I Defied a Dog Owner and Got it in the Neck
Memoirs of a hellish one-week dog sit
I recently looked after my friends’ dog from Paris, as they’d gone to Spain for a week.
The dog, called Chibbie, was one of those designer dogs that comes out of a packet and eats only caviar.
My friends told me not to let it mix with the local dogs, as she was not sterilised yet.
They also told me it wouldn’t be a lot of work: one or two 30-minute walks a day. They lied.
They didn’t tell me she would wake up yelping every three hours to go for a pee. And not just a pee; she takes a shit as well. Her bowels are as weak as her bladder. Six months old and incontinent already. So much for the pedigree.
No, this wasn’t the deal.
The deal was that I would have quiet strolls by the river and peaceful nights by the fire. Not be awoken every three hours to watch a small dog spurt orange liquid over my grass.
She’s on a special diet, my friends said. When I asked what was wrong with her, they waved their hands and said something vague about the air pollution in Paris…
On the third day — exhausted — I texted them and told them I was going to leave her in the garage with the door open, as it was really mild for the time of year.
They phoned me back instantly.
“She’ll die of cold,” they claimed. “Please don’t do that.”
When I said I hadn’t slept much and needed to work, they checked (again!) that I was doing everything right.
YES! I told them. Only I wasn’t sure about the food — it seemed too rich for what was, in essence, a hunting dog.
NO! they insisted. Keep her on the pureed salmon as prescribed by their vet in Neuilly-sur-Seine.
Huh!
Since when did vets prescribe pet food? And since when did dogs wake up every three hours to pee and shit!
Clearly, the poor dog was unwell. She could hardly run up a hill and had the stamina of a hamster. When we got to the top, she started panting wildly before releasing another torrent of half-digested salmon from her bowels.
When I told my friends I might take it to my local vet, I could almost hear their screams from Valencia.
“NO NO!” they said. “Our vet is a specialist— he’s very good!”
“So is mine,” I said. “And probably ten times cheaper than yours.”
The silence was deafening — even from 1000 miles away in Spain.
A few days later, after letting her sleep in the garage and feeding her on some dog biscuits I had left over when I looked after a mongrel named Hanna, Chibbie seemed fine.
She wasn’t peeing, and her dog turds actually looked like dog turds as opposed to soup.
Then my friends came back from holiday.
When I told them about the garage and dog biscuits, they weren’t happy, claiming she looked ill and stressed and that I lied and they trusted me.
Blah Blah!
It’s difficult to keep your cool in these situations, and I didn’t. Telling them that Chibbie was about 1000 times better than when they brought her to me.
They left in a huff and went back to Paris, and chances are, I won’t see them for a while. If ever. Probably because they’ll be busy with all the other dogs they’re going to have.
Oh shit! Didn’t I mention the village mongrel who used to pay Chibbie a visit in the evenings?
That’s going to be an interesting phone call when I get it.
Oops!
All my shit are free. But if you want to support me, there’s an option of $1 - $5 a month! If not, forget about it.
I look stressed, too. I'll fetch myself a packet of biscuits.
You didn't take it to the bar?