The Perils of Petsitting

For the last couple of years, I’ve spent my winters pet sitting. It has truly been a win-win situation, with me getting free rent and a place to write, and the homeowners getting love and care for their precious pets while they get to travel, too.

Occasionally, though, I run into one that’s a bit more high maintenance than I would prefer. I’d like to share the story of one of THOSE housesits.

I knew I was taking on a lot, but I couldn’t ask for a better location. I was on the northern California coast for a month. Think redwoods and rocky shorelines, just south of the Lost Coast.

The challenges started the very first night, before the owners had even left. We were sitting in the living room chatting and sharing a bottle of wine. Mike and Susann marveled at how well their pets were adapting to my presence, with even the traumatized rescue puppy creeping out to lick my hand. I was petting one of the cats in my lap and he was purring loudly.

It all seemed to be going so well when the kitty, still purring loudly, casually turned and sank his fangs deep into the back of my hand. Shocked and surprised, I jerked my hand and inadvertently flung the contents of my wine glass all over the living room. Couch, carpet, all stained with red wine. Ouch. Embarrassing. “Oh, that was just a little love bite,” Susann said. “He just wanted to show you how much he likes you.”

The Cats

There are two cats, both black. It’s hard for me to tell the difference. The owners say you can feel the difference – one is more muscular and the other fits a little looser in its skin. But I have trouble discerning which is which, so instead of allowing each to have a few bad habits or annoying mannerisms, I combine them into one truly wicked black cat.

Now I know why black cats are perceived as evil. I can feel the malevolence and it’s scary. Witch’s familiar? It seems like this cat is definitely housing a malicious human presence.

When I’m on the computer, he jumps on the desk, positioning himself between my keyboard and me. He tries to chew my pen out of my hand if I’m writing manually. Jeez Louise.

Uh-oh, now he’s not content anymore with just chewing on pencils. He has graduated to climbing up the back of the chair and sinking his fangs into my head.

When I try to get him to scat, the cat holds its ground and snarls at me. Raurrr – Razor sharp claws, needle sharp teeth – there’s only so far I’m willing to push it. This ferocious feline could probably murder me in my sleep.

I finally banish it from the bedroom and close the door. THUD!! He throws himself on the door and starts scratching and wailing. You know that sound you hear just before a vicious catfight? RAUW_OW_AWRRR! Oh dear, now I’m trapped in the bedroom! I simply can’t go out and face that crazy demon!

One day while perusing the homeowner’s bookshelves, I notice a title– “How To Tell If Your Cat Is Trying To Kill You”. Hmmm, I guess I’m not the first. Perhaps this has happened before?

The Dogs

Then there are the dogs. One, Jasper, is a rescue – the owners got him from the Humane Society, who rescued him from a puppy mill.

He’s the smallest dog I’ve ever known, a miniature Yorkshire terrier, about the size of a squirrel. He looks like the sweet tiny creature from the Gremlins movie.

He was incredibly traumatized when his doting mistress dared to leave and abandon him with me. I really had to work on my dog whisperer skills. It broke my heart those first couple of nights. He would go into her office and curl up and cry, howling out the most pitiful moans. He wouldn’t eat at first, either, and I was very concerned, because he was too tiny to miss many meals.

Eventually, though, he got used to me. Then he turned into the tiny tyrant. Remember what happens in that Gremlins movie?

I’m used to treating animals as friends, companions, buddies – but I expect them to be able to entertain themselves at least part of the time. These dogs, however, are uber spoiled and unbelievably demanding of attention.  I don’t mind hanging out with them part of the day, but they want 24/7. I didn’t sign up for a full time job, but that’s what this one is turning into.

When I try to work they come in and paw at me because they think I should be hanging out in the living room with them instead of working in my bedroom/office. I move their doggy beds into my bedroom so that maybe they’ll be more comfortable hanging out. It helps a little, but it doesn’t take long before they get bored and interrupt me again.

They look up at me with that expectant look, like Puss in Shrek trying to turn on the charm. The little one makes a growly whine to try to get me to stop what I’m doing and devote all my time to him. It sounds just like a creaky door that needs its hinges oiled. It’s kind of funny. I’m unmoved, simply annoyed.

“Is that a creaky door I hear? Creaky door, creaky door, someone ought to oil the hinges!”

Mike warned me that most of these animals had stepped out the back door when God was handing out brains. They’re not the brightest stars in the firmament, but trying to get the leash on – or off Jasper really takes the cake. He squirms and wiggles as if I’m attempting to tear him limb from limb. I know he’ll really appreciate the walk – if he’ll only let me put the damn harness on!  It’s exasperating. I feel really bad for Yoshi, who desperately anticipates his walk but can’t go anywhere until I can get Jasper suited up.

Yoshi is my favorite of all the animals. He is a Chihuahua. He’s an old dog and the mellowest Chihuahua I’ve ever known. I didn’t really like Chihuahuas until I met Yoshi. He’s not as yippy as most, although he does have his moments. Instead, he’s lived with chickens so long he clucks. Literally. I keep looking around for the chicken, but it’s Yoshi. Pretty funny.

The Chickens

Then there are the chickens. I like the hens just fine, especially Goldie. Goldie looks exactly like Big Bird on Sesame Street. Goldie, like most of the chickens, is a Silkie. Silkies are frumpy, big and awkward looking, feathers always in disarray, constantly rolling around in the dirt. The Silky hens are sweet chickens, mellow, friendly and good-natured. There are 2 black hens, 2 gold and one hen of a different breed, a French Silkie.

The French Silkie is the styley girl. She’s much smaller and obviously a different breed. Her attitude aloof, her sleek black feathers are always perfectly groomed. She wears a jaunty red cap upon her brow. She moves about smartly and swiftly, not at a saunter like her bumptious country cousins.

Simon, the rooster, thinks she’s the hottest chickie in his harem. Although he’s possessive of all his hens, she is obviously his favorite.

Oh yeah, Simon. What a jerk. He’s the main reason this is a high maintenance housesit.

When the owners are home, Simon sleeps in the house. He even has his own chair that he roosts upon. Extremely territorial, he would not abide an intruder like me sharing his space. We agreed that Simon would have to sleep in the henhouse during my stay.

I would have liked to get to know the hens better, but whenever Simon saw me, he would fly into attack mode. This made it very difficult to feed and water the chickens, and as for entering the henhouse to gather eggs, well….

Susann said to use the broom to fend him off. Simon LOVED the broom. YES!!! A new enemy to challenge! Jousting with the broom was his favorite game. I still could not get near the henhouse.

The next-door neighbor finally gave me the key to dealing with Simon. She raised chickens, too, and she said that even though most roosters are jerks, Simon was the nastiest rooster she had ever met. Gave me some validation. She said, “Get the hose.”

I didn’t spray him. Chickens have delicate constitutions and if I got him wet he might catch cold and die. But after the first time a drop splashed up onto his foot, he got the message. After that, all I had to do was shake the hose at him and he backed off. Way off. Secret weapon if you ever have to deal with a nasty rooster.

We had a rough beginning, but we all survived our month together. I didn’t get much writing done, but I did get to experience many of the wonderful wild places found along the northern California coast. Yoshi and Jasper became my friends and I even tolerated the cats. I still share a friendship with Susann and Mike, and would be happy to take care of their pets again. Well, all of them, that is, except for Simon.