Dog Sitting

I've been dog sitting for the past half of a week, for my former neighbor's dog, because her husband is in the hospital and she just doesn't have time to deal with the dog. I'm not a dog person. I don't generally like dogs, and you may have garnered from a few posts prior that I care even less for dog shit.

I'd like to note that there is just one tiny little letter separating the words dog sitting from dog shitting.

I've been dog sitting and the dog has been dog shitting. Namely, in my house. Which I am less than okay with. The dog arrived last Wednesday night, and first thing Thursday morning, while I was in the shower, she left a little brown treat in the younger daughter's room while the younger daughter was sleeping. The dog then scampered down the hall to my bedroom and left the second half of the brown treat on my floor, and then merrily (I must assume) scampered back down the hallway and left a big puddle in middle of the hallway. Holy dog shit. Are you kidding me? I blame this on myself, because I thought I had time to jump in the shower quickety-quick before I took her out. Apparently not. I also realized upon stomping into the kitchen that I didn't put the cat's food bowl on top of the washing machine the night before and all the cat food was gone. I'll have to assume the dog ate the Indoor Delights Friskies and thus, left me some Indoor Delights.

So the dog and I had a little come-to-Jesus meeting, and then before everyone left the house on Thursday morning, the dog got put in her little pen that I jury-rigged in the living room.

And yes, this is the actual dog. By the time I get done with this whole post her name might be The Dog.

She's not crate trained and didn't come with a crate (hmmm....), but came with a baby-gate-playard kind of concoction. Got home Thursday evening with Guy #1 in tow since it was The Ex's night with the kids, and found that the dog can hold all of her bodily fluids if she's in her little pen. Awesome! Maybe this will work out okay. But then I was at work most of Friday (or pretending to be after my training class finished early and there was.no.fucking.way I was going back to work) and then out with Guy #1 for most of Friday night. I felt moderately guilty, because dogs actually need some attention. I spent a portion of Saturday in the house, and the dog was more than happy to terrorize Guy #1 because he's apparently scared of animals that look like overgrown mutant gerbils. Out and about again Saturday night and still no accidents in the jury-rigged pen.

Sunday morning. It was cold and sleeting outside, and I guess I rushed her through her business outside because maybe an hour after coming back in I found a little brown cookie in the younger daughter's room. Again, I blamed myself for not shutting the bedroom doors. I don't know why she only shits in the younger daughter's room. She hasn't done anything other than sleep in the older daughter's room. Sunday afternoon and she poops outside. Awesome! That second come-to-Jesus meeting must have really done the trick.

But uh-oh. What's that stuck on the hair around her butt? The dog has long hair. Long, thick hair. She's well groomed, and often smells like whatever kind of Avon shampoo my neighbor has been washing her with. Oh, god, is that a turd stuck on her butt? Holy fuck. It is. Oh my god. Fuck. She can't come back in the house with that thing back there, and she can't reach her own butt to clean it off. I guess that's the one good thing to dog sitting a slightly pudgy Pomeranian - when she sneak attacks me and licks me on my face I know that her tongue wasn't previously on her ass.

Anyway, back to the turd stuck in the hindquarter hair. I run in the house and can only come up with... Lysol wipes. Oh well, that'll have to do. I run back outside and put the dog in a mini-headlock and proceed to do nothing more than smear the dog shit all over her rear end. Oh fuck. Oh no. This is not working. Jesus Christ. Are you kidding me again? Pick the dog up and carry her at arms length into the house and then just stand there trying to figure out what to do. Well, into the kitchen sink because I don't know how to wash an entire dog. That's just too much for me to handle. And, Guy #1 was feeling neurotic about my bathrooms on Saturday morning and cleaned them for me, so there was no way I was going to put her into one of the tubs he just scrubbed. So the dog goes right into the sink and I get her into another headlock and try to adjust the water and squirt Dial hand soap onto her ass. Oh my god this is such a mess. Oh Jesus. Well, I certainly can't bring myself to actually touch this soapy, shitty mess I've created and I forgot that I have latex gloves in my bedroom (for doing my toenails, perverts, not the other stuff) so I just get a scrub brush and scrubbed the Dial hand soap around. I am now minus one scrub brush, by the way. Get the soapy, shitty mess off the dog with water that was probably too hot and then realize I have no towel handy to dry the dog. Oh well, I guess while I've got her here in this headlock I'll just take some scissors and trim up the hair back there so I won't have to go through this again. Who knew that Pomeranians have such thick non-trimmable ass hair? This dog might just be related to The Ex. Abandon all plans to trim the dog's ass hair and try to towel dry her with paper napkins. That too was unsuccessful.

Man, I needed a shot of tequila after all of that. Holy god. Actually, what the dog and I both needed a nap after that whole ordeal. But, not for me. Off to see the VCU game. Back in the pen, little fluff ball doggie. No problems Sunday night or Monday morning. At this point we've all kind of adjusted that the dog might be here for a while because my neighbor's husband is still in the hospital. The dog seems like she's enjoying us, the children are enjoying her and the cat lives in the basket on top of the dryer, right next to her food on top of the washer. No more Indoor Delights for the dog, that's for damn sure.

So, we continue on with the dog. I told my older daughter tonight, though, to quit asking me if the dog can come live here for good. The answer is a resounding NO. I'm a cat person. I want to feed the cat, put water in her bowl, scoop the litter box and have a lap available for her to climb in and get petted. I don't want to have to let the animal in and out and in and out and in and out one more time. I don't want to have to crawl around on my hands and knees with carpet cleaner, I don't want some jury-rigged pen in the middle of my living room and I don't want to have to chase a dog around around with Lysol wipes. The dog can visit, for short periods of time... but I'm a cat person. Big ups to the dog for reinforcing that.