Controlled KAOS!

 

 When it comes to home security, I like to think of myself as the Maxwell Smart of pet sitting. I maintain a healthy sense of urgency. Some might call it paranoia, but I call it common sense. I lock my doors after entering my apartment. At night I close my window coverings. During warmer months, I'll keep my windows open but close and lock them before going to bed. I have security gates at both front and back doors. I feel very secure with my Get Smart level of security.

Some clients however, do not share the same level of urgency. They are completely satisfied with leaving doors, windows and anything else that gives access to the inside of their home unlatched like they're living in Canada. Some refuse to draw their window coverings or have none at all, unfazed by the fact that any and everybody can peer in to catch a glimpse of their seemingly controlled lives. Their level of trust in humanity is staggering.

When I'm on an Overnight visit, I channel my inner Agent #99 and do a perimeter sweep locking every window, every door and drawing any window covering that's available. 

I was once offered to stay in a client's lovely guest house complete with it's own little kitchen, bathroom and bed area. The problem? I was surrounded by three walls of windows with ZERO blinds or curtains! I was not up for offering free OnlyFans content. It would've been painstakingly pedestrian, at best, anyway. Needless to say I camped out in the living room with one wall of windows which hovered above eye level. Not 100% happy, but it will do.

Another time I did an overnight in a guest bedroom with again...zero window coverings. But the few windows were small enough where I fashioned makeshift curtains out of my clothes. From Get Smart to MacGyver. I have to Control the KAOS somehow.

A client of mine warned me that there had been a series of break-ins in their neighborhood and asked me to make sure I locked the door behind me after entering the home. I'm not a rookie agent! Of course I'm going to lock the door. Not only do I value your pet's safety, but because frankly I value my life! 

What clients do in their homes is their business. They can whoop it up and live freely like it's the roaring '20's without a care in the world. But when I’m there, I’m the Agent on duty, enforcing modern-day security measures one locked latch at a time. And if real chaos comes calling, thank goodness I don't have to use my shoe to call Agent 911.

Detestable Retractable!

 

Every pet owner has their own preferred method of walking/transporting their pet - leashes, carriers, backpacks, strollers, pneumatic tubes (just kidding, but honestly that's next). All of that's fine. I'll walk or transport their pet however the client wants.

BUT! And this is a big but, metaphorically - not my own; I will not use a retractable leash. A retractable leash is an accident waiting to happen. In fact I'm pretty sure that's on the label. "Walk your dog with the new Accident Waiting to Happen!"

If your dog gets too far ahead, the car backing out of the driveway won't see Fido. Sure you can push the button to stop the pup. But now the retractable has become a medieval garrote and folks will be wondering what kind of mob ties the dog had or if the mailman had finally had enough!

Not only that, the handle can easily slip away from you, hit the ground and clickety-clack against the pavement and scare the dog into taking off like Usain Bolt. And suddenly you're wondering what your next job is going to be because the client is gone tell 'erbody you lost their dog. And ain't nobody gonna hire the Dog Loser!

That's why I always keep a spare non-retractable leash in my bag. And when I gently inform the client that I will not be using their retractable leash, I make it clear that it's about safety. Am I a leash snob? Perhaps. But most professional pet sitters who have been in this game a while, won't use retractable leashes either. 

A little snobbery goes a long way. The client will be happy and they will still have their dog intact after I walk them...unless they've already been neutered [enter rim shot here].

The Fellowship Of The Hoarders!

The occasions on which I’ve had to pass on a client are few and far between. It takes a lot for me to say, ‘thanks, but no thanks.’ Even if I know a client might be difficult, I’ll take them on and add the DCT later (Difficult Client Tax). 

However, the rare exceptions share one key trait: hoarding. The first giveaway is always the same: “Oh it’s never like this. I just haven’t had a chance to clean up.” Really? You haven’t had a chance in the past...20 years?

One client’s hallway was barely passable, lined with cans of unidentifiable chemicals. Could’ve been paint, could’ve been plutonium. My first thought wasn’t how to take care of her cat. It was, “I don’t want to die in this hallway!” Her cat, bless its soul, had adapted to its environment; much like the dogs of Chernobyl.

