Tales Unleashed

From 2001-2012, I had a pet sitting business. For many of those years it was an extremely successful and profitable business...until 2008 entered our lives. In any event, I have written a collection of short stories based on my life as a pet sitter. I have already posted a couple of those stories and I will occasionally post each and every one of them right here. Today is one of those days when I feel so moved to share. Please note that this material is copywrited.

Tales Unleashed

A Collection of Nearly True Stories of My Life As a Professional Pet Sitter



I sat in the emergency room with a towel wrapped around my bloody hand. I felt a trickle of blood oozing down my back, the second location where the dog had bitten me. Lucky for me, I thought, that my wounds were not too serious, for as with most emergency rooms, time seemed to move in slow motion. I had placed my name on the sign-in clipboard nearly three hours earlier and now I shifted uncomfortably on the hard, orange plastic chair, passively awaiting my turn and grateful I wasn’t bleeding to death. I pondered the wisdom of approaching the rather severe-looking check-in nurse to request an update as to where I stood on the list of names awaiting emergency care. The colorful, smiley faces adorning her scrubs were in direct contrast to the disagreeable expression she wore on her face. Both she and her equally crabby-looking co-worker guarded the clipboard with hawk-like scrutiny. A certain protocol is acquired during an extended wait in the emergency room, one of which is the understanding of the power of the check-in nurse. She can literally determine life or death for an individual, depending upon her mood or general disposition. I had watched in horror as many naïve individuals had pleasantly asked some rather mundane questions, such as if she had change for a dollar or could she point them in the direction of the closest phone. Her heavy, oh-my-god-if-I-have-to-answer-one-more-stupid-question sigh sent clear signals to the rest of us within earshot to hold all inquiries until our names were called.

The interminable wait had left me terribly thirsty and I desperately needed to use the restroom but I was hesitant to leave the area, fearing my name would be called during the few minutes I was away. I knew I would lose my place among the afflicted, and move once again to the bottom of the list. But the urgency of the situation compelled me to give it a go. As I approached the nurse’s desk, another applicant was called. I decided to stand close by and wait until the interrogation was complete so I could quickly slip in my question.

A young couple approached her desk warily. The woman was very pregnant and seemed quite anxious. Beads of sweat stood out on her face and her eyes bulged with fear. The young man accompanying her looked equally nervous but still managed to exhibit an air of pride.

“Why are you here today?” the check-in nurse began her inquisition.

“I think I’m in labor,” answered the young woman, timidly.

“What do you mean you think you are in labor? Either you are or you aren’t,” she retorted, throwing the expectant mother one of her now-famous scornful looks.

“Well, this is my first baby, I don’t really know what to expect. I am having pains though,” said the pregnant girl, a bit sheepishly.

“We’ve got a full house here this afternoon so maybe you should go on home and wait till the real thing hits. Then you won’t be wondering if you are in labor, you’ll know it,” the nurse crossed the woman’s name off her list and was about to call her next victim when the young father stepped up to the plate.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he began, “I know we are new at this and all but I still would like for a doctor to check her. The last thing I need is for her to have the baby in the car on our way home,” he finished.

The nurse shot him a withering and heaving a great sigh, pulled herself to her feet.

“Fine then, you’ll just be taking the bed away from someone who really needs it. Follow me,” she said without a glance behind her. Bravely, they quickly gathered their belongings and hurried behind her.

The nurse returned a moment later. I had hoped for a more upbeat moment to pop my question about running to the restroom but I knew it was now or wait until I burst so I plunged ahead.

               “Excuse me,” I said in my most groveling voice, “I need to run to the restroom real quick. Can you tell me where I am on the list? I don’t want to miss being called.”

               “Name,” the irritation from the previous interview lingered in her voice.

               “Linda Logan,” I answered.

               “And why are you here,” she further queried, giving me no eye contact, her voice dripping with boredom.

               I found this an interesting question since I had a bloody towel wrapped around my hand, rips in the back of my blood-soaked, beloved Margaritaville t-shirt, and also by the fact that I had written it on her sacred clipboard when I checked in three hours earlier.

