Mary turned out to be one of my best clients. I cared for her ever-changing array of cats for more than five years, and helped her rescue and rehome countless kittens. She traveled often for business so generated a lot of revenue for me which was great, especially during the less-busy times. I also earned a few extra dollars doing what I affectionately called "cat wrangling," that is, catching her semi-feral pets and getting them to their spay/neuter appointments.
Kitten sibling dynamics are interesting, and make one wonder about the nature versus nurture argument. In many litters born in the wild, there will be some kittens who right away seek human contact, purr, and want to be touched; others, on the other hand, want nothing to do with people and hiss, spit, and cringe when touched. These wilder characters will socialize to some extent, but often don’t like to be picked up, and certainly don’t like going to the vet. My method of handling such kitties involved a small room, a sturdy carrier, and a large towel. The goal was to immobilize the cat as quickly as possible so as to avoid stress and injury. I learned early on not to "just grab" wild cats, as the effect is something like squeezing a cactus or a loop of razor wire, and I never relied on gloves, because cat teeth are long and sharp and can go right through the thickest leather. Instead, I used the large towel to make a "kitty burrito" and immediately put the cat, towel and all, in the carrier. Even the wildest cats would often stay calm if their eyes were covered, for a few seconds anyway.
Like many of my clients, Mary had saved her money and was moving out of the expensive San Francisco Bay Area to a more affordable place out of state. As the moving date approached, she asked for my help in loading up her cats. She had 13 at this point, some friendly, some not so much, and they all needed to be loaded into the car for the drive to Nevada. Now, Mary’s housekeeping had never improved, so the idea of catching all those cats in the cluttered house would have been absurd; however, since she was moving I assumed that all her belongings would be removed so there would be no problem. I was wrong. I rang the door bell at 7AM and she came to the door ... in a pink camisole and panties. Mary was a large woman, so this was quite a sight, but even had she been slim, it would have been inappropriate to say the least.
"Good morning," I said, trying not to look at her outfit, or lack of.
"Hi, come in!" she said and walked into the house, making no apparent move to put more clothing on.
I stepped in the door and was even more shocked by what I saw in the house ... all the furniture and junk was still there. The place was even more messy than usual, since the packing was partially done and there were piles and boxes strewn all over. Oh lord, I thought, how will I ever catch these cats? Yellow eyes peered out at me from under TVs, love seats, the bed...
OK, I thought, I need to plan. First, catch the ones who are easy to catch. Second, locate the more difficult ones and use a towel or some other device to catch them. Third, pray for strength! I started on the easy ones while Mary bustled around the house in her lingerie, apparently doing some last-minute packing (perhaps she couldn’t find her clothes?). Ginger, Fluffy, Coco, Clown, Blackie and Hercules were in their carriers, stacked by the front door, in a short time. I crawled around on the floor on my hands and knees, the smell of cat pee from the corners assaulting me, and located four frightened cats under various pieces of furniture. I closed some doors to keep them in the room then tried to figure out how to get a hold of them without being shredded. They were pretty well hidden deep under the furniture, farther than my hands could reach, not that I’d want to grab onto a feral cat with my bare hands anyway.
"Mary, do you have a leash?" Somewhere along the way, Mary had also acquired a dog, a cute black Chihuahua, Chico, who was actually smaller than the cats.
"Hmm, I think I have one here..." she crouched down and rifled through one of the moving boxes. Items flew in one direction and another. A magazine fell in front of Chico and he sniffed it. A pen rolled under the love seat, causing the cat hiding there to retreat even further.
"Here it is!" She came up with not just one, but two little leashes and collars. I had already located a length of small PVC pipe and, as I put my contraption together I thought, "What would MacGyver do?" I created a sort of catch-pole, a device used by animal control officers to capture and move vicious dogs. The leash part runs through the pole part so the collar can be placed around the animal’s neck hands-free. It can be used on cats provided one leg is also slipped into the collar part, but it isn’t really humane for field use; however, for my situation it was perfect, and only had to work for a few seconds. Feeling very clever, I fished around under the furniture for cats. It took some doing to get them to step forward into the loop, but eventually they did, and I pulled each one out hissing and spitting and deposited them safely in the carrier. Soon Tux, Socks, Boots, Maisie, Tiger, and Jaguar were crated and ready to go. Tired, dirty, and scratched, I looked at my watch: 9AM. This was taking longer than I’d planned, but I was never one to hurry when safe animal handling was concerned. Now there was one more hill to climb: Elmo.
Elmo was one of those feral kittens who never tamed down. A bright red-orange tabby, he was hunkered down under the bed with a sneer on his face. He had no intentions of being picked up or placed in any box anytime soon. I had caught him before, but under different circumstances (in a small enclosed room). As I went from one side of the bed to the other coaxing him, I could see that I had my work cut out for me. Unfortunately, Mary chose this as the time to suddenly be in a big hurry. She started stressing about how many hours it would take to drive to her destination, how late it would be when she got there, and how she really needed to be on the road now. I gritted my teeth and said nothing about the fact that if the house hadn’t been a mess the cat-capturing would have taken much less time; instead, I continued to sweet-talk Elmo who was actually calming down and looking like he might want to sniff my hand.
Still in her bedclothes, Mary flopped down on the floor on the other side of the bed and "helped" me call Elmo. She was impatient and grabbing at him. "Don’t grab him," I said. "He’ll come out in a minute and I can get him in a towel." On cue, Elmo dashed out from under the bed and, not heeding my warning, Mary grabbed him hard on the scruff of the neck. Startled, Elmo froze for a moment, and I grabbed the carrier, hoping to stuff him in there before he realized he was being restrained. I couldn’t believe my eyes as Mary stood up and cradled him in her arms as if he wasn’t a feral cat. In a moment, the spell was broken and Elmo freaked out, scratching and biting down hard on Mary’s bare arms. "Let go!" I said, but for some reason she kept hanging on. "Let go!" I repeated. Elmo finally managed to struggle free, and my eyes lifted from his form shooting back under the bed to Mary’s arms which were dripping blood. There were multiple deep bite wounds and scratches. She stood there startled for a minute, then started stressing again about being in a hurry! She left the room and I took advantage of the break to coax the orange fury out from under the bed to another part of the room where I carefully toweled him and placed him in a carrier.
