Moose in the Kitchen

Meeka is usually cared for by someone who gets to swear at the computer in pajamas, rather than in two-piece suits like the rest of us. (And by “two-piece suit” I mean “jeans and a t-shirt”.) The puppy princess gets two hour walks to the beach virtually every day. She gets taken to the gym, on errands, to visit family. She gets at least six vigourous petting sessions every 24 hours, is allowed to stand on people’s chests just because she likes it, and is beaten with socks on a regular basis. (She likes being beaten with socks and no, they aren’t filled with quarters.)

But not on my watch. When her usual caretaker takes off, she gets begrudged even her meager ten-minute constitutional to pee and sniff things. I feel guilty, but I’m late for work and she insists on investigating every last tree within a three-block radius to see who else has peed on it. I don’t know what kind of information she gleans from six day old German shepherd urine, but apparently this is how dogs update their blogs and she must stay abreast of current developments.

Dog-Whisperer I Am Not

Standing behind her while she leisurely inspects a tree.

“Seriously, dog. Pee.”

Sniff, sniff goes her nose; tap, tap goes my sneaker.

“No, I mean it. It’s time to squat on those little legs. This is your shot.”

Melt in the heat of her withering glare. Pleading degenerates into begging.

“Please pee, dog. Please?”

Follow the dog as she ambles slowly to the next tree, gets distracted by a fallen bagel chunk, a sudden whiff of eau de kitten, and two ants. Finally approaches a tree and sniffs for long enough that I think “Thank Baby Jesus, she’s going to do it,” until she turns, looks at me and, malicious pleasure inscribed all over her treacherous furry face, leaves the tree without releasing a single drop. Realize that I could recite an entire exposition on the merits of urination, but she still won’t understand English. Or have any regard for my schedule.

Being traded away from the one who strolls scenic paths for hours, who pauses to allow her an involved discussion with a gopher about the latest in rodent real estate, to the walker who shouts “Hustle, hustle!” while clapping her hands is like living with Santa Claus and then being shuffled off to Aunt Cruella’s, the woman who’s clearly pondering whether that shiny coat would make a better hat or area rug. I’m used to having a dog, I’m just not used to doing anything to care for the dog. This arrangement is like having a chia pet, only with more tongue. I’m now discovering that dogs don’t walk themselves.

Don’t get me wrong, the puppy princess is absolutely worth spoiling and I’d love to do it. I just don’t have time. I race to work in the morning, race to a three hour rehearsal after work, race home to trot the dog around the block and do more work before falling asleep at 1 a.m.

Those of you with fingers poised over the telephone keypad to report me to the SPCA (this girl? with this dog? who has a blog? in San Francisco? I think she leaves the dog at home alone all day.) should know that we do have a dog walker. Who walks the dog. She’s not quite as abused by my neglect as I imply. But her quality of life has deteriorated rapidly since Wednesday and she’s not happy about it. I’m not immune to her baleful sighs or the maligned glare that clearly states, “You’re failing me. I’m so miserable right now. I think I’ll go curl up on the rug in front of the door to wait for the guy with the socks to come back.”

With my luck, that’s where she’ll finally pee.

Related posts:

1. In Defense of My Ass
2. The Last Sanctum Has Been Breached
3. I’m Not Sure if This is Irony, But it Feels Very Much Like it
4. I Like My OCD with a Side of ADD
5. To Whom it May Concern: Backyard Needs Squirrels