               “Dog bite,” I answered.

               The disinterested nurse suddenly came to life. She whipped her head around to look fiercely at her cohort, who moments before was picking at her cuticles with intense concentration. They both abruptly jumped up in great alarm. The second-in-command nurse moved hurriedly to the podium and snatched the clipboard right out from under the writing hand of a new arrival and raced it back to first nurse. The former cold-hearted nurse grabbed it from her co-worker and slid her finger down the long page till it arrived at my name. She looked at the line I had filled in and saw the words “dog bite”, then she ran it all the way across my entire entry until she came to the time I had checked in. Rising from her chair and glaring at the worried assistant, she spoke to me in a lowered voice with a tone bordering on genuine concern.

               “Please come with me, ma’am.”

               She led me through large swinging doors with intimidating red lettering proclaiming “No Admittance” and past the tiny cubicles where the intake clerks sat in neat rows. I followed her into a small examining room. Pulling the curtain around the entire area, she told me a doctor would be with me momentarily. When she left I heard quiet murmuring on the other side of the privacy curtain and assumed she was filling the emergency room doctor in on the “situation”. As I eased up onto the examining table, cradling my injured right hand, I began thinking about how in the world I had arrived in a hospital with these wounds on such a beautiful spring day.

               As a professional pet sitter, I definitely try to avoid the whole “rips and gashes” scenario, but not being the best judge of people, I sometimes will take a client without even noticing that I’m tripping all over the place on red flags.

    It was the usual busy spring break time in March. The weather was fabulous in central Florida and beckoned many to the glistening sands of our world famous Daytona Beach. This was one of my main money making holidays. The phone rang with a pet owner begging me to squeeze his dog into my already too full schedule. Apparently the place where he normally boarded the dog was booked and everyone else he called was full as well. I almost never turned down a job so I agreed to run over to his house immediately and meet him and his dog. He planned on leaving for the beach that evening.

               When I arrived, it appeared that half the neighborhood   was there also, noisily talking and visiting with each other. Children were taking turns riding a four-wheeler in the large backyard and a few men were tossing a football around in the front yard, a tub of Budweisers cooling on ice. The owner of the dog greeted me and introduced himself as I came up the walk. He told me his wife would be instructing me as to the care of the dog. His wife, looking a bit frazzled and very apologetic opened the door and invited me inside. As I stepped over suitcases and bags piled near the door, a Nerf Frisbee thrown by a laughing ten year old collided with my head. I shot a not-so-pleased smile toward the kid.

     The dog, Clipper, was in a large plastic crate in the dining room lazily watching the uproar. The wife opened the crate door to introduce me to Clipper. He was a yellow lab mix of some type, weighing about seventy pounds. He had on a shock collar and a leash and as he sleepily got to his feet, the woman reached inside her pocket to get the shock buzzer. This is where I should have seen the first red flag! He stepped out of the crate, languidly stretching his long body, completely ignoring me.

               “Let’s take him outside for a bit. I’ll show you where we walk him,” she said.

               We walked Clipper around their huge yard, while I kept one eye on the dog to determine the need for a shock collar and the other eye on the wild child riding the four- wheeler. The kid appeared to be barreling toward us at top speed. The dog was completely unfazed; in fact, he ambled along like a geriatric patient on a Sunday stroll. I thought that the dog should perhaps hand the shock collar over to the kid.  He carefully lifted his leg on a pink blooming azalea. An enormous amount of urine streamed onto the bush. I nonchalantly moved to the upstream side of the dog, avoiding getting splashed and run over by the kid who only ever so slightly avoided hitting his mother.

              Finally I had to ask, “Why is he wearing a shock collar?” I tried to sound as unconcerned as the dog appeared.

               “Oh, that’s no big deal,” she quickly offered. “Sometimes he jumps on people and this seems to be the only way to stop that impolite behavior. It’s my husband’s idea really,” she added confidentially, “I can take it off if you like.”

               I sensed a bit of nervousness. This is where I should have seen that red flag waving a bit.

               “That’s OK. He just seems so docile,” I said.

