Adventures in Pet Sitting – Robin Roberts

CHAPTER 17

It’s A Dog’s (And Cat’s) Life

We’re all creatures of habit, dogs and cats perhaps more so than humans. Routine and structure make them feel safe and secure. Even wild cats appreciate a little tradition now and then. Thus, we followed to a T the drill for our newest menagerie here in pretty little San Pancho. Well, we gave it a really good shot.

We had nicknamed Horatio, Bill and Barbara’s first cat, “The Duke” because of his crazy walk: a kind of swagger similar to that of the late John Wayne — slightly sideways, head cocked to the side, a little off-centre, his long, monkey-like tail curled off to the left (OK, that last part had nothing to do with John Wayne as I’m pretty sure the legendary western star didn’t have a tail, monkey-like or otherwise). Horatio’s oddities, while amusing (and we tried not to snicker when he was looking), were unfortunately the result of a brain injury. When he was a kitten, some heartless bastard tossed him and the rest of his litter away in a bag, like trash. When they were discovered, only Horatio was alive, barely breathing, bleeding profusely from his neck. His ill-fated siblings either died of exposure or were devoured by coati mundis (raccoon-like varmints), which would explain the savage tears on his own throat. When Barbara agreed to take him, she brought him to a vet, who told her he’d never make it, that it was best to put him out of his misery. She refused, and after heroic medical intervention — and a stubborn will to live — Horatio survived.

Other than being left stone-cold deaf, he’s healthy physically, just a little odd mentally. He doesn’t quite understand wind direction, and would often go to great lengths to climb behind a fan to cool off. He would attempt to sharpen his claws on smooth wall tile. He was always hungry because he’d forget he’d eaten 10 minutes earlier. He would stare intently at nothing above your head. Sometimes he would try to follow the rotation of the ceiling fan with his eyes, lose his balance and keel over like a drunk. He was simply not sharp enough to fend for himself in the jungle at night where the wild things were (snakes, coati mundis, other cats, even possibly a jaguar), so he was given a curfew, which, like a teenager, he would spend hours conjuring ways to break. More than once, he made a break for it before we could batten the hatches for the night. We would then have to track him in the dark, flashlight beams searching the jungle, our calls literally falling on deaf ears. In his silent world, he could hear neither us nor the predators that would mount a sneak attack. We quickly outsmarted him, however, and put him in lockdown before sundown, much to his yowling chagrin.

But back to the routine, which went something like this: Roused by the death-ray stares of Horatio through the glass bedroom door, we would rise at 8 a.m. Once word spread to the general pop that we were awake, the anticipation ramped up through the roof, like prisoners with tin cups. We sprung into action as if a starting shot was fired. The beasts were famished, and breakfast would not be delayed a moment longer. First, we laid out three bowls for the felines (and let me just pause here to clarify: by “we” I mean “me”; Rick opted to take in the action from the comfort of the bed — with Kahlua). Second, we/I ripped open two foil packets of Whiskas soft food to divide among the bowls (taking care to ensure The Duke got the lion’s share, in hopes he’d be full enough to remember a few minutes later that he had indeed been fed). Lastly, I’d place the bowls in separate spots on the floor, particularly Monte’s. As a wild child, he was unaccustomed to family meals around the table. In fact, he originally preferred to dine solo, under the table. With careful, calculating steps, we would change that over the course of the next two months.

The whole regimen may sound easy, but it required the agility and speed of circus performers balancing plates on poles. The Duke and Bebe insisted on hurrying things along by bumping and snaking around my hands and arms as I worked, thus slowing the process considerably. Barbara had allowed them to jump up on the counter while she prepped the meal but, being averse to picking out cat hairs from my own breakfast, I insisted they stay on the floor. This was met by indignant outrage at first but, over time, they learned to co-operate if they wanted to eat. Sometimes, if I got up before Horatio, I’d tip-toe around a minefield of snoozing critters into the kitchen, then carefully, quietly gather the foil packets and bowls and sneak them into the bathroom. There, behind closed doors, I’d carry out the procedure with the precision of a chemist mixing highly combustible materials, careful not to clink the spoon on the bowl, thereby setting off the food alarm. Then, I’d creep back into the kitchen, delicately place the bowls in their assigned spots, and slowly back away as the fetid odor of the glop wafted its way to the sleeping nostrils and the manic charge to devour it would begin.

Sometimes, Monte was not around when I got up, so I’d call to him, my voice carrying out over the jungle and rooftops of nearby homes. If he appeared, I would gently, so as not to spook him, place the bowl three feet (and no closer) in front of him under the table. He would then convey his gratitude by hissing at me. If, however, he deigned not to come, I would leave his bowl in a corner on the counter to await his nibs when he felt peckish enough to grace us with his presence. After a while I began to suspect he had another gig going on at someone else’s house; he just seemed plumper than Bebe and Horatio.

Once the bowls were on the floor and the feeding frenzy was in full swing, I’d fill the coