Penny Post #41: The Chronicles of a Dog-sitter

A (wo)man's best friend 2.0.

Bo does this thing where he stands on the ledge of a room he is not allowed in and paces back and forth, crying for attention. He is a nine-year old golden retriever and yet it is as if he is still the four-month old puppy locked in his crate for the night. If even you move one inch, Bo will notice and his crying will get louder. I’ve been sleeping on the couch in the room Bo is not allowed in and thus he knows I am just one bark away from getting up and giving him attention or letting him outside to bark even louder. I shouldn’t do it; I really shouldn’t. I should ignore the crying and begging knowing that any reaction of mine is just going to encourage the behavior more. Bo knows his whining is effective. And this gets me in trouble. Because suddenly it is four am and I am in deep REM sleep before Bo’s whining creeps its way into a now-forgotten dream. I grovel when I unwrap myself from the warm blankets, skip to avoid the chill of the hardwood floors, and unlock the patio door. Bo rushes out in excitement, Riley right behind. One particularly groggy four am morning, I let Bo and Riley outside for all of sixty seconds before my drowsiness called them back in again. Riley, obedient as ever, ran back inside. Bo, unsurprisingly, decided he was going to lay in the dew of the grass during my humiliating turn to plead and whine. I tiptoed outside, arms crossed against my chest despite knowing that he was unlikely to budge. As I approached, he rolled over on his back, exposing his belly. As if I was going to pet his belly at this hour in the northeast winter?! Good one, Bo. Joke’s actually on you. 

The twenty minute timer I set for myself while falling back asleep never rang. Unfortunately for Bo, twenty minutes soon turned into four hours. This is what happens when you are a golden retriever blind to consequence and now are afforded the privilege of watching the dawn rise above the horizon. 

I made it up to him the next day with a long walk at Irwin park. He loved the new smells almost as much as he loved the strangers. Bo, with the inflated ego of a celebrity, believes every single stranger - strolling, running, partnered, solo, on the other side of the street or otherwise - wants to coddle him. He holds this belief so strongly that he will actually stop in the middle of the road and wait for them to approach. The amount of times that I’ve had to drag him away from the middle aged woman who wants nothing to do with the obese golden retriever on her morning walk is remarkable. No amount of being ignored stops Bo from attaching himself to this belief even more strongly. I wish I could believe in anything as much as Bo believes in his one-hundred and seven pound self. 

What he doesn’t know, what he shrinks away from, however, is how much he is deeply, deeply loved by a young woman who has been in and out of his life for several years; who returns older and wiser as the hair on Bo’s snout turns from gold to grey. He is my favorite one hundred and seven pound thing. He, during this week with me as his sole caretaker, has become my best friend. I love the way he positions himself beside me so I can scratch the spot on his back that he loves the most. I love the way he will sit on the patio in the pouring rain; soaking wet and as peaceful as ever. In those moments, he looks like he knows something that I don’t about ease. He probably does. If anyone knows anything about ease, it is a golden retriever living in the suburbs of the Northeast with a backyard to call his own. I love the way he barks at the golden retriever stuffed animal thinking it is a long lost cousin. I love the way he literally falls asleep: he climbs on an overpriced ottoman which he long ago claimed as his own and literally collapses onto his stomach. I love the way he insults his older brother (Riley, miniature golden doodle, 11) with his lack of attention and disregard. And, admittedly, I love the way he cries and whines on the ledge in the living room, telling me he needs me. 

These are not things I expected to learn much less love when I agreed to dog sit several months ago. My parents were traveling to a far-away island in the Caribbean to celebrate their 29th wedding anniversary and were in need of a dog sitter. Coincidentally, I happened to be home and unemployed and available for all hours of the day to watch their beloved Bo and Riley. Sign me up, I guess. 

I was nervous to be alone in my childhood home, the one in which I’ve spent many years learning and unlearning, expanding and shrinking. The first night I brought down my favorite blankets from my bedroom, my heating pad, and Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act: A Way of Being, so I might be closer to the four-legged creatures I’m sharing this empty house with. I’ve spent the last five days in this small world of my choosing. I’m awoken by Bo, I eat a bowl of cheerios, and I apply for a library card. I sip chai tea lattes, I dine with my 89 year-old grandmother, and I pick seven thousand pieces of golden retriever fur off of my body. I puzzle, I pretend Ann Patchett is my writing fairy godmother, and I again, pick seven thousand pieces of golden retriever fur off of my body. Life is abundantly furry and life is abundantly good. I’m reminded that it is nice to be needed and I’m reminded that it is nice to have needs fulfilled by a creature who knows nothing less than unconditional love. These are realizations cradled in the reality that I’m only here because I’ve clung to twenty-six bricks, thinking it enough to build a life. Yet all that matters to Bo is that I’m here. This matters just slightly less than his outstanding belief that he be the center of my universe during every minute of every day in what I wish was a longer life. And in this moment he is convincing both of us of this: crying on the ledge in the room he can’t enter.

Duty calls. And duty, in this case, looks like this:

Until next time, 

Kiera