               “Oh, he is. He’s a great dog. My son, Jimmy, just loves him to death. That’s Jimmy on the four-wheeler over there.” She gestured toward a boy standing on the seat of the four-wheeler and going full tilt, hair blowing wildly in the wind. Let’s go in and I’ll show you where we keep his food and medication.”

               I followed her back inside to the kitchen. She showed me where Clipper’s things were kept. I asked about the medication and how it was administered. She told me that they typically put it in a piece of cheese and that it was an herbal product to help keep him calm while they were away because he suffered from separation anxiety. Inwardly I snickered at this notion. This dog was oblivious. We sat down at the kitchen counter where I showed her my proof of insurance and bonding and gave her a contract to fill out. Ten year old Jimmy joined us, as did his cousin and neighbor friend. When we got to the section on the contract which asks if there is any reason I should approach Clipper with caution, I was quickly assured, again, that he was a good dog and had not bitten anyone. The cousin, who appeared to be about eight years old, looked at his aunt with apparent consternation and offered some obviously unwanted information by saying that he had been snapped at by Clipper on several occasions. The woman looked shocked. The neighbor child also chimed in saying that the dog growled at her every time she came over.

               “That’s because you are afraid of him. Dogs smell fear you know, you scaredy-cat,” mocked Jimmy.

               “Am not!” shot back the little girl.

               Jimmy turned the tables and took aim at me. “How do we know you won’t steal our stuff or hurt my dog?” His voice took on the tone of an FBI interrogator.

               Now this was the first time a kid had interviewed me and I was a bit taken aback. The mother stepped in quickly.

               “Jimmy! Amy does this for a living. She is a professional. I’m sure she is very good with animals and I’m sure she doesn’t steal from people.” She smiled at me, again nervously and apologetically. It was clear to me who ran the household in this family. We completed the contract while Clipper snoozed in the corner. I made note of all pertinent information concerning the dog and emergency contact numbers.  The woman handed me the house key and a check and escorted me to the door with the understanding I would begin my visits to Clipper the very next morning. The husband waved cheerily to me as I left the house, beer bottle in one hand as he attempted to catch the football in the other.

              The next morning dawned beautifully. I loved this time of day when pearly grey crept across lakes and ponds and slipped into the Spanish moss that hung heavily from the ancient oak trees. The temperature was perfectly cool, promising the warmth of sunshine later in the day. The spring break holiday had, happily, filled my schedule so I was on the road at 5 am, sipping my morning coffee and enjoying my favorite time of day. I had scheduled my visit to Clipper at the end of my other dog clients based on the information that he liked to sleep in. I would tend to my cat clients after Clipper.

              The sun was burning off the morning mist as I drove up to Clipper’s house. As I walked up to the door, searching for the correct key among my huge array of house keys, I saw the tub which yesterday had been full of ice and beer. All that remained was water from the melted ice. I located Clipper’s key and as I turned it in the lock and swung open the door, a low, menacing growl met me. The hair rose on the back of my neck and my heart rate increased dramatically. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, breathing deeply to calm myself, my hand remaining on the door knob as I tried to determine the location of the growl. I wanted to be certain the dog was still in his crate. I called his name in a high-pitched, playful tone, allowing him time to recognize my smell and voice. The growling stopped. I entered the dining room where his crate was and looked inside. The morning light was still soft, not yet strong and illuminating so the inside of the crate was still quite dark. I crouched down to have a better look inside and at that moment the dog lunged at me, growling deeply and then barking wildly. Startled, I fell backwards onto the floor on my butt and stared at this canine version of Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde. His hackles rose up into a mohawk all the way down the length of his back.

              Whoa! I thought to myself, what is up with him? The puzzle pieces began to tumble into place as I thought back to all the signals that I had naively missed.

              “What’s the matter, Clipper, did your Prozac wear off?” I asked him in a falsely friendly voice. “Herbal product, my ass,” I continued talking aloud to myself and to him, softening my voice to a coo.

              He seemed to calm down a bit. Maybe he just needed to hear my voice. I began a conversation with him while I looked around for his leash, some treats and the shock buzzer. Everything was on the kitchen counter, along with several notes with further instructions for me which I read aloud to Clipper in a high-pitched, sing song voice.

