.
"Where are we going?" I asked as we climbed into Boy's tiny teal car.
"You'll see."
"Ass."
(Boy tries to be romantic, but I usually just throw a string of four letters words in his direction because of my immense dislike of suspense. When it happens in a movie, I sometimes/usually leave the room and make a cup of tea)
And of course, Boy had gone and done something obscenely sappy again. Like make reservations on the patio of a fabulous French restaurant on Main Street.
We drove home about two hours later and put the whippets to bed in Jessie's room and called Romeo (Janet's puppy) into mine.
But there is something about the first night of mom and dad being out of town that makes puppies react with equal or greater anxiety than Girl reacts during suspenseful movies. And puppies can't make a cup of tea to soothe their rankled nerves. But they can bark.
And howl.
And whine.
And pace.
And cry for mom and dad.
After over an hour of listening to Romeo vociferously pine for his vacationing parents, I took Romeo onto the living room couch with me so that Boy (who had work in the morning) could get some sleep. As long as one hand was actively petting the puppy, he settled and was quiet, but as soon as I started to drift off (thanks to aforementioned quiet), my hand would falter and Romeo would start barking again. Which inspired the whippets to join in, scratching Jessie's bedroom door and whining a high-pitched, "We're lonely and scared and why is there no humanbeast in bed with us right now?
Shit. I just... am not good at dogs. I understand how to calm down high-strung thoroughbreds and can cuddle bunny rabbits like no one's business, but dogs? How do I... errrr... assertively communicate that everything will be okay and they can (pretty please) go to sleep already?
My version of assertively communicating that everything would be okay included going into Jessie's room and taking a nap on her bed (napping for Aimee is equivalent to restarting a computer. It's pretty much the only thing I know to do that usually solves difficult/confusing situations). So I settled into Jessie's bed between her mountain of pillows and braced myself for Zola's inevitable attack. Zola (the female whippet who thinks she's half piranha) immediately pounced on my chest whilst Rufeus (the fawn colored male whippet who doesn't understand why everyone is always misbehaving so) glanced up at me beseechingly from the floor.
"FINE," I exclaimed. "Come on up," I patted the space between my legs and Rufeus agilely leaped into the ravine formed by my calves and a pink down blanket. Thus, with one whippet sleeping between my legs and the other draping herself across my chest like a hot brick blanket, I tried to sleep. Doing my best to ignore the fact that I could hardly breathe and that my body temperature had abruptly risen to approximately 150 degrees Fahrenheit.
Why are dogs so complicated?
Just as I was about to drift off, Romeo escaped outside through the dog door. And proceeded to loudly pine for mom and dad. At approximately 2:00 in the morning.
I'm... so tired. Oof. I don't know what to do. This... can't be making... neighbors... happy.
Eventually, I ended up cajoling Romeo back inside, making fine use of the Aimee = Treats relationship I'd built earlier that day.
He can't go back outside. This little dude has the stamina to pine all night.
So I stacked two plastic storage boxes in front of the doggy door and deliriously stumbled out of Jessie's room and into mine, whippets shooting me withering looks of disappointment as I went. I crawled into bed with Boy and looked at the bedside clock.
3:30. Oof. And I have to wake up at 5:30 so that I can write Janet before her plane leaves for Antigua. I hope she'll have some ideas for me. Couchsurfing is how I prefer to live, but I generally like sticking to one couch for at least a whole night. Last night... was the night of musical couches. Every time I dog whined, I had to move.
After Troy left for work the next morning, I went to scour the dog run for contraband and newly developed escape routes. Such as plastic baggies carrying the scent of something cheesy and delicious and holes dug suspiciously close to the fence.
This is what I found.
During the course of our two hour date, Romeo had managed to drag three dog beds (as well as a pillow or two) through the doggy door and commit a brutally graphic dogbedicide. Fluff and casings and foam were strewn about the yard, nightmarish to me but positively enchanting to the three pups. In fact, the whippets and Romeo cavorted through the carnage similar to the way I frolic through cheese shops in Amsterdam. Rufeus seemed slightly perturbed about the whole dogbedicide business, but his few qualms did nothing to contain the unbridled joy exhibited by the other two. In fact, I believe the only reason more beds were not murdered during Romeo's ruthless rampage was that he tried to drag a bed too large for the doggy door... err...through the doggy door. The bed got halfway through and then stalwartly refused to budge, thus trapping him outside. Which is where I found the little turd when Troy and I returned from our date the night before.
I cursed not so under my breath and fervently wished all creatures would just make themselves a cup of tea when under duress.
