I am beginning to wonder how anybody has the courage for dog sitting. It’s not as if we had never met Sophie, our friend’s seven-year-old Jack Russel mix. She’s a sweet dog and it’s so cute the way she prances across the linoleum like a tiny Lipizzaner horse, making little munching sounds with her toenails. And the way she snuggles under her favorite blanket whenever the temperature falls below 70 degrees. Who knew that looking after her for a week would be a fulltime job?
Annie, Sophie’s owner is—I’m not saying “controlling”—just, you know, conscientious, protective. Before she entrusted us with her dog (or as she says, her “child”), she gave us a detailed schedule for Sophie’s day—when she goes to bed, when she wakes up in the morning, what and how much she eats. She left us with home-made meals sealed in color-coded Tupperware. Sophie will tell you when she needs to, um, “go out.” Okay. Say no more. And when she comes back in, she always gets a treat (also homemade). Sure. Sounds good. And if the grass is wet, you need to dry thoroughly between her toes. Seriously? Absolutely.
As we were reviewing our instructions with Annie, Sophie, who is very curious and fast (I mean lightning fast like those world class athlete obstacle course dogs at the Westminster Dog Show) pushed open the basement door and disappeared down the steps. Annie looked stricken. “Is there anything dangerous down there?” she asked, a slight quaver in her voice.
Was she kidding? I am the only one allowed to go into our basement. There are shelves of paint and solvents, piles of tools, a partially disassembled air compressor and a dark, ragged opening in the limestone wall, to prevent the interior plumbing from freezing that looks like it ought to conceal a skeleton in chains. Last fall, we had a guy go down the basement to check out the furnace and we haven’t seen him since. I cleared my throat. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
The thing about Sophie is that she doesn’t play. “Go get the ball, Sophie!” She just looks at you through her long eyelashes like, “Why would I do that?” Since no human has thought to give her a job, she gave herself one. Sophie is fiercely dedicated to chasing chipmunks. She can hear one from a block away—which sends her into a desperate whimpering frenzy, running in circles, demanding one of us open the door immediately to let her out so she can save the world from chipmunks. It would be amusing if it weren’t so frightening. She launches herself through the door, flying off the porch, her feet barely touching the ground.
Little as she is, Sophie could slip between the pickets in the fence, chasing a chipmunk and disappear over the horizon. Perhaps fearing this, Annie requested daily photos of her dog while she is away. All these little brown dogs look alike to me. I could just see myself going to every animal shelter in town and sending Annie photos of likely candidates. “This is your dog, right?”