                   Dear Linda – thanks so much for watching Clipper

                   for us last minute like this. We appreciate it.

                   Please help yourself to anything in the fridge.

                   Make sure Clipper gets his meds right away. We

              don’t want him to be too anxious while we are

              away.

         

              Another dirt-smudged note, left by the real master of the manor, ten-year old Jimmy:

              To the dog lady – Stay out of my room and do not

              hurt my dog!

              Clipper had stopped growling and was watching me intently as I walked around the kitchen, talking softly to him. I took a lot of time preparing his food, washing his water bowl and filling it and getting his medication ready. I hung the leash around my neck, piled treats in my pockets and with his medication tucked inside a piece of cheddar cheese and with the shock buzzer in my hand, I approached his crate. I leaned down and without making direct eye-contact, I tossed his medication into the crate. He didn’t even glance at it, his eyes remained riveted on me. Great, I thought, a strict vegan. I looked at him. He looked at me. I had very few options. I had to get the dog outside to relieve himself. I decided I needed some type of shield so in the event he tried to take me out, I would at least have some protection. I began searching the house for something, anything that might possibly defend me in the event he attacked me. The kitchen didn’t have anything except sharp objects—not a bad idea but most clients did not want to return home to a skewered pet. I needed to find something quick. I felt the clock ticking. I still had several cat clients which needed tending.  One was diabetic and needed her insulin injection. I went out to the back yard and spotted a lawn chair but found it too unwieldy to hoist in front of me. I finally settled on the lid to their Weber grill. I returned to the dog and placed the grill lid on top of his crate. Without any hesitation, I quickly reached down and opened the crate door with my right hand. He leapt out and immediately snapped at my hand. In one swift movement, I was able to leash him, grab the grill lid and with a show of disinterest and unconcern, as if I did this everyday, I ushered him out the front door. For the moment, this façade worked on the dog. He walked around calmly, investigating this scent or lifting his leg on that.  I must have looked quite the spectacle walking around the yard with a grill lid held protectively between myself and what appeared to be a harmless, sweet-tempered dog. After Clipper had completed his business and had enjoyed what I considered to be a reasonable period of outside time, I began leading him back to the house. As we approached the front door, he stopped moving. He firmly planted all four of his feet, lowered his upper body and pulled away from me, refusing to move. I was getting very weary of this difficult animal and so I just pleaded with him and at the same time gave him a hearty tug with the leash. Bad move. He glared at me, growling and lifting his lip to reveal sparkling white teeth. This simultaneously pissed me off and weakened my bladder. A flash of a thought ran through my head – I wondered if he used crest white strips because those teeth really were quite white. I pulled the shock buzzer out of my pocket and turned it on.

          “Let’s go, Clipper,” I urged in my most authoritative voice, zapping him at the same time. He barely flinched. OK, I thought to myself, let’s raise the bar on this thing. I looked at the setting switch. Great, it only had three levels and it was already set on the second one. I pushed the switch up to the highest setting. 

              “Clipper, let’s go,” I said firmly, giving a jerk with the leash and zapping him again. Nothing. I suddenly remembered the treats in my pocket. Maybe I could lure him inside by dropping treats along the path like Hansel and Gretel. I put the useless zapper back into my pocket and with great agility, reached into my other pocket for a handful of treats, still holding the grill lid protectively between us. Clipper closely watched every move I made. I tossed a few of the treats toward the door and then offered him one. He suddenly and without any warning leapt forward and bit my hand. I jumped back in pain and alarm. Blood squirted from the puncture wounds.

          “We are going inside, Mister,” I said to him angrily, “and you are going right back into your crate. You are a bad boy! A very bad boy!” For some reason, Clipper complied and submissively followed me into the house. We went into the kitchen where he drank some water but only sniffed his food. I was angry and my hand hurt so as I completed my duties, I continued a running diatribe explaining to the dog exactly how I felt about him.