Worn out, I placed #13 carrier by the front door and waited to be paid and excused. After a few minutes Mary came out of her room dressed and ready to go. I was happy to see that she paid me a lot extra, in cash, and added that I could take any of her large potted plants that I wanted from the deck. Looking at her arms which were still bleeding and starting to swell, I said, "You need to go to the hospital."
"What? Oh no, it’s fine, I put peroxide on them."
"Cat bites very often get infected, and those are very deep. The scratches are too, and since cats dig in the litter box, there could be feces in the wounds. You really don’t want to be getting sick while you’re on the road." But it was no use. Try as I might, I couldn’t convince her. She was so focused on getting going that she could think of nothing else. I sighed, loaded up a couple plants into my car, and drove home.
The following week I sat on my balcony, enjoying the look of my new plants in their huge ceramic pots. I gave them each a little water, went inside, and signed on to the computer to read my email. Two of my own four cats were competing for space on the desk top, and each bumped my hand and stepped on the keyboard, causing me to have to reload my mail twice. When the welcome screen finally appeared, I saw that I had a new email message from Mary. I clicked on it and read through the ears and tails of my cats. "Many thanks for helping me with the move! I don’t know what I would have done without you. The kitties were a little stressed at first but are settling in. I made it to Nevada in good time, but when I woke up the next morning I felt sick and had red lines going down my arms. Had to go to the ER and now I am on antibiotics." I was relieved that she finally went to the doctor and that it wasn’t worse. Elmo, I thought, you had the last word.
Kitten sibling dynamics are interesting, and make one wonder about the nature versus nurture argument. In many litters born in the wild, there will be some kittens who right away seek human contact, purr, and want to be touched; others, on the other hand, want nothing to do with people and hiss, spit, and cringe when touched. These wilder characters will socialize to some extent, but often don’t like to be picked up, and certainly don’t like going to the vet. My method of handling such kitties involved a small room, a sturdy carrier, and a large towel. The goal was to immobilize the cat as quickly as possible so as to avoid stress and injury. I learned early on not to "just grab" wild cats, as the effect is something like squeezing a cactus or a loop of razor wire, and I never relied on gloves, because cat teeth are long and sharp and can go right through the thickest leather. Instead, I used the large towel to make a "kitty burrito" and immediately put the cat, towel and all, in the carrier. Even the wildest cats would often stay calm if their eyes were covered, for a few seconds anyway.
Like many of my clients, Mary had saved her money and was moving out of the expensive San Francisco Bay Area to a more affordable place out of state. As the moving date approached, she asked for my help in loading up her cats. She had 13 at this point, some friendly, some not so much, and they all needed to be loaded into the car for the drive to Nevada. Now, Mary’s housekeeping had never improved, so the idea of catching all those cats in the cluttered house would have been absurd; however, since she was moving I assumed that all her belongings would be removed so there would be no problem. I was wrong. I rang the door bell at 7AM and she came to the door ... in a pink camisole and panties. Mary was a large woman, so this was quite a sight, but even had she been slim, it would have been inappropriate to say the least.
"Good morning," I said, trying not to look at her outfit, or lack of.
"Hi, come in!" she said and walked into the house, making no apparent move to put more clothing on.
I stepped in the door and was even more shocked by what I saw in the house ... all the furniture and junk was still there. The place was even more messy than usual, since the packing was partially done and there were piles and boxes strewn all over. Oh lord, I thought, how will I ever catch these cats? Yellow eyes peered out at me from under TVs, love seats, the bed...
OK, I thought, I need to plan. First, catch the ones who are easy to catch. Second, locate the more difficult ones and use a towel or some other device to catch them. Third, pray for strength! I started on the easy ones while Mary bustled around the house in her lingerie, apparently doing some last-minute packing (perhaps she couldn’t find her clothes?). Ginger, Fluffy, Coco, Clown, Blackie and Hercules were in their carriers, stacked by the front door, in a short time. I crawled around on the floor on my hands and knees, the smell of cat pee from the corners assaulting me, and located four frightened cats under various pieces of furniture. I closed some doors to keep them in the room then tried to figure out how to get a hold of them without being shredded. They were pretty well hidden deep under the furniture, farther than my hands could reach, not that I’d want to grab onto a feral cat with my bare hands anyway.
"Mary, do you have a leash?" Somewhere along the way, Mary had also acquired a dog, a cute black Chihuahua, Chico, who was actually smaller than the cats.
"Hmm, I think I have one here..." she crouched down and rifled through one of the moving boxes. Items flew in one direction and another. A magazine fell in front of Chico and he sniffed it. A pen rolled under the love seat, causing the cat hiding there to retreat even further.
"Here it is!" She came up with not just one, but two little leashes and collars. I had already located a length of small PVC pipe and, as I put my contraption together I thought, "What would MacGyver do?" I created a sort of catch-pole, a device used by animal control officers to capture and move vicious dogs. The leash part runs through the pole part so the collar can be placed around the animal’s neck hands-free. It can be used on cats provided one leg is also slipped into the collar part, but it isn’t really humane for field use; however, for my situation it was perfect, and only had to work for a few seconds. Feeling very clever, I fished around under the furniture for cats. It took some doing to get them to step forward into the loop, but eventually they did, and I pulled each one out hissing and spitting and deposited them safely in the carrier. Soon Tux, Socks, Boots, Maisie, Tiger, and Jaguar were crated and ready to go. Tired, dirty, and scratched, I looked at my watch: 9AM. This was taking longer than I’d planned, but I was never one to hurry when safe animal handling was concerned. Now there was one more hill to climb: Elmo.