Then there was the couple whose home was so overcrowded I couldn’t even see the floor. Somewhere beneath the mountains of clothes, magazines, and questionable knick-knacks were two cats - allegedly. I never saw them. I politely decline clients like this and explain that ‘I don’t think I’m the right fit for you.’

I get it. Life happens. Right now my own closet looks like Sauron’s give-a-way bag. But when the passageways in your home look like you’re on a journey to Mordor, it might be time to call a professional (and I don’t mean me).

As a pet sitter, I’m here to care for your fuzzy babies. Part of that care means ensuring I can safely navigate the space to not only find your 'precious' fuzzy baby, but to ensure their safety as well. Because if I have to bring a GPS, a flare gun and a ten thousand year old wizard just to locate your cat, there's no amount of Bitch Tax to take the job. Oops! I meant...DCT.

Becoming “Miss Minutes”: TVA’s Guide To Fido’s Timeline

 Ah, the elusive 15-minute visit. Some of my clients love this option to save money—and trust me, I’m all about saving a dollar. But then there are the Variants...I mean other clients. The ones who look at that 15-minute slot and think I’m Miss Minutes and can manipulate the space-time continuum.

What the client wants done within 15 minutes, may go something like this: “Hey after Fido’s walk, can you also give him his medication, his food, brush his coat, wipe his paws, brush his teeth, wipe his ass, play with the cat, move my car, take the trash out and do the hokie-pokie and turn yourself around?”

I do become Miss Minutes in a way as I politely say, “Well my stars that's a lot! We’re working with a limited window of time sugar.” I would never call anyone ‘sugar.’ But I will say, “I can’t do both abc and xyz, unless we bump it up to a 30-minute visit.” Nine times out of ten, the client agrees. But then there’s He Who Remains—the one client who decides to test the limits of reality. “If I can do abc and xyz in 15 minutes, why can’t you?!”

At this point, I’m tempted to say, “I haven’t gained my certification as a Tempad-carrying Minuteman. And in order to avoid a Nexus event, I will not be able to alter Fido’s timeline.”  I generally opt for silence. In most cases they say, “Fine, we’ll do the 30 minutes.” Other times they come across like Mobius and say, “Please do as much as you can in 15 minutes!”

Time is precious, and so is Fido. And until we reach the level of quantum physics to leap from one multiverse to another; let’s keep our expectations rooted in reality. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for Amazon to deliver my Reset Baton and my Tempad.

Pray Tell My Good Lady...Can My Dog Say Hi?

When walking clients' dogs, I’ve learned to keep my wits about me; not for coked-out squirrels or sidewalk scooter demons, but for people. Some folks will make a beeline towards me and the dog like I’ve got the last Infinity Stone.

If they don't say anything I'll either cross the street or pick up the pace like I’m escaping a World War Z zombie. But eventually, they will say something like, "Can my dog say 'hi?'" Or, "I think my dog knows that dog."

When I first started out I felt the need to go into this long Shakespearean monologue about why I couldn't allow it. “Alas, the limit of my insurance liability doth prick the sides of my intent, and prudence doth beseech me to bid thee and thy hound fare thee well!" Now I just say, "Not my dog. Sorry," and keep it stepping. “Alas, Brevity is the soul of wit.” But ain’t nobody trying to be funny. People get downright offended when I tell them ‘no.’

In one instance, a woman walking her tiny Maltese, kept coming towards me. After I politely told her to please don’t approach, she copped a snarky attitude and said, "OH! Like my little dog could hurt yours?!" I calmly replied, "No, I don't want your dog to become my dog's Scooby Snack!"

Sometimes the truth is all the poetry you need…Alas!

 

Pass On Tall Grass

One thing I like to avoid when walking dogs is TALL GRASS! I don't know what's in there. I can't see anything. Is there a snake? A rabid cat waiting to take it's revenge out on Fido? Broken glass from a beer bottle that one of the neighbor's guests threw out after their loud party the night before resulting you getting ZERO sleep?! I digress.

You just never know. And although Fido may want to explore and it's tempting to allow his cute little eyes to lull you into letting him stick his snoot in there; don't do it! It may cause a momentary spell of heartache. But you'll avoid any deep regrets of potential injury or harm.

Fido will thank you and so will your client! 