              “I have never met such a mean-spirited and schitzy dog before you, Clipper. Where’d they find you anyway, in some last-chance doggy rehab for violent offenders just one step away from the gas chamber?  You must be on Prozac or something cause you were sure zoned out and mellow yesterday, weren’t you? I can’t believe this. ‘Oh, he is such a good dog, he never would bite anyone.’ Well, they are just going to have to get their happy, little butts home now because I’m sure as hell not coming back here again. And you can forget about any treats. You are a very, very bad dog.”                        

I was washing my hand at the sink, trying to determine the extent of my injuries, when I was suddenly knocked forward into the sink. I yelped in surprise and whirled around, grabbing the grill lid off the counter to fend off any further attacks. Clipper had bitten my back just below my right shoulder blade. It was as if he understood every foul thing I had been saying about him. He just stood there looking at me. I stepped on the end of his leash to prevent him moving and slowly reached down to grab it in my injured hand. He continued to stare at me. He added some growls to further intimidate me. Keeping the grill lid between the dog and my body, I took tiny, baby steps toward his crate. He didn’t resist. I slowly reached into my pocket for another handful of treats and tossed them into the crate. For some unimagined reason, he raced in after them. He had shown no interest in the ones I had thrown outside and no interest in his food but I didn’t care. He was inside the crate. I slammed the crate door quickly behind him.

“Ah-ha!” I yelled gleefully. “Snagged you, you crazy mutt.”

As I reached down to latch the crate, he lunged at me, barking insanely. Although startled, I held the door with my foot. I was unfamiliar with the latch so as I studied it, Clipper tried to bite me through the cage door, snarling and snapping at me, his glistening teeth raking across the wire cage door. I couldn’t figure out how to close the latch. My hand hurt and my back was beginning to really ache. I wondered if I just tried to make a dash for it, if I could get out the front door before he got me. I doubted it. I stood there, holding this crazy animal inside the crate with my foot, unable to leave. I wanted to cry. I needed my cell phone to call for help but I had left it in the car.  Finally, I spotted a wire clothes hanger on the dining room table. Maybe I could use it somehow to secure the door closed. Unfortunately, it was out of reach. I hopped up and sat on top of the crate and held the door closed with the heels of my feet. Carefully, I lay down, still applying pressure with my heels to hold the door closed. The entire crate move like an airplane hitting turbulence as Clipper thrashed about inside, increasingly agitated. With the flexibility of a prima ballerina, (thank-you, Grandmother, for all those lessons), I reached behind me and stretching hard I grabbed my prize as Clipper tried to get out to shred me into bloody bits. Sliding off the top of the crate and back onto my feet, there was one wild moment when I transferred the pressure of holding the crate door closed from my heel back to my toe and the dog almost barreled through but just in the nick of time, I regained control. Sweating profusely, I unfolded the hanger and looped it through both the door and the crate, twisting the wire to secure the door, at least long enough to get out of the house. I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door as quickly as possible.

Once outside and seated in my car, the enormity of what had taken place hit me. Now I did begin to cry. I examined my hand. I had two vampire puncture wounds and it was quite swollen at this point. I had no idea what condition my back was in, but I could feel stickiness and swelling when I leaned back against the car seat. And it really hurt. I picked up my cell phone and held it on my lap as I searched for the client’s emergency contact information, tears of pain, fear and anger rolling down my cheeks.

 I dialed Clipper’s owner. Of course, no answer; they were busy sunning themselves on the beach. At the tone I left a message:

“Mr. Blackburn, this is Linda, your pet sitter. Your dog just attacked me and bit me in two places. I will not be returning to your house again so you will need to find other arrangements for him. Personally, I would suggest euthanizing him before he really hurts somebody. He is very dangerous and unpredictable. Anyway, I’m on my way to the hospital. I’ll be sending you the bill.”

I snapped the phone shut.

              I couldn’t go directly to the hospital, however, because I had to give insulin to my diabetic cat client. On my way to her house, I stopped at a convenience store and bought a bag of ice and a diet Cherry Coke. I opened the bag, dumped the ice in the small cooler I kept in the car, placed it on the seat next to me and stuck my injured hand in it. I took a couple Advil for the pain and washed it down with the soda. I thought maybe the ice would keep some of the swelling down. I couldn’t do anything about my back.