Elmo was one of those feral kittens who never tamed down. A bright red-orange tabby, he was hunkered down under the bed with a sneer on his face. He had no intentions of being picked up or placed in any box anytime soon. I had caught him before, but under different circumstances (in a small enclosed room). As I went from one side of the bed to the other coaxing him, I could see that I had my work cut out for me. Unfortunately, Mary chose this as the time to suddenly be in a big hurry. She started stressing about how many hours it would take to drive to her destination, how late it would be when she got there, and how she really needed to be on the road now. I gritted my teeth and said nothing about the fact that if the house hadn’t been a mess the cat-capturing would have taken much less time; instead, I continued to sweet-talk Elmo who was actually calming down and looking like he might want to sniff my hand.
Still in her bedclothes, Mary flopped down on the floor on the other side of the bed and "helped" me call Elmo. She was impatient and grabbing at him. "Don’t grab him," I said. "He’ll come out in a minute and I can get him in a towel." On cue, Elmo dashed out from under the bed and, not heeding my warning, Mary grabbed him hard on the scruff of the neck. Startled, Elmo froze for a moment, and I grabbed the carrier, hoping to stuff him in there before he realized he was being restrained. I couldn’t believe my eyes as Mary stood up and cradled him in her arms as if he wasn’t a feral cat. In a moment, the spell was broken and Elmo freaked out, scratching and biting down hard on Mary’s bare arms. "Let go!" I said, but for some reason she kept hanging on. "Let go!" I repeated. Elmo finally managed to struggle free, and my eyes lifted from his form shooting back under the bed to Mary’s arms which were dripping blood. There were multiple deep bite wounds and scratches. She stood there startled for a minute, then started stressing again about being in a hurry! She left the room and I took advantage of the break to coax the orange fury out from under the bed to another part of the room where I carefully toweled him and placed him in a carrier.
Worn out, I placed #13 carrier by the front door and waited to be paid and excused. After a few minutes Mary came out of her room dressed and ready to go. I was happy to see that she paid me a lot extra, in cash, and added that I could take any of her large potted plants that I wanted from the deck. Looking at her arms which were still bleeding and starting to swell, I said, "You need to go to the hospital."
"What? Oh no, it’s fine, I put peroxide on them."
"Cat bites very often get infected, and those are very deep. The scratches are too, and since cats dig in the litter box, there could be feces in the wounds. You really don’t want to be getting sick while you’re on the road." But it was no use. Try as I might, I couldn’t convince her. She was so focused on getting going that she could think of nothing else. I sighed, loaded up a couple plants into my car, and drove home.
The following week I sat on my balcony, enjoying the look of my new plants in their huge ceramic pots. I gave them each a little water, went inside, and signed on to the computer to read my email. Two of my own four cats were competing for space on the desk top, and each bumped my hand and stepped on the keyboard, causing me to have to reload my mail twice. When the welcome screen finally appeared, I saw that I had a new email message from Mary. I clicked on it and read through the ears and tails of my cats. "Many thanks for helping me with the move! I don’t know what I would have done without you. The kitties were a little stressed at first but are settling in. I made it to Nevada in good time, but when I woke up the next morning I felt sick and had red lines going down my arms. Had to go to the ER and now I am on antibiotics." I was relieved that she finally went to the doctor and that it wasn’t worse. Elmo, I thought, you had the last word.
At age 21, I bought a motorcycle, a Yamaha Virago – virago meaning warrior woman – dark red with chrome. On that bike with my black helmet and black suede leather jacket with the fringe, I thought I was the coolest amazon in town. Pet sitting on a motorcycle turned out to be great during the summer months, all that sun and fresh air and only $3 to fill up the gas tank, but when the rainy season started it was a real drag. I tried every type of rain gear, but nothing could keep me from getting soaked to the skin, and spending a day on your feet in wet shoes and underwear is quite unpleasant. The day finally came for me to buy a car. Since I had only had my business less than a year, my budget was rather limited – I had no more than $1000 to purchase my new wheels, so I went to my local convenience store and picked up the Auto Trader magazine, a good pre-internet source for used vehicles. Each ad included a description of the vehicle with a photo and the seller’s phone number. Of course, one had to know how to translate these ads: "like new" meant not too many dents, "never raced" meant it probably was, especially if it was a Camero with a huge engine, and "cherry" meant it was washed recently. All ads contained the ubiquitous phrase, "Runs good," including, amazingly, some for cars without engines! I sat down with a cup of coffee and a pen and circled the most likely vehicles for me, then I began to make phone calls. The conversations went something like this:
Me: "Hi, I’m interested in your 1982 Honda."
Woman’s voice: "Oh, it’s my husband’s car."
"OK, may I speak with your husband?"
"No, he doesn’t speak English."
"OK, how about I ask you questions and you ask your husband?"
After a long pause she agreed.
My first question, a common one, "How many miles does it have on the odometer?" I sat with pen poised over my notebook with the list of car-purchasing questions.
I heard her place the phone down on the table, then a muffled exchange in Spanish. She picked the phone up after some time and said, "My husband says, it doesn’t matter how many miles it has!"
My next call was no more successful. A man with a strong New York accent sang the praises of his 1982 Toyota Corolla for ten minutes, then said, "It just has oooone little problem."
"Oh really, and what’s that?" I asked.
"Well," he replied, " it doesn’t have third gear, but it runs just fine, you just shift like this: first, second, fourth!"
