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.

Mythological Bull

 

In Greek mythology, Zeus is the father of gods and men…the god of the sky and thunder.  So if “Zeus” chose to move next door to me and present himself in the form of a four-legged, slobbery-mouthed Pit Bull…who was I to judge?  And no, he didn’t change his name to try to blend in.

Zeus shed his Mt. Olympus swagger and became a dog of simple means and pleasures.  He loved belly rubs, head scratches and chasing after his favorite toys.  He was larger than most Pits I’d seen and more often than not, many people avoided walking past us.  Understandable, sure.  But you have no idea how upsetting that was to me. Breed-profiling, I call it.  “Breedists!”

One day as I was making my way towards my apartment building, I heard one of my neighbors screaming from her car, “April!  Run!  Oh my God…RUN!” A split second later I saw Zeus tearing around the corner at full speed, headed right towards me.  It all happened so fast. Unfortunately there was nothing that neither I nor his owner could do to avoid it…I was covered in dirt and slob!  My neighbor was still safely tucked away in her vehicle, no doubt convinced that I had been mauled to pieces.  I poked my head above the cars that obstructed her view of the carnage, and informed her that I was fine.

Pet sitters are like postal workers, not that we go postal but that we have to work come snow, rain, heat or gloom of night.  However, with Zeus being the god of the sky and thunder and what-not, I should have better prepared myself before walking him in the rain.  All was going well; in one hand I had my large golf umbrella that I paid $16.95 for at OSH, and in the other, Zeus’ leash.  We were almost done with our walk.  One block away from home, without any warning, without any rhyme or reason…Zeus’ chain prong collar broke away!  I’ve never been one to panic, outwardly, but my immediate thought was, “Oh, $#@!”

Zeus was not yet aware of what had happened until I started calmly approaching him with the collar and leash.  The look he gave me when he realized that he was no longer restrained made my heart sink and his leap for joy!  Thoughts of angry villagers chasing Zeus away after his reign of terror and them hanging me in effigy, swept through my mind.  I had to get him back.  To Zeus it was all a game of ‘chase.’  I abandoned my large golf umbrella and proceeded to get drenched while Zeus exploited my mortal limitations.  This game of cat and mouse continued half way down the block.  I was losing all hope.  This was it.  I was going to lose my pet sitting business all because of some mythological Bull and a faulty collar.

It may have been the other gods from Mt. Olympus showing favor upon me, but the thought to give the king of the mythological gods a command, struck me like an anvil on Wile E. Coyote’s head.  “SIT!” Great bolts of Thor, it worked!  I was just as shocked as Zeus was.  He was leashed.  The game was over.  I retrieved my umbrella; its purpose of which was moot at this point.  Visions of torches and pitchforks were now replaced by joyfully animated woodland creatures dancing about my head.

Zeus and his owner moved downtown, out of my service area.  I do miss him a lot.  But I often wonder what other mortal pet sitter he may be toying and amusing himself with now?

Bye Bye Black Cat

 

 

 

 

 

One of my little fuzzy babies passed over the Rainbow Bridge earlier this year. He was an older cat but had lots of vim and vigor in him towards the end. 

My clients instructed me to allow him to venture out, supervised, in the backyard during my visits. The backyard itself was more like a patio area. Eight feet out from the back door was a fence that cordoned off a steep hill with a 30 foot drop into the back of the neighbors back patio area. You see where I'm going with this?

I let Mr. Black Cat out (we'll call him B.C.) as I went to the other side of the house to dump some kitty litter in the bin. I came back around and B.C. had disappeared! I found him traipsing down the hill. I panicked! I found a space in the fence to crawl through and had to kick off my shoes to get a better grip on the hill's terrain. It was that steep.

B.C. led me on a goose chase. Just when I almost had him in my hands he dashed back up the steep hill towards home, leaving me to struggle back up the hill. Twigs in my hair and mud oozing from between my toes, I was not happy. But was very glad I got B.C. back home.

It wasn't until I was on the road to my other assignment that I busted out laughing at myself. I imagined what I must have looked like to one of the neighbors if they had seen me. I will miss B.C. very much. But not that hill.

Gregarious Greyhounds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Greyhound is a graceful, elegant and ancient breed of dog. It is the only dog mentioned in the Bible (Proverbs 30: 29-31). It is depicted on murals of long ago civilizations.

When I opened the door to take one of these majestic creatures on its first walk...it greeted me by taking a majestic chunk out of my leg! Ok, not literally. It was just curious to know what my jeans tasted like.

The client had been struggling to keep a pet sitter that wouldn't leave after getting bit. The poor fella was a racing rescue and was still dealing with some issues. I knew this during the initial interview and that's why I didn't bail after what I call the, "I'm-getting-to-know-you" bite. I also didn't bail after the, "my-mom's-home-sick-and-I'm-confused-as-to-why-you're-here-so-I'm-gonna-bite-you-just-in-case" bite. 

One day when I bent down to show him where his treat was that he dropped, I still stayed after the "I-think-you're-trying-to-take-my-treat-away-so-I'm-gonna-bite-you" bite.

Needless to say, I managed to receive a tetanus shot in the middle of all of that. And the beautiful and graceful Greyhound and I are best buds now and I have been bite free for over a year now. However, I'm not ruling out the "Happy-Labor Day-do-you-taste-like-BBQ-today" bite.

Vicious Little Rabbits

 

 

 

As a pet sitter, never did I think my first experience pet sitting a cute cuddly little fuzz ball would turn into a heart-pounding adventure.

I'll call the little fella "George." The first time I met George was with his owner. He was bouncing around joyfully enjoying the good 'bunny life.' Perhaps not unlike those who reside at a well-known mansion. That, however, was his demeanor in the presence of his owner.

Upon my first visit with George sans client, I reached down to pat him on the head. It all happened like a bad 70's horror flick. He made a strange grunting noise, mounted himself on his hind legs, and lunged at me with his teeth bared! I recoiled in terror.

Composing myself, I retraced my steps and tried to figure out how I could have caused a totally unprovoked attack. I surveyed the animal's enclosure and his surroundings. I assessed George himself, who to the naked eye appeared a gentle doe-eyed creature. Clever, very clever.

I recounted something the client said that now echoed in my head like sage wisdom from Obi Wan Kenobi. "Remember the towel. He likes to play with the towel." Grabbing the towel I flicked it in George's direction. He was skeptical at first. As well he should have been. I could have been out for revenge afterall. He had to be careful.

Realizing I meant no immediate harm, he proceeded to play with the towel. It was then I discovered I had been holding my breath the entire time. I could now breathe. And George could now bare his teeth for eating carrots...instead of fingers.