              I spent an enormous amount of time in the car so I always had it well stocked with everything I might need during a day of pet sitting.  Personal items, cleaning supplies and pet goodies were kept in a plastic storage box along with a rain jacket.

I wasn’t feeling too great when I arrived at the cat’s house. I was kind of shaky and my stomach was feeling a bit queasy.  I opened my glove box to get the garage door opener and at that moment realized I had left my Palm Pilot at Clipper’s house.

              “Damn, damn, damn!” I said aloud. I dropped my head onto the steering wheel. I had to have it. All of my clients’ information was loaded into it, including the security code to enter this house.

              “My god, you are such an idiot,” I told myself. I closed the garage door and backed out of the driveway.      

              When I arrived back at Clipper’s house, I began to tremble. I was so afraid to enter that house again. What if the hanger hadn’t held and he was loose, roaming around waiting for his next victim? I could imagine him pacing in front of the counter where my Palm Pilot was, guarding it and daring me to try and retrieve it, his eyes glittery and red, foam dripping from his mouth like Cujo.

“Get a grip, girl,” I told myself, speaking aloud.

 I slid the key into the lock and turning it, I held my breath as I cracked the door to ascertain Clipper’s whereabouts. I didn’t hear a sound. I called his name. I heard no fanatical barking. Slowly, I let out my breath as I opened the door and stepped inside and listened. Silence. I stomped my feet and called louder, waiting to bolt out the door at the first rustle of sound. Still, I heard nothing. I crept cautiously around the corner till I spied his crate. The door looked secure. I tiptoed into the kitchen and snatched my Palm Pilot. I glanced into Clipper’s crate on my way back out the door. Yup, he was in there all right--sound asleep! I stood there looking at him for a second. The cheese ball with his medication wrapped in it was gone. He had eaten it. And now he was sleeping like a precious, little pup.

“He needs an intravenous drip of that stuff,” I muttered to myself as I closed the door behind me.

On my way back to the cat’s house, I stopped at a Krispy Kreme donut shop. Though always on a perpetual diet, today was turning out to be one of those days when a fat-laden, sugar-coated, just-out-of-the-fryer treat was exactly what the doctor ordered. I grabbed a clean towel from my plastic tote of supplies and wrapped it around my hand. As I stood in line waiting to place my order, I heard whispering behind me. I turned slightly and saw an older couple staring at my shoulder.

“I’ve had a rough morning,” I offered with a slight smile.

“Oh, my goodness, you certainly have! Whatever happened to you, dear? Do you know that your back is bleeding?” gushed the woman, “You really need to have that seen.” Then she spotted my hand wrapped up in a towel. “Oh, my goodness, should we take you to the hospital, dear?” Her face was beginning to look a little pale.

“Oh, aren’t you sweet. I’ll be OK,” I tried to sound blasé, like I went to a donut shop everyday with bloody rips in my clothes and gaping wounds in my body. “I was taking care of someone’s dog and he decided to chow down on me,” I laughed light-heartedly. I sounded like a lunatic to my own ears.

“Oh, my dear, you really need to get medical attention,” the woman truly was worried.

“Yes, ma’am, I will as soon as I can. I’m a pet sitter, so I have to finish seeing all my other clients and then I’ll be going to the hospital.”

My two, hot glazed donuts were ready and waiting for me and I was ready to go. I badly needed to go collapse in the car. The woman wasn’t ready to let me go just yet.

“You’re a pet sitter? That’s just what we need for Baby and Precious when we go to see the grandchildren, don’t we, Howard?” she asked her husband who appeared to be at least one hundred years old. She seemed to suddenly have forgotten about the blood and guts oozing out of my body. “We have the two most darling and spoiled little dogs. I just hate leaving them at the vet. They are brother and sister and are just the joy of our life, aren’t they, Howard?”

Howard looked pretty much zoned out but he did manage a tiny grunt.