After the telephone screening, there was the actual viewing of the vehicles, which was no less amusing. Having been raised by my Dad, I was more car savvy than the average person, but I was still leery of going to strangers’ homes alone, so he joined me for the shopping; so it was that we pulled up to the home of Chip, who was selling a 1980 Toyota Celica. Chip lived in, let’s just say, the "inexpensive" part of town; I immediately noticed that, along with a great deal of rubbish, there were several Toyotas in front of his home in varying states of repair. The hood was up on one of them and he was deeply buried in the engine compartment; my eyes traveled to his pants, which were slipping down and, oh god, there it was, the crack of his butt greatly exposed. I got out of Dad’s car and was accosted by the smell of dirty motor oil and Gunk engine cleaner spray. The smell got worse as we climbed into the Celica with Chip, who for some strange reason insisted on driving it himself, rather than letting one of us drive. Oil and Gunk were joined by B.O. and the smell of filthy upholstery and sun-damaged vinyl. He popped the clutch and flew down the street, hanging corners and grinding through the gears like a madman, talking all the way. "Yeah, I did all the repairs on this car myself," he said, to no great surprise. "I replaced the brakes and the clutch." As if on cue, the clutch slipped just as he said that. "Yeah," he went on, patting the cracked and warped dash board, "It runs good, but the insides ain’t so cherry!"
Finally my search yielded a treasure, a dark blue 1980 Honda Civic hatchback, great for transporting dogs, cheap on gas, and, as I soon discovered, small enough to park anywhere. I paid the seller $900 cash and drove away feeling like a wealthy lady in a Rolls Royce; that feeling was soon tempered, however, by my discovery of the vehicle’s "idiosyncracies."For one thing, the seat was not bolted down. It was somehow attached on the left side, so no problem making a right turn, but a left turn caused me and the seat to tilt at an alarming angle. There was no back seat, which was unsightly but worked out fine for dog transport. There were also some slight electrical problems, like when I put on the turn signal, the horn beeped, and when I pressed the horn, the turn signals flashed. When the rainy season started, I discovered that the sun roof, installed by the previous (teenage boy) owner, was not sealed properly and water leaked all over the place. I drove around wondering what was worse, sitting on a dry motorcycle seat and getting rained on or sitting on a wet, moldy smelling car seat? I developed a method of folding newspaper and wedging it between the sun visor and the leaky window. The newspaper turned out to be just as useful for absorbing rain water as puppy pee, and as long as I changed it every couple of days I stayed dry. By the time I got rid of the Honda, it had 250,000 miles on the odometer; like the ad claimed, this vehicle "ran good" and, despite its shortcomings, was reliable transportation for two years, until I could afford to buy what I always wanted, a truck ... but that’s another story.
Me: "Hi, I’m interested in your 1982 Honda."
Woman’s voice: "Oh, it’s my husband’s car."
"OK, may I speak with your husband?"
"No, he doesn’t speak English."
"OK, how about I ask you questions and you ask your husband?"
After a long pause she agreed.
My first question, a common one, "How many miles does it have on the odometer?" I sat with pen poised over my notebook with the list of car-purchasing questions.
I heard her place the phone down on the table, then a muffled exchange in Spanish. She picked the phone up after some time and said, "My husband says, it doesn’t matter how many miles it has!"
My next call was no more successful. A man with a strong New York accent sang the praises of his 1982 Toyota Corolla for ten minutes, then said, "It just has oooone little problem."
"Oh really, and what’s that?" I asked.
"Well," he replied, " it doesn’t have third gear, but it runs just fine, you just shift like this: first, second, fourth!"
After the telephone screening, there was the actual viewing of the vehicles, which was no less amusing. Having been raised by my Dad, I was more car savvy than the average person, but I was still leery of going to strangers’ homes alone, so he joined me for the shopping; so it was that we pulled up to the home of Chip, who was selling a 1980 Toyota Celica. Chip lived in, let’s just say, the "inexpensive" part of town; I immediately noticed that, along with a great deal of rubbish, there were several Toyotas in front of his home in varying states of repair. The hood was up on one of them and he was deeply buried in the engine compartment; my eyes traveled to his pants, which were slipping down and, oh god, there it was, the crack of his butt greatly exposed. I got out of Dad’s car and was accosted by the smell of dirty motor oil and Gunk engine cleaner spray. The smell got worse as we climbed into the Celica with Chip, who for some strange reason insisted on driving it himself, rather than letting one of us drive. Oil and Gunk were joined by B.O. and the smell of filthy upholstery and sun-damaged vinyl. He popped the clutch and flew down the street, hanging corners and grinding through the gears like a madman, talking all the way. "Yeah, I did all the repairs on this car myself," he said, to no great surprise. "I replaced the brakes and the clutch." As if on cue, the clutch slipped just as he said that. "Yeah," he went on, patting the cracked and warped dash board, "It runs good, but the insides ain’t so cherry!"
Finally my search yielded a treasure, a dark blue 1980 Honda Civic hatchback, great for transporting dogs, cheap on gas, and, as I soon discovered, small enough to park anywhere. I paid the seller $900 cash and drove away feeling like a wealthy lady in a Rolls Royce; that feeling was soon tempered, however, by my discovery of the vehicle’s "idiosyncracies."For one thing, the seat was not bolted down. It was somehow attached on the left side, so no problem making a right turn, but a left turn caused me and the seat to tilt at an alarming angle. There was no back seat, which was unsightly but worked out fine for dog transport. There were also some slight electrical problems, like when I put on the turn signal, the horn beeped, and when I pressed the horn, the turn signals flashed. When the rainy season started, I discovered that the sun roof, installed by the previous (teenage boy) owner, was not sealed properly and water leaked all over the place. I drove around wondering what was worse, sitting on a dry motorcycle seat and getting rained on or sitting on a wet, moldy smelling car seat? I developed a method of folding newspaper and wedging it between the sun visor and the leaky window. The newspaper turned out to be just as useful for absorbing rain water as puppy pee, and as long as I changed it every couple of days I stayed dry. By the time I got rid of the Honda, it had 250,000 miles on the odometer; like the ad claimed, this vehicle "ran good" and, despite its shortcomings, was reliable transportation for two years, until I could afford to buy what I always wanted, a truck ... but that’s another story.