No Ordinary Raccoon

 One summer I watched a cat named Rocky who used a cat door that was installed on the back door of the garage apartment in which he lived.  During one visit I noticed Rocky had made a huge mess of things in his eating area.   Now the apartment's small kitchen was undergoing a renovation and there were tools and various other construction items about the house.  However, I always made sure Rocky's area was neat and clean after every visit cuz that's just what I do.

As I picked up his water bowl to clean out I noticed it was very murky - one of the tell-tale signs of a raccoon.  They like to wash their food and in doing so their dirty feet get washed too.  I realized they were coming in through the cat door.

I notified the client right away and told them it would be a good idea to lock the cat door.  They agreed.  Rocky wouldn't be able to venture in and out.  The next day I couldn't find Rocky.  A short time later he came through the cat door.  The locking mechanism was broken.  I checked his food area and could see that indeed the raccoon had gotten in again, made a mess of the food area and scatted.

This time I barricaded the cat door with a wood panel that I found and braced it with a heavy tool bucket.  I exited out of the front door.  The next day I entered through the front door and immediately went to check the back door.  The bucket and the wood panel had been moved!  This was no ordinary raccoon.  At this point I'm thinking this sucker must be a behemoth and could probably take my lunch money if he wanted to.  

I went to clean Rocky's eating area again and when I bent down "something" scurried under the big chair next to his food area.  I'm never one to panic.  I like to survey, deduce the entire situation...and then decide whether or not I'm going to panic.  

At a distance I bent down to see what was under the chair.  There I discovered two little raccoon cubs!  They were just as startled as I was.  They were not able to get back through the cat door which was still partially barricaded.  I assumed the Momma raccoon couldn't get them out of there.   After much hissing and spitting trying to herd them out with a broom, I knew what I had to do.   I cleared the cat door and propped it open.  I had to cordon Rocky off in the bedroom and leave traces of cat food leading from the chair to the cat door (Jack Hannah would be proud).   

The next day there were no resident raccoons but there was much raccoon poop to clean up.  With the owner's permission I found a much heavier item to barricade the cat door with, which worked.  Poor Rocky couldn't come and go as he pleased for the rest of the time his owner was away, but it was better than him having to deal with an over sized raccoon and her brood.  And I would no longer have to fear a large paw grabbing my leg from under the bed!

Ziggy & The Bee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This happy funny face belongs to my buddy "Ziggy."  Zig has been with me since I started my pet sitting business six years ago.

Before putting my name out publicly as a professional pet sitter I made sure that I joined PSI (Pet Sitters International), became a Certified Professional Pet Sitter, got insured, bonded and obtained a business license.  I also made sure that I became certified in Pet CPR/First Aid.

I recently updated my certification through Pet Tech by taking their thorough eight-hour long course.  The American Red Cross was where I initially became certified.  That particular course was good and taught the basics.  However, it was taught by a mature female instructor who had to start and stop several times and consult the same handbook she had given us when she forgot how to do stuff.  It was easy to drift off in that class and she at times, looked like she was sleeping with her eyes opened.  But many of the important bullet points I remembered.

One lovely summer day I was walking Zig.  We had barely started off on our walk when he kept biting at his front right paw.  I thought he had gotten a sticky-burr stuck in between his pads which happens often.  In that case, I just pull it out.  I bent down to check him out and a bee fell out from underneath his paw!  I looked at the bee and could see his stinger was missing.  

Several seconds after that, his leg started swelling up!  He was having an allergic reaction.  A long time ago I had purchased baby Benadryl for my pet first aid kit.  I never had to use it but hoped it would still do the trick despite it's expired shelf life.  I got Zig back home right away, broke the Benadryl in half, per my first aid training from the mature woman at the American Red Cross, and gave it to Zig with a treat.

I waited a few minutes and the swelling began to subside quickly.  I called the client right away to see if she wanted me to take him to the Vet to get checked out.  Ziggy was fine, had no trouble breathing and wasn't limping anymore.  She told me to go ahead and finish the walk and if anything didn't seem right when we got back home to give her a call.

All was well on our return after the walk.  The client was relieved and I felt grateful for having had the training I did at the time with the "eyes-wide shut" instructor.  And now Zig and I avoid bees like the plague.

