Doggy Days

Yesterday we visited Chris’s parents in New Hampshire to celebrate their anniversary. Because the trip takes 2 hours each way and we wanted to stay for lunch and dinner, we’d asked my parents and the 9-year-old down the street to stop in separately during the day to let the dogs out.

My parents never had pets growing up, so I don’t like to ask them for help. But my father had successfully taken them out alone once before when we were delayed in a traffic jam, and my parents needed to stop by my house anyway. They were going to pick up the turkey and then leave it in our refrigerator, since their own fridge was already stuffed full. So I thought it wouldn’t be too inconvenient to see if they could let the dogs out, and when I asked, they had no problems with it. Just in case, though, I left a careful, detailed note of instructions for them in an envelope which I attached to the refrigerator door.

We could have used the 9-year-old for both visits, but frankly, at $5 a visit, we could only afford for her to stop in once. I called her the Mercenary, because I had hoped we could get away with paying her a couple of bucks per visit. Chris had scoffed at me and said, “No one does anything for less than five bucks nowadays.” After the first visit, she had deposited a color-printed invoice in our mailbox, and Chris laughed when he saw my face at the bill for $5. She was a tiny businesswoman who, two days after her family had moved into our neighborhood, was distributing flyers advertising her pet-sitting services.

My parents were free, and they had the first shift.

We left our house around 10 AM. My parents were scheduled to stop by around 1:30. At 1:35, as I was boarding a bus with Chris and his parents to a fundraiser fair, my cell phone rang.

“Jane,” my mother shouted.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“No! No one will go outside!” Her voice lowered and she whispered, confidentially, “I think when it’s raining, maybe they don’t like to go outside.” Her voice made it clear that she thought she’d stumbled upon a secret dog behavioral tip. “Daddy went outside, but no one followed him. They just came back to the door.”

“You have to go outside also,” I said. “Maybe they just want to be inside with you?”

“I went outside. I’m talking to you outside. But all the dogs went inside and I can’t see them anymore.”

“Oh.” I thought for a minute. “You might have to carry Mina and put her on the ground. Everyone else should follow after that.”

My mother relayed the directions to my father. In the background, I could hear some discussion as to which dog was Mina. I hoped they wouldn’t get mixed up and try to pick up Flacko by mistake, because Flacko would try to bite them, and that would be the end of emergency dog care by my parents.

My mother returned to the phone. “I’ll try again,” she said. “Goodbye!”

A few minutes later, my phone rang again. My father was breathing heavily into the phone.

“Hello!” I said. When no one answered, I said again, “Hello?”

My father waited. Then he said, loudly, “Paco threw up.”

“What?!?” I said. I turned to Chris. “Paco threw up!” I hissed. I turned back to the phone, while Chris rolled his eyes.

My father said, “Is that normal?”

“No, it’s not normal! When did he throw up? Right now?”

“Just threw up! Now he mad at me! I try to pick him up and he want to bite me!”

I gasped loudly. I said to Chris, “He tried to bite my parents!”

Across the aisle in the bus, Chris’s father said, “That’s Paco, all right.”

I turned back to the phone. “But when did he throw up? Did it just happen?”

“Paco can’t breathe,” my father said. “Can you hear him?”

“Dad,” I said. There was no answer. Presumably my father was holding the phone to Paco. “DAD!” I shouted.

My father returned to the phone. “Did you hear him?”

“No, I couldn’t hear anything. Is it wheezing? Sometimes they just do that. Can you pet him on the neck? That might help him calm down.”

“Like he can’t breathe,” my father said. “Mom try to pet him and he want to bite her. Now he going upstairs to his other room. He’s mad!”

“No one go outside,” my father continued. “Flacko just in a blanket, nobody wants to come outside. Rain, maybe.”

I tried to catch up to his conversation. “Is it still raining?”

“Heavy,” he said.

“So it’s raining pretty hard?”

My father seemed puzzled. “No, just mist.”

I gave up. “Let me talk to Mom,” I said.

My mother’s voice said, “Paco threw up.”

Now that I had the medical person on the line, I could get some details. “What did the vomit look like?” I shouted.

“Watery,” she said.

“Like cloudy?” Maybe it was stomach acid.

“No,” she said. “More clear. Not smelly!”

“It wasn’t smelly,” I reported to Chris, and to the rest of the bus. By now everyone was being treated to a description of Paco’s puke, whether they liked it or not.

Chris said, “So what? Who cares if he threw up?”

I shot him a reproachful look. “Who cares?!?” I repeated, astounded.

He backpedaled quickly. “I mean, what can we do about it from here?”

I ignored him. “Mom,” I shouted. She didn’t seem to be hearing me well on the cell phone.

“Maybe I should read your instructions again. What are these in the envelope?” she said, rustling papers around.

“Dog treats, Mom. Maybe you could try giving him a treat and see if he’ll eat it. Or sit down on the couch and see if you can sit with them for a while.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’m sitting now. Ooh, here comes Paco. He’s scraping at me. He wants me to pet him! Mina’s here too, but Flacko’s in his blanket. No, he’s coming out too. They all want me to pet them! They’re all sitting on me! Everybody’s happy now!”

I interrupted her play-by-play. “Okay, Mom, can you try taking them out again in a few minutes? Maybe when they calm down?”

“Okay, goodbye!”

The bus deposited us at the house where the craft fair was taking place. The house was a 10,000 square foot waterfront summer home that had been offered by its owners for use during the two days of the fair. I had just put on blue paper booties over my shoes and made it through the large kitchen when my phone rang again.

“They all went outside!” my mother said happily. “Paco peed for sooooo long! And he ate his treat, so I guess he feels better. I didn’t see Mina go, but she went off the deck anyway. Flacko went.”

“That should be okay,” I said.

“Where’s Mina?” she suddenly said. “Mina? Mina? Oh, here she is. She’s in the kitchen looking at Daddy. Daddy ate one of your oatmeal cookies,” she said. “He needs a treat, too!”

Hours later, as we were on our way home, I decided to call the 9-year-old to make sure everything had gone well. She was succinct, like the professional she was.

“Mina wouldn’t get off the deck,” she reported. “I carried her down, and she just ran right back up.”

“But the other two were okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They all made poops.”

I was off the phone in less than three minutes. Maybe she was worth $5, after all.

Posted by: ssjane | November 22, 2004 | 12:10 pm
Posted in: Dogs