As a professional pet sitter, I tried to stick to business with clients, but, due to the nature of the profession, it was impossible to not get caught up in their personal lives. Working in the clients’ homes, alongside them and their family members and pets, things often got complicated, as they did in the home of Minnie the yellow Lab and her owners Kathy and George Wood.
I could tell right away that something was not right with George. During the initial meeting, Kathy was animated and gave me all kinds of info on their dog, while George just sat at the table looking confused. As we wrapped up, she said to him, kind of loudly, "Honey, this is our dog walker, she’ll be coming every day to walk Minnie." He smiled and nodded. As she walked me to my truck, Kathy said with a strained expression, "My husband has dementia. He hasn’t been able to work for several years, and it’s getting worse. Please don’t be offended if he says something off the wall or isn’t fully dressed when you come over." I assured her that I had seen this type of behavior before, wouldn’t take it personally, and would call her at work if George or Minnie seemed to be in any kind of danger. It wasn’t long before I had to make that call...
I started service the next week, and the first few days went fine. On Thursday, I knocked on the door and, after several minutes, George opened it. Kathy didn’t think I needed a key since her husband was always at home, but she had mentioned that the back sliding door was always unlocked just in case. He looked at me and said, "Weren’t you here already?"
"That was yesterday," I replied. "Now I’m here to walk Minnie."
"Oh, OK."
Feeling uneasy, I clipped the leash onto the Lab’s collar and hurried out the door. There was a nice bike path near the house, so the walk was always enjoyable. I sat on a bench for a while and looked at the ducks swimming by on the lagoon, and Minnie sat next to me, nuzzling me with her wet nose. All was well, for the moment.
The next day, I arrived to find George sitting out in front of the house with no shirt on, the front door wide open. I greeted him and he said nothing. Worried, I continued into the house, hoping Minnie was penned up in the kitchen, or the back yard, but she was nowhere to be found. "George," I asked, "Where is Minnie?"
He looked at me with watery eyes and said with a wave of his hand, "She’s gone."
"Gone, like she ran away?"
He nodded.
"How long ago?"
"Oh," he said, "A couple hours," then he folded his arms and stared into space.
My mind raced as I ran back into the house to call Kathy at work. I explained what had happened, trying not to panic her, and said that I would start driving around the neighborhood looking. I hung up the phone and hopped in my truck. I hadn’t been searching ten minutes when my cell phone rang, and a tearful Kathy said that someone in the neighborhood had found Minnie and that she was OK. She gave me the finder’s name, address, and phone number, which I wrote down on the back of a grocery store receipt. I quickly found the house and pulled into the driveway, smiling as I heard Minnie’s bark along with the bark of another dog. The woman who found her was very nice; she’d been out walking her dog, also a Labrador, when she was suddenly joined by Minnie. Not seeing anyone around, she had called the numbers on the ID tag and reached Kathy at work. She said Minnie was a sweet dog and she didn’t mind having her over for a little visit. I thanked her profusely and brought the wagging yellow beast home.
The next time I came over for the walk, Kathy was at home, and George was not. Very distraught, she said that the recent incident had opened her eyes to the severity of her husband’s condition. Apparently, when she called him at the house that day, he had no recollection of the dog getting out; in fact, he claimed that he’d spent the day shopping for motorcycles. To make matters even worse, he had become ill over the weekend and needed hospitalization; when the medics came to transport him, he thought they were taking him to jail and put up a big fight. She realized that he needed professional, round-the-clock care, and was making arrangements for assisted living. I felt so bad for her, and so helpless. She was just a client, but I couldn’t help feeling her heartbreak. Retirement was supposed to be a time to relax and enjoy the fruits of one’s life labor, but it was not to be for the Woods. Because of the additional expense of the assisted living home, they could no longer afford dog walking. Before I left, though, Kathy asked me if I would promise her something. "Sure," I said curiously. "I trust you with Minnie," she said. "If anything ever happens where I’m unable to keep her, will you agree to take her?" Another dog was really not on my agenda, but I said yes, of course, and hoped it gave her some small comfort.
I could tell right away that something was not right with George. During the initial meeting, Kathy was animated and gave me all kinds of info on their dog, while George just sat at the table looking confused. As we wrapped up, she said to him, kind of loudly, "Honey, this is our dog walker, she’ll be coming every day to walk Minnie." He smiled and nodded. As she walked me to my truck, Kathy said with a strained expression, "My husband has dementia. He hasn’t been able to work for several years, and it’s getting worse. Please don’t be offended if he says something off the wall or isn’t fully dressed when you come over." I assured her that I had seen this type of behavior before, wouldn’t take it personally, and would call her at work if George or Minnie seemed to be in any kind of danger. It wasn’t long before I had to make that call...
I started service the next week, and the first few days went fine. On Thursday, I knocked on the door and, after several minutes, George opened it. Kathy didn’t think I needed a key since her husband was always at home, but she had mentioned that the back sliding door was always unlocked just in case. He looked at me and said, "Weren’t you here already?"
"That was yesterday," I replied. "Now I’m here to walk Minnie."
"Oh, OK."
Feeling uneasy, I clipped the leash onto the Lab’s collar and hurried out the door. There was a nice bike path near the house, so the walk was always enjoyable. I sat on a bench for a while and looked at the ducks swimming by on the lagoon, and Minnie sat next to me, nuzzling me with her wet nose. All was well, for the moment.
The next day, I arrived to find George sitting out in front of the house with no shirt on, the front door wide open. I greeted him and he said nothing. Worried, I continued into the house, hoping Minnie was penned up in the kitchen, or the back yard, but she was nowhere to be found. "George," I asked, "Where is Minnie?"
He looked at me with watery eyes and said with a wave of his hand, "She’s gone."
"Gone, like she ran away?"
