Missoula News

Column: Making it in Missoula

Perils of Dog-Sitting in Missoula

By Little Sis, 2-27-08

As mentioned before, my sweetie is the proud owner of a yellow lab retriever.  Let’s call her Spot.  And after more than a year, I’m finally allowed to dog-sit Spot while he’s off milling wood in the middle of nowhere and doing other things not conducive to doggy presence.

We had a dog the whole time I was growing up, but there are a few reasons why dog care was a little different in my California neighborhood.  You can leave your dog outside for hours on end because the temperature never drops below a tropical 60 degrees.  Everyone around us had huge yards, so walking the dog is not nearly as common.  I have to admit, I thought the concept of picking up your dog’s poop in a plastic bag was a little ridiculous when I moved here, until the thaw hit and running through Pineview Park was an activity reserved to brave athletes with fancy footwork.  Plus, my dad taught our dog not to lick, jump, bark, hang around the kitchen, or poop on the lawn.  She was pretty low-maintenance.

So, here I am, entrusted for the first time with Spot after proving my worthiness for many months.  I have to admit I’m a little nervous about screwing up.  But how hard can dog-sitting be, right?

Well, first I have to throw it out there that Spot has hit the ripe old age of 12.  She injured her knees hiking across Idaho with Mountain Man a few years ago, and so her back legs are, at times, decorative at best.  This means that she can’t walk faster than, say, a turtle.  So we stroll slowly around Rattlesnake Creek in what we’ve dubbed the Spot 1.0, a mile trudge that takes about an hour.

Spot also likes to follow me into the basement to watch movies (yes, we hide our TV in the basement), which, with her backleg deficiency, is a bit of an adventure.  She takes the steps one at a time, contemplating each one, and then generally checks her “speed” at the bottom by running into the wall with her face.  Then she turns and looks up the stairs mournfully, realizing what she’s done.

But no worries!  Dog-sitter to the rescue!  I’m pretty good at giving Spot a ride back up to the top wheel-barrow style (which is actually a hell of an ab workout).  Spot has developed a bit of a problem lately, though.  After having her glands expelled a couple times (something I just discovered that dogs need done occasionally—I won’t describe it here because it frankly grosses me out), Spot has a smelly infection in her nether regions that makes the wheel-barrow ride a dreaded event. 

Luckily, Mountain Man foresaw this problem and considerately purchased some lavender-scented dog spray before he left.  “Don’t worry honey!  I bought some butt spritzer!”

Unfortunately, application of the butt spritzer only makes her smell like lavender butt.  I’m pretty sure this kind of thing only happens when your dog is the equivalent of 84.

On the plus side, it’s definitely a social event to walk your dog around the block.  People seem much more apt to talk to you, especially when Spot ambles up to every single person we see to solicit gratuitous pets.  I have to admit I’m a little protective of her though:

Dude biking by with his dog: “Wow, what a pretty dog you have!”

Me: “Yep!”

Dude: “She’s got some years on her.  What is she, 13, 14?”

Me: “She’s only 12, jerk!”

Elderly couple strolling: “Looks like it won’t be long before you need a wagon to take that one for a walk.”

Me: “Look who’s talking!”

Okay, so I guess I’m a little overprotective.  I just don’t want people making jokes like that about me when I’m 84.  Luckily, Mountain Man taught Spot to poop in other people’s yards, so we’ll just make some quick stops at the offenders’ houses.

Spot is not necessarily friendly either, unless you’re a human with a hand that conveniently reaches her ears.  It’s hit or miss with other dogs . . . usually miss.  Just because her back legs don’t work too well doesn’t mean she can’t pivot from a sitting position in a streak of geriatric lightening to growl at the cute little puppy sniffing her lavender butt.  So that makes going to the Dog Park out of the question.  We’d be social outcasts, sitting there all alone and growling at anything that tried to be nice.  No need to subject ourselves to that. 

So basically, dog-sitting isn’t all that bad.  But I’ll be glad when Mountain Man comes home so that I can give up wheel-barrow duties.  If I ever get a dog of my own, I’ll make sure it weighs under 50 pounds.

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