“Well, how about I give you my card and you can call me and we’ll talk before your next trip. I really need to get going,” I smiled as sweetly as I could, reaching into my back pocket with my good hand for a business card.

“OK, well you get to a doctor as soon as you can, dear. You don’t want that to get infected. Dog bites can be very nasty,” the woman advised knowingly.  I nodded, smiled and waved as I left the shop. 

The sugar high left me feeling slightly better. I thought it ironic that I was cramming sugary donuts into my mouth on my way to administer insulin to a diabetic cat and I laughed out loud at the outrageousness of this whole affair. I entered the house without incident, for which I was grateful, and readied the syringe. I began my search for the illusive cat.

“Sweets,” I called, “here kitty, kitty, kitty. Where are you hiding? I’ve got yummy treats for you.”

Irony again…the name of a diabetic cat was Sweets. People are so whacked! And so the hunt was on. The cat did this to me all the time. I spent a considerable amount of time searching for her before I could tend to her. Of course, the owners did nothing to help me out with this situation. I had requested on many occasions that they close all doors, confining the cat to a smaller area. But not only was every door in the house left open, but the house was such a colossal mess that an army of cats could have remained concealed during my visit. Stacks of books and magazines were loaded on kitchen chairs and on the desk in the office and in every corner of every room. Piles of clothes littered the floor, furniture and the bed in the extra bedroom. Paper goods and cleaning products still in bags straight from the grocery store had been left where they were dropped. Though the couple had moved into the house almost two years earlier, boxes and cartons, rifled through as items were removed, sat everywhere. There must have been at least fifty half-empty boxes sitting around the house. That created fifty wonderful hiding places for one cat. Ordinarily I spent most of my time playing hide and seek. Any other time I didn’t mind that much; it was kind of a challenge. Today I just wanted to get in and out.

“Sweets,” I tried to reason with her, “I really don’t have much time this morning, so why don’t you just cooperate and show your pretty, little, kitty-cat face.”

I cleared a spot on a rocker and sat down. The sugar from the donuts was beginning to wear off and the back of the rocker hurt my back. I leaned forward and at that moment I caught sight of Sweets hiding under the coffee table.  Breathing a sigh of relief, I called softly to her. Luckily, she wasn’t a cat who ran away from me; she just didn’t easily make her location known or greet me when I arrived. I scooped her up in my arms and carried her to the counter in the kitchen.

I’m right-handed and my wounded right hand ached deep inside and yet was kind of numb at the same time. It felt really weird and for a moment I wondered if Clipper was up to date on all his shots. Visions of Cujo leapt before me again. I cradled the cat securely in my left arm and grasped a fold of skin with my left hand where I planned on placing the injection. My right hand felt clumsy and weak. Just as I was about to insert the needle, a loud noise outside startled the cat. Without warning, Sweets leapt out of my arms. The needle slipped neatly into my flesh at the exact location where Sweets had, until quite recently, been resting.

“Ah, crap!” I said dejectedly. I knew that tiny amount of insulin wouldn’t hurt me; I would just have to start the whole process over again. Luckily, the second time worked perfectly and after cleaning the litter box, putting down food and fresh water, I set the house alarm and left.

Just as I was pulling out of the driveway, my cell phone rang. I answered with my usual greeting, adjusting my voice to sound cheerful and professional. It was Mr. Blackburn, Clipper’s owner.

“Linda, I got your message,” he began, sounding very upset, “what did you do to provoke Clipper?”

I felt sure there must have been a dead spot or something in the cell phone signal because I thought I heard him ask me if I provoked his dog.

He repeated himself, but angrily, “Look, what did you do to Clipper?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Mr. Blackburn, I didn’t do anything to him – he attacked me! All I di…”

“Did you give him his medication?” he interrupted, “because he can be a tad thorny without his medication. Didn’t my wife instruct you about this?”

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn, I tried but he…”

In the background I heard Jimmy, the demon child, yelling at the top of his little, demon lungs, “Hey, you stupid, dog lady -- Did you go in my room and touch my stuff? I told you, Dad, that she was a mean lady. I bet she kicked Clipper.” The kid got louder. “I hope he bit you real hard.”