Tired, overwhelmed and confused, I grabbed a rake and a garbage bag and returned to the gory remains of the Fluff Holocaust of 2015. Kneeling down to scoop a pile of foam into the black sack, I unknowingly put myself in prime position for Zola -- the piranha/rhino dog who thinks it's hilarious to charge people full-speed and head-but into them.
Which she then did.
Into my head.
I Skyped Boy later that day.
BOY. We are never having babies. And we are never having dogs. No babies. No dogs. We will one day have a cat named Montezuma, but that is all.
I spent the majority of Monday napping.
As did Romeo. Except now he has no bed on which to nap.
As did Rufeus.
Zola spent much of the afternoon trying to distract me from whatever I was doing when I wasn't napping. By jumping on my chest and stabbing my ears with her snout. Like the piranha she thinks she is.
Thus far, the experience of dog sitting has only increased my respect for dog owners. Vastly. Like, next to babies, puppies might be the most challenging (but also most rewarding) creatures in the world.
Dear Janet, Dave, Jessie and all other loving dog families,
You're incredible. One day, I would like to be half as selfless, patient and understanding as you.
Sincerely (and with a hella lot of admiration),
-Aimee
(who might one day get a cat and name it Montezuma)
Dogs are unbelievably valuable creatures for their potential to create better human beings. A good relationship with a canine demands aforementioned selflessness and patience (both of which are... errr... not my STRONGEST suits...), but also the ability to step outside of how you understand and process the world and do your best to see said world from another's perspective.
I think that with people, we sometimes feel that we all see things/react to things a similar way. I mean, we're all people, right? And in the States, most of us speak English. In Colorado, must of us are white and enjoy the outdoors. In Grand Junction, most of us go to church on Sunday morning, barbecue something fleshy Sunday afternoon and watch people hurl brown balls and wrestle each other to the ground after fleshy things have been seared properly and the cheese dip is ready.
People aren't always given lines stark enough for them to notice differences in their communities. These people can stay inside themselves and their point of view all their lives, if they like. They don't have to realize that their perspective is only that -- their perspective. Nothing challenges them enough to make them step outside.
But dogs.
Oh boy.
Dogs make you step outside.
And they show immediate reinforcement through doggy kisses (if you're into that sort of thing) and cuddles and undying love.
Dogs teach you to give love in a different language.
To receive love in a different language.
And love is the most important language to learn. And learning how to meet people/animals where they need to be met in order to feel most loved is one of life's most important lessons. Err.... according to my personal perspective.
I'm trying to learn this through traveling and giving myself and exposing myself to dramatically different cultures.
Want to learn this at home?
Get a dog. Become a better person. Go.
I am also petsitting an orange tailless kitty named Morrison. He recognizes that I am responsible for his full food dish and brings me gifts accordingly.
And again, I must recognize that this is Morrison showing me love in the form of dead birds. While I prefer the way Boy shows me love (in the form of long conversations, starlit picnics and the unequivocal right to warm my cold hands on his chest), I still need to understand that a dead turtledove in front of the main door is not, in fact, a sign that Morrison wants me dead.
He's just thanking me for remembering to put the catnip on his scratching thing. If a person put something dead on the doorstep, it would mean something else entirely. But this is a cat. And cats show love through giving dead things.
Janet and Jessie had suggested I sleep with Romeo on one side of the house whilst keeping the whippets on the other. So after we returned from taking care of Janet's cats at her house downtown, I let the dogs loose to pee.
And the barked.
And the doorbell rang.
"Hi, I'm from the sheriff's department. We've had a couple of people call in complaining about some dogs barking?"
"Yes, I'm so sorry. Their family is on vacation and we're housesitting for them. They're just a little stressed. We'll keep them inside tonight, though."
"Will they be gone long? The family?"
"Just a couple of weeks."
"Is barking usually a problem here?"
"No, not at all! These guys are just stressed because it's so new that the entire family is gone. And this puppy usually doesn't live here," I pointed to Romeo.
"Okay, well make sure to keep them inside tonight."
"Will do. I'm sorry."
I know we all have different ways of expressing love and expressing fear, but GOD, I wish we could all just drink tea.
When I'm not checking on the dogs and counting the number of remaining beds, I walk around Cathy's yard and take in the flowers --
-- feed cheerios to the koi,
-- and netflix it up in the TV room. Where Boy and I now sleep with Romeo and use the smaller bed as an excuse to cuddle more (and I no longer have to chase him across the bed when my feet get cold).
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