He nodded.
"How long ago?"
"Oh," he said, "A couple hours," then he folded his arms and stared into space.
My mind raced as I ran back into the house to call Kathy at work. I explained what had happened, trying not to panic her, and said that I would start driving around the neighborhood looking. I hung up the phone and hopped in my truck. I hadn’t been searching ten minutes when my cell phone rang, and a tearful Kathy said that someone in the neighborhood had found Minnie and that she was OK. She gave me the finder’s name, address, and phone number, which I wrote down on the back of a grocery store receipt. I quickly found the house and pulled into the driveway, smiling as I heard Minnie’s bark along with the bark of another dog. The woman who found her was very nice; she’d been out walking her dog, also a Labrador, when she was suddenly joined by Minnie. Not seeing anyone around, she had called the numbers on the ID tag and reached Kathy at work. She said Minnie was a sweet dog and she didn’t mind having her over for a little visit. I thanked her profusely and brought the wagging yellow beast home.
The next time I came over for the walk, Kathy was at home, and George was not. Very distraught, she said that the recent incident had opened her eyes to the severity of her husband’s condition. Apparently, when she called him at the house that day, he had no recollection of the dog getting out; in fact, he claimed that he’d spent the day shopping for motorcycles. To make matters even worse, he had become ill over the weekend and needed hospitalization; when the medics came to transport him, he thought they were taking him to jail and put up a big fight. She realized that he needed professional, round-the-clock care, and was making arrangements for assisted living. I felt so bad for her, and so helpless. She was just a client, but I couldn’t help feeling her heartbreak. Retirement was supposed to be a time to relax and enjoy the fruits of one’s life labor, but it was not to be for the Woods. Because of the additional expense of the assisted living home, they could no longer afford dog walking. Before I left, though, Kathy asked me if I would promise her something. "Sure," I said curiously. "I trust you with Minnie," she said. "If anything ever happens where I’m unable to keep her, will you agree to take her?" Another dog was really not on my agenda, but I said yes, of course, and hoped it gave her some small comfort.
After a few weeks I got into the groove of walking King, learning which streets to take for maximum conflict avoidance. When he wasn’t in attack mode, King was sweet and easy to control, but when he saw another male dog, there was nothing I could do to get his attention. I was quite concerned that he would actually break the leash or collar, so I put a call in to his owner to see what we could do. I had recently become a member of the Association of Pet Dog Trainers, and at their latest conference I had learned how to use the Gentle Leader head collar. Similar to a horse’s halter, the device goes around the dog’s head rather than his neck, maximizing control in a humane way. I explained the concept to John, who had never heard of it but was willing to let me give it a try. I suspected that there wasn’t a long line of pet sitters willing to handle Dogo Argentinos, so a suggestion to walk King in a party hat probably would have met with agreement.
Gentle Leader Day. I walked up the steps to the apartment and put the key in the lock, smiling as I heard the thump-thump-thump of a tail inside. "Well now King," I said to the smiling face, "I have something new for you." With some difficulty, I fitted the head collar onto the wiggling dog; it was royal blue and looked very nice against his white face. To that I attached a stout leash, and off we went. I didn’t have long to wait for a test situation – I rounded a corner and there were two young gangster wannabe guys with their oversize pants and puffy jackets, walking an intact male pit bull. King didn’t hesitate as he leaped towards them snarling, but a little twist of my hand brought him right back to earth. He looked startled and tried again, but I was able to easily control him by simply turning his head away from the "threat." Because his head was turning away, the other dog thought he was showing respect, and the situation was quickly diffused. "Damn!" said one of the youths. "Look at the SIZE of that dog! How old is he?" "Ten months,"I answered, to which the other man said, "Damn, he’s just a puppy, his nuts ain’t even dropped yet!"
I continued walking him with my leash and head collar, thinking our troubles were over. That changed one afternoon when I returned from our walk to find one of the roommates at home, a young woman named Judy. I had a bad feeling about her right away, something about the way she looked me up and down with a judgmental expression. I introduced myself and made small talk, and the conversation quickly turned to Judy’s complaints about the apartment. She ranted about how John so often left King alone until late in the evening, forcing the roommates to either take him outside or to clean up the pee in the kitchen. She said she wanted to move out but she was afraid of losing her deposit money because of the damage done by the dog. I sympathized, but moved for the door; the last thing I wanted to do was get involved in a stranger’s personal problems, especially if it jeopardized my relationship with a client. The bad feeling continued as I drove to my next pet sitting visit.
That night I got a phone call from John who sounded very upset. He said that Judy had told him about meeting me earlier that day. I said yes, we had met, and wondered what she told him. "She said you’re walking King with a muzzle!" Exasperated, I explained that the Gentle Leader is not a muzzle, that it does not restrict the mouth at all, that it is merely a humane way of having better control over a large, active (and I didn’t say, vicious and out of control) dog. Today, the Gentle Leader is in common usage, so most people understand how it works, but back then, in the mid-1990's, it was pretty new, so people often mistook it for a muzzle. I was not entirely sure that I had convinced him, so I was uneasy when I hung up the phone. One thing I was sure of, that I had not seen the last of Judy.
Things went smoothly for the next two weeks. I became very attached to King and was always happy to see his wagging, wiggling self. His behavior improved and our walks became easier; after each walk, I would spend some time snuggling with him on the couch, which became increasingly difficult as he grew larger. All was well until I got another phone call from John. "I’m sorry, I have to cancel the dog walking service," he said. I groaned. I relied on daily dog walking for steady income in addition to the seasonal holiday/weekend pet sitting, and losing a regular client was always a blow. He explained that he was being evicted from his apartment, and he was going to have to move in with his parents. It seems that Judy, concerned about losing her cleaning deposit, had called the landlord and asked for an inspection without notifying John. When the landlord came over, there was King, in his apartment building which had a "no pets" policy...