“I don’t understand how you have any clients whatsoever if this is the way you conduct yourself,” the demon’s father shouted. “You need to return that check because I’m sure as hell not paying you for this. You also need to get my house key back to my neighbor, who, by the way, is not a professional pet sitter but I’m sure will have no problem at all taking care of my dog.”

Mr. Blackburn, I’m really sor…”

The phone went dead. I stared at it. He had hung up on me. This family was a piece of work. I could not believe what I had just heard. Here I was, bleeding from their dog attacking me, and the owner acted like I had bitten the dog! And he wasn’t going to pay me? I just sat there in my car, motionless and dumbfounded, staring at the garage door. I was startled out of my trance by the ringing of my cell phone once again. I flung my head back against the car seat in frustration and then winced in pain. My back was really beginning to throb. My caller ID told me it was my good friend, Lucy, who fortunately, had agreed to be my back-up, substitute sitter in the event that I got sick or hurt. Her full time job was that of a kindergarten teacher, but her school was on spring break right now, too. I had gone to the expense of insuring and bonding her and now I was very relieved because I was unsure if I would be able to handle my evening runs.

“Hey,Lucy,” I answered heavily.

“Hey, Linda, what’s up? You sound awful,” she replied.

“You would not believe the morning I’ve had,” I began to fill her in on all the gory details.

 “Oh, my gosh!” Lucy said with alarm after I had

finished my story, “Are you OK? Are you going to the

hospital now?”

“Well, I was going to call you to see if you could finish my cat clients for me. Maybe you could come with me this evening for my evening runs. I should be finished at the hospital by then.”

“Sure. I’ll meet you at the hospital and get all the keys and information for those clients and then you can call me after you have been seen by the doctor and we’ll go from there,” she offered helpfully.

 “Thanks, Luce. I’ll meet you in the emergency room in about 30 minutes.” I snapped the phone closed and crumbled into tears, waves of fatigue, pain and desperation crashing over me.

Four hours later, after sending Lucy on her way to see the remainder of my cat clients and then the interminable waiting room experience, I sat on the examining table facing the emergency room doctor and watched as the admitting nurse pulled the privacy curtain around us. She fixed me with a grim, white-lipped look that I couldn’t decipher.

The doctor explained to me that this particular hospital had a policy which insisted that dog-bite victims be seen immediately, barring another life threatening situation. The fact that I had sat for hours unattended would cause some heads to roll. I made the mental jump that the nurse was less concerned about my health and welfare and more concerned with how this oversight would affect her employment at this fine facility. No matter, at least I was now being seen.

The doctor began, not by examining my wounds, but by asking questions.

“Do you intend on bringing charges to the owner of the dog that attacked you?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Well, I haven’t actually thought about that,” I answered. That wasn’t exactly the truth but I thought maybe the doctor would give me some information with which to proceed.

“How was it that you came into contact with the dog?” he asked.

I told him that the family had hired me to care for their dog while they were on vacation.

“Did they indicate that the dog had a history of biting or did you note any behaviors that would indicate a propensity toward aggression?” he continued.

“The owners bent over backwards to assure me the dog was harmless. They signed a contract wherein one of the questions asked was if the dog should be approached with caution. However, the neighbor child indicated that she had been snapped at before on numerous occasions. The dog was wearing an electric zap collar which they used to control him, though at the time of my interview, the dog was extremely docile and relaxed – the total opposite of the animal that attacked me. He is on some type of drug which semi-sedates him. The owners told me it was for separation anxiety. I feel as though they purposely misled me and put my life in danger,” I finished, relieved that I could unload the burden on someone else.

The doctor quickly removed that hope.

“The hospital is not responsible for calling the authorities or filing charges. That must be done by you and your attorney if you intend to proceed legally. However, we do document the incident for use in a potential lawsuit. We will be taking photographs and measurements of the bites and then ascertain the extent of the damage. Then we will clean and treat your wounds. You just sit here and relax while we gather our documentation equipment,” he finished and turned to go.

 “Doctor,” I asked quickly before he disappeared around the curtain, “May I please use the restroom?”