Dog sitting for the dog sitters
In spite of the heat and humidity, this is an activity packed weekend in the IC area. There’s the Book Fest downtown, featuring Workshop alum Jane Smiley. There’s the Solon Beef Days, which isn’t the most vegetarian-friendly event but one of those classic summer milestones from my youth.
I wanted to check out both, but in the meantime I’m busy dog sitting Bailey for my aunt and uncle…who are dog sitting Bailey for friends. I’m dog sitting for the dog sitters.
Don’t ask me how it happened. They’re in Minneapolis tonight for a wedding shower, and the scheduling conflict apparently arose after they agreed to watch Bailey.
Dog sitting Bailey is no big deal. She’s a well-behaved dog and misses her owners. She has not eaten much, which is a good thing for me: no poop scooping. Right now I’m watching the Cubs-Phillies game and enjoying the gratuitous shots of the sexy chicks at Wrigley. I’ll write a little, read a little, and take her for another walk before my cousin returns to relieve me. But this brings up something I’ve been meaning to divulge to the blogging world for a while.
I don’t like dogs.
Dogs like Bailey — well-behaved, quiet, and innocently friendly — are OK despite their medium size. (I have no clue what kind of dog Bailey is, but she probably weighs about 75 pounds and, when standing, the top of her head is level with my thigh.) But loud, hyper, stupid, and jumpy dogs, regardless of size, scare and annoy me. They always have. Until I get to know a dog I’m very leery of them.
As a kid I always wanted a dog. Paradoxically, though, I didn’t like them. I was very apprehensive when dogs were around, and even said I was allergic so they would be kept away from me. My canine aversion seemed like a natural reaction, and I never understood it until last year when I connected the dots to my toddlerhood.
When I was just a young ‘un, a small dog in our neighborhood loved attacking me. According to my mom, whenever that dog and I were outside at the same time, the dog hunted me down for no good reason. I don’t remember anything, but it was a very impressionable time and the trauma obviously imprinted a deep fear of dogs on my subconscious. So don’t blame me. Blame dogs. They did it to themselves.
(My experiences with cats, to the contrary, have always been great. There are cats I don’t like, but I am what pet fanatics consider a “cat person.”)
I hate certain dogs to the point where I wouldn’t care seeing them run into the street and POW! One fewer dog in the world. My great aunt Mimie had a little black poodle who was an attention whore. Whenever I sat down (and she only did this to me) she jumped in my lap to be petted. When I stopped petting her, she snapped at me. It gave me great pleasure when I learned she was put down.
Ironically, dogs love me. I immediately interest them and they need to greet or attack me, which is terrifying. FUCK! Stay way!
Anyway, I can deal with Bailey. My aunt told me there’s beer in the fridge, so I should be fine.
I wanted to check out both, but in the meantime I’m busy dog sitting Bailey for my aunt and uncle…who are dog sitting Bailey for friends. I’m dog sitting for the dog sitters.
Don’t ask me how it happened. They’re in Minneapolis tonight for a wedding shower, and the scheduling conflict apparently arose after they agreed to watch Bailey.
Dog sitting Bailey is no big deal. She’s a well-behaved dog and misses her owners. She has not eaten much, which is a good thing for me: no poop scooping. Right now I’m watching the Cubs-Phillies game and enjoying the gratuitous shots of the sexy chicks at Wrigley. I’ll write a little, read a little, and take her for another walk before my cousin returns to relieve me. But this brings up something I’ve been meaning to divulge to the blogging world for a while.
I don’t like dogs.
Dogs like Bailey — well-behaved, quiet, and innocently friendly — are OK despite their medium size. (I have no clue what kind of dog Bailey is, but she probably weighs about 75 pounds and, when standing, the top of her head is level with my thigh.) But loud, hyper, stupid, and jumpy dogs, regardless of size, scare and annoy me. They always have. Until I get to know a dog I’m very leery of them.
As a kid I always wanted a dog. Paradoxically, though, I didn’t like them. I was very apprehensive when dogs were around, and even said I was allergic so they would be kept away from me. My canine aversion seemed like a natural reaction, and I never understood it until last year when I connected the dots to my toddlerhood.
When I was just a young ‘un, a small dog in our neighborhood loved attacking me. According to my mom, whenever that dog and I were outside at the same time, the dog hunted me down for no good reason. I don’t remember anything, but it was a very impressionable time and the trauma obviously imprinted a deep fear of dogs on my subconscious. So don’t blame me. Blame dogs. They did it to themselves.
(My experiences with cats, to the contrary, have always been great. There are cats I don’t like, but I am what pet fanatics consider a “cat person.”)
I hate certain dogs to the point where I wouldn’t care seeing them run into the street and POW! One fewer dog in the world. My great aunt Mimie had a little black poodle who was an attention whore. Whenever I sat down (and she only did this to me) she jumped in my lap to be petted. When I stopped petting her, she snapped at me. It gave me great pleasure when I learned she was put down.
Ironically, dogs love me. I immediately interest them and they need to greet or attack me, which is terrifying. FUCK! Stay way!
Anyway, I can deal with Bailey. My aunt told me there’s beer in the fridge, so I should be fine.
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