Gentle Leader Day. I walked up the steps to the apartment and put the key in the lock, smiling as I heard the thump-thump-thump of a tail inside. "Well now King," I said to the smiling face, "I have something new for you." With some difficulty, I fitted the head collar onto the wiggling dog; it was royal blue and looked very nice against his white face. To that I attached a stout leash, and off we went. I didn’t have long to wait for a test situation – I rounded a corner and there were two young gangster wannabe guys with their oversize pants and puffy jackets, walking an intact male pit bull. King didn’t hesitate as he leaped towards them snarling, but a little twist of my hand brought him right back to earth. He looked startled and tried again, but I was able to easily control him by simply turning his head away from the "threat." Because his head was turning away, the other dog thought he was showing respect, and the situation was quickly diffused. "Damn!" said one of the youths. "Look at the SIZE of that dog! How old is he?" "Ten months,"I answered, to which the other man said, "Damn, he’s just a puppy, his nuts ain’t even dropped yet!"
I continued walking him with my leash and head collar, thinking our troubles were over. That changed one afternoon when I returned from our walk to find one of the roommates at home, a young woman named Judy. I had a bad feeling about her right away, something about the way she looked me up and down with a judgmental expression. I introduced myself and made small talk, and the conversation quickly turned to Judy’s complaints about the apartment. She ranted about how John so often left King alone until late in the evening, forcing the roommates to either take him outside or to clean up the pee in the kitchen. She said she wanted to move out but she was afraid of losing her deposit money because of the damage done by the dog. I sympathized, but moved for the door; the last thing I wanted to do was get involved in a stranger’s personal problems, especially if it jeopardized my relationship with a client. The bad feeling continued as I drove to my next pet sitting visit.
That night I got a phone call from John who sounded very upset. He said that Judy had told him about meeting me earlier that day. I said yes, we had met, and wondered what she told him. "She said you’re walking King with a muzzle!" Exasperated, I explained that the Gentle Leader is not a muzzle, that it does not restrict the mouth at all, that it is merely a humane way of having better control over a large, active (and I didn’t say, vicious and out of control) dog. Today, the Gentle Leader is in common usage, so most people understand how it works, but back then, in the mid-1990's, it was pretty new, so people often mistook it for a muzzle. I was not entirely sure that I had convinced him, so I was uneasy when I hung up the phone. One thing I was sure of, that I had not seen the last of Judy.
Things went smoothly for the next two weeks. I became very attached to King and was always happy to see his wagging, wiggling self. His behavior improved and our walks became easier; after each walk, I would spend some time snuggling with him on the couch, which became increasingly difficult as he grew larger. All was well until I got another phone call from John. "I’m sorry, I have to cancel the dog walking service," he said. I groaned. I relied on daily dog walking for steady income in addition to the seasonal holiday/weekend pet sitting, and losing a regular client was always a blow. He explained that he was being evicted from his apartment, and he was going to have to move in with his parents. It seems that Judy, concerned about losing her cleaning deposit, had called the landlord and asked for an inspection without notifying John. When the landlord came over, there was King, in his apartment building which had a "no pets" policy...
"Dogo Argentino."
"Excuse me?"
"Dogo Argentino," said the man’s voice on the phone, "The national dog of Argentina, very rare in the U.S."
I agreed, amazed that there was a king of dog I hadn’t heard of. Always a bookworm, I had numerous books on dog care and behavior including several large colorful volumes with photos and descriptions of each breed. I had no problem identifying a Cane Corso, a Hartz Polski, or a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, but a Dogo Argentino? This I had to see.
The door opened and I was almost knocked over by something very large and white. "King, no, bad dog!" I recognized the voice of John, the dog’s owner, from our phone conversation the previous day, but I could see nothing past the wriggling mass of white. Pushing my way in the door and closing it behind me, I got a look at the creature who was loving me to death; it looked very much like a pit bull, with muscular body, big shoulders, small waist, and a great jowly maw that was wide open in a pink smile. The only difference between it and a pit bull was size ... this animal was about the height and weight of a Great Dane.
I sat on the couch with King, who attempted to crawl into my lap, and John, who said, "Sorry about that, he’s still a puppy." Wondering how large this animal would be as an adult, I managed to squeeze my arms out from under his bulk to hand John the paperwork, and we started to discuss the service I would be providing. I was to walk King five days a week while John was at work. King was confined in the kitchen when John was away, and there was no yard so he would have to be leashed and walked down several flights of stairs to the street to relieve himself. Because he was not neutered, King would lift his leg all over the house if left to his own devices. When I inquired why he was not neutered, his owner indicated an interest in going to special breed shows and get-togethers. I would find a leash, treats, payment, and anything else I might need on the kitchen counter. While we were talking, another man came into the apartment, said not a word, and went into one of the bedrooms. John looked uncomfortable. "One of my roommates," he said. Roommates? The small San Mateo, CA apartment was hardly large enough for one human and one 100-lb dog. As if to answer my unspoken question, John quietly said, "Um, you might see my roommates when they are at home. They don’t handle King." It wasn’t long before I discovered why the roomies did not want to handle the adorable creature...
I had a couple of days before the service started, so I visited my favorite library in Burlingame (no internet in those days!) to learn more about the Dogo Argentino; the results were not encouraging. I sat on the floor, legs cramping, always too involved in the books to make it to the table and sit in a chair like a civilized person. According to the books, the breed’s most notable characteristic was its aggression, "So aggressive they will attack each other while mating." Yikes. In the pictures, they all looked the same: large and white with cropped ears and a baleful expression. Oh well, I sighed, I do enjoy those difficult cases after all, this should be no different than my other successes.