Law & Order: Pet Sitting Unit

[names changed for privacy]
One of the written requests I ask of my clients is to have them to please inform me of any visitors or house guests, housekeepers or maintenance personnel that may be present during the course of my pet sitting visits.  This is particularly important for me because...I'm naturally suspicious. Deep down inside I'm a frustrated detective.

One of my clients, a delightful young couple, Angela and Dave with two just as delightful little dogs, had recently moved to a different apartment within the same complex.  On perhaps the second or third visit to the new apartment I greeted the dogs in the same sing-song voice I greet all my dogs. I don't do it when I know someone's present because that's just embarrassing.

A male voice uttered "hello" from the sofa. I thought it was Dave home from work. It was not. It was a gentleman I had never seen before nor informed about. I immediately identified myself, and trust me if I had a badge I would've whipped it out. He did not do the same so I asked him who he was.  He said his name was "Cliff." That was it. No explanation of who he was or anything.

I left the apartment with the dogs...and my purse! I immediately texted Angela and Dave informing them that I ran into someone named "Cliff" at the apartment. And I purposefully put Cliff in quotations because that may or may not have been his real name. I did not hear back from either of them.

I completed the walk and returned to the apartment careful to look for signs of a struggle or blood or anything out of the ordinary. "Cliff" was still there.  I made sure my back was never to him as I left the apartment.  I immediately got back on my cell and texted Angela and Dave something to the effect of, "I don't know who this "Cliff" guy is and you guys haven't responded which worries me. So if you don't respond within the next 10 minutes, I'm calling the cops!"

Five seconds later I get a text from Angela, "Oh my gosh!  I'm so sorry we forgot to tell you Cliff is our roommate!  He's Dave's best friend.  Please don't call the cops.  I'm so sorry!"  Right after that I get a text from Dave, "LOL!  That's funny. Yes, Cliff is our new roommate.  Sorry we forgot to tell you.  I started to text back, 'Cliff who?!'"  I literally laughed out loud to that one.

Later I learned poor Cliff was not happy about the fact that they didn't tell me, or that I was about to go all Law&Order on him.  We all got a good chuckle out of it.  However,  I'll still have no problem calling out suspicious activity in or around my clients' dwellings.  It's just part of the job of...The P.S.I.: Pet Scene Investigation unit.

The Pilled Cat

Ever since being a pet owner, before my professional pet sitting days, I've always prided myself on being able to administer meds to cats.  Whether the meds be pills, liquids, shots, inhalers or topical ointments; I had never met a cat that I couldn't "pill."  

There arose a request from another pet sitting company for whom I work as an independent contractor.  The bulletin went something like this, "We are looking for someone to help administer medication to a difficult cat.  Any cat whisperers out there?"  I immediately responded.  Trying not to sound too cocky I replied, "I've never met a cat I couldn't 'pill.'"

I was given the morning shift of the assignment and another pet sitter was doing the evening shift.  I met her at the home where she showed me where everything was.  She asked if I wanted to try to give Kitty (as I'll call him) his medication.  Positioning myself behind Kitty in a crouched position I gave him his liquid meds.  The other pet sitter was awed at my deft handy work and gave me congratulatory praises.  Kitty however, gave me a condemning look that said, "There will be blood..."

Like the calm in the eye of a hurricane, the next morning Kitty was abnormally still, watching my every move as I went about freshening the water, cleaning out the food bowl, putting fresh food in and cleaning out the litter box.  It was now time for Kitty's medication...and Kitty knew it!

If the Flash had a pet, it would have been Kitty.  However, not to be defeated and have my untarnished "pilling" record blemished, I was able to corner Kitty in a small bathroom.  

There is a method to opening a cat's mouth to administer medication.  You gently press in on the sides of the mouth to get them to open automatically.  It is then that you can give the medication.

Somehow, in that small bathroom of doom, after getting Kitty to open his mouth he managed to powerfully and supernaturally clamp down on one of my fingers!  So much so that he did not let go until there was a small puncture wound.  There was blood, yes, lots of blood.  And all of it was mine.

No medication was ingested by Kitty that day; yet the sweet taste of my humiliation and defeat was the panacea for all his ills.  And like a kitten's saucer of pure milk left out in the sun too long, my pilling record is forever soured.