Dog Sitting

This Memorial Day weekend I’m dog sitting, Oko and Fargo. Like babysitting, it’s a temporary situation that delivers animal “love” fixes. Walking and feeding them is like feeding babies and changing diapers–they deliver engaging and sometime astonishing experiences, but they’re not something I wish to do long term, even though I find these little guys sweet to snuggle with on my couch.

My dog preference has always been for dogs that I can pick up and walk a leash without fear of being dragged down the street. If they jump to express their unconditional appreciation, their paws should never reach higher than my hips. Having 80 pound dog paws pounce on my chest nearly knocked me over a time or two. However, my son-in-law says, and I quote, “Only big dogs are proper dogs.” Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I say small dogs are proper dogs too. We're a forgiving family so we agree to disagree on the point.  

I don’t care if dogs are rescue mutts of questionable heritage with bug eyes and raggedy hair or purebreds with exemplary features and birth certificates with documented ancestry. Both have their pluses and minuses, just like us human beings. Good breeding does not equate to good manners. It’s all about upbringing–a case of nurture versus nature. For example, my oldest grandson’s dog, Mac, is a gentle, well behaved 90 pound mastiff whose only sin is the natural drippy drool that accompanies every greeting. Training won’t change that. It takes finesse to evade those kisses.

So why did I consent to babysit these dogs? Can you guess? Oko and Fargo, five to ten pounds each, act like royalty but are only rescues. Despite their lack of good breeding, they’ve been pampered and loved by their owner. I welcome at our house because those little guys warm my belly on command. I pay them off with treats. I could say they're prostituting themselves, but from my perspective, it's just an essential part of the relationship.

It’s a small price to pay for hugs and kisses.