I walked up the stairs to John’s apartment and listened with a smile to the whining and thunking of a great tail against the wall as I unlocked and opened the door. There was King, as immense and white as I remembered, doing the happy dance. Piece of cake, I thought as I reached for the leash. I was surprised to note its flimsiness, and that of the attached choke chain which was small and thin; the rig looked more appropriate for a chihuahua. Oh well, I thought, that’s what the owner uses, so it must work. After reading the note that read, "King is happy to meet you, have a nice walk!" I slipped the choke chain over the big white jowls and stepped out the door. I was immediately catapulted down the stairs by an excited mass of dog and almost lost my footing. "Easy!" I shouted, pulling on the leash. King slowed down a bit, but this display of self-control was tempered by the pee that started dribbling out of him. I walked as fast as I could down the crumbling staircase, stepping in the urine which was splashing everywhere. We finally reached the bottom where King released a flood of water, then looked very much relieved. Regrouping, I started to walk and was pleased to find that my new friend stayed pretty much by my side. We explored the neighborhood and stayed out long enough for him to get exercise and do his personal business, then we headed back towards the apartment building; I didn’t want to wander too far, as this was an area known for drug and gang activity. Rounding the corner , we suddenly came face to face with a pit bull, an unneutered male, tied in the bed of a pickup truck by a stout rope. The words, "So aggressive they will attack each other while mating" rang in my ears as I was yanked off my feet. I looked down and saw that my sweet friend had transformed into a snarling, lunging beast who not only wanted to kill the other dog, he wanted to eat him and pick his teeth with his bones. I quickly regained my footing and used every leash-pulling technique I remembered from dog training class to get control. I damn near had to drag King the entire length of the block and into the apartment before his fury subsided. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the couch, with King soon in my lap. "What," I asked, scratching his white head, "am I going to do with you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Dogo Argentino," said the man’s voice on the phone, "The national dog of Argentina, very rare in the U.S."
I agreed, amazed that there was a king of dog I hadn’t heard of. Always a bookworm, I had numerous books on dog care and behavior including several large colorful volumes with photos and descriptions of each breed. I had no problem identifying a Cane Corso, a Hartz Polski, or a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, but a Dogo Argentino? This I had to see.
The door opened and I was almost knocked over by something very large and white. "King, no, bad dog!" I recognized the voice of John, the dog’s owner, from our phone conversation the previous day, but I could see nothing past the wriggling mass of white. Pushing my way in the door and closing it behind me, I got a look at the creature who was loving me to death; it looked very much like a pit bull, with muscular body, big shoulders, small waist, and a great jowly maw that was wide open in a pink smile. The only difference between it and a pit bull was size ... this animal was about the height and weight of a Great Dane.
I sat on the couch with King, who attempted to crawl into my lap, and John, who said, "Sorry about that, he’s still a puppy." Wondering how large this animal would be as an adult, I managed to squeeze my arms out from under his bulk to hand John the paperwork, and we started to discuss the service I would be providing. I was to walk King five days a week while John was at work. King was confined in the kitchen when John was away, and there was no yard so he would have to be leashed and walked down several flights of stairs to the street to relieve himself. Because he was not neutered, King would lift his leg all over the house if left to his own devices. When I inquired why he was not neutered, his owner indicated an interest in going to special breed shows and get-togethers. I would find a leash, treats, payment, and anything else I might need on the kitchen counter. While we were talking, another man came into the apartment, said not a word, and went into one of the bedrooms. John looked uncomfortable. "One of my roommates," he said. Roommates? The small San Mateo, CA apartment was hardly large enough for one human and one 100-lb dog. As if to answer my unspoken question, John quietly said, "Um, you might see my roommates when they are at home. They don’t handle King." It wasn’t long before I discovered why the roomies did not want to handle the adorable creature...
I had a couple of days before the service started, so I visited my favorite library in Burlingame (no internet in those days!) to learn more about the Dogo Argentino; the results were not encouraging. I sat on the floor, legs cramping, always too involved in the books to make it to the table and sit in a chair like a civilized person. According to the books, the breed’s most notable characteristic was its aggression, "So aggressive they will attack each other while mating." Yikes. In the pictures, they all looked the same: large and white with cropped ears and a baleful expression. Oh well, I sighed, I do enjoy those difficult cases after all, this should be no different than my other successes.
I walked up the stairs to John’s apartment and listened with a smile to the whining and thunking of a great tail against the wall as I unlocked and opened the door. There was King, as immense and white as I remembered, doing the happy dance. Piece of cake, I thought as I reached for the leash. I was surprised to note its flimsiness, and that of the attached choke chain which was small and thin; the rig looked more appropriate for a chihuahua. Oh well, I thought, that’s what the owner uses, so it must work. After reading the note that read, "King is happy to meet you, have a nice walk!" I slipped the choke chain over the big white jowls and stepped out the door. I was immediately catapulted down the stairs by an excited mass of dog and almost lost my footing. "Easy!" I shouted, pulling on the leash. King slowed down a bit, but this display of self-control was tempered by the pee that started dribbling out of him. I walked as fast as I could down the crumbling staircase, stepping in the urine which was splashing everywhere. We finally reached the bottom where King released a flood of water, then looked very much relieved. Regrouping, I started to walk and was pleased to find that my new friend stayed pretty much by my side. We explored the neighborhood and stayed out long enough for him to get exercise and do his personal business, then we headed back towards the apartment building; I didn’t want to wander too far, as this was an area known for drug and gang activity. Rounding the corner , we suddenly came face to face with a pit bull, an unneutered male, tied in the bed of a pickup truck by a stout rope. The words, "So aggressive they will attack each other while mating" rang in my ears as I was yanked off my feet. I looked down and saw that my sweet friend had transformed into a snarling, lunging beast who not only wanted to kill the other dog, he wanted to eat him and pick his teeth with his bones. I quickly regained my footing and used every leash-pulling technique I remembered from dog training class to get control. I damn near had to drag King the entire length of the block and into the apartment before his fury subsided. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the couch, with King soon in my lap. "What," I asked, scratching his white head, "am I going to do with you?"
