Over thanksgiving weekend a friend of a friend asked me if I would be interested in watching his dog Hera for about a week. Though he insisted on pointing out the difficulty of the task at hand (he revered the small Bichon as his baby; going to great lengths to describe her separation anxiety and wacky sleeping habits), I begrudgingly agreed. The money seemed good enough at the time; 200 dollars for a week of solitude in a flashy designer duplex- sort of thing. After an exhausting phone conversation/house tour in which I was required to remember ver batum the seemingly infinite tasks and minor peculiarities of the dog, I was all set. I was to begin my adventure on Saturday morning around nine, and made sure to finish all the appropriate preparations beforehand.
Everything was going fine until Thursday night, when I looked at my phone and noticed three missed calls and two new voicemails from Randy (the friend of a friend). I hurriedly called him back, and was dismayed to find out that his flight was leaving at 7:00 in the morning- a development which now called for me to "make the hand-off" with Hera at 5:00am instead of the earlier agreed upon time of 9:00. At this point it was too late to back out, and I had taken a liking to Randy and his fancy digs, so I agreed to meet him outside my house at the crack of dawn to begin my duties.
We pulled up to his house at 5:05 on the button, and after a quick exchange of good-byes and good lucks he was off, and I was alone with the little puffy ball of canine that would dominate my life for the next seven days. Hera was supposed to eat her gourmet, refrigerated dog food every morning around eight, and while I tried in vain to stay up, I was out of commission by seven. I awoke around eleven to the dry, screeching yips of Zeus's unfortunate lover, beckoning for me to show any sign of attention or food. I struggled out of bed, and meandered out into the living room where an attempt at play was made. The rest of the first day went very smoothly, and I took a discreet pleasure in caring for a dog that was so much tinier, so much more rodent-like and manageable than my gargantuan breeds at home.
While Hera was somewhat of a pill (particularly during her senile desires to defecate at numerous times during the night), we quickly came to enjoy each others company, culminating on the third night when she sheepishly met me at in the bedroom and glanced up in anticipation of sleeping at the foot of her new owner's bed.
As I predicted, the week was very low-key, mainly highlighted by my girlfriend coming over to snuggle and enjoy the food I prepared in Randy's stellar kitchen: sparkling marble-tops, shiny new cutlery from Europe, and a refrigerator filled with expensive organic delights like Kambucha and exotic olives with feta and Italian brine).
Yes everything was going well, even when my girlfriend leaned over from her relaxed position on the couch and noticed the gleaming pile of poo hiding in the far corner of the living room carpet- a mess so tiny I had to stand over the spot for several minutes before realizing where it lay; even when Hera was "cruelly" left on her own for two hours on Thanksgiving and rewarded us by scratching Randy's pristine wooden framework in the downstairs kitchen; even when she sat placidly looking at her food for hours, forcing me to constantly shift the delicate food between the refrigerator and her feeding spot; even when she jumped out of bed at four in the morning-sixth sense tingling- shouting and yelping and causing all manner of hell before coolly slipping back to sleep; even after eight days of this trying animal, I couldn't help but feel disappointed when her real owner came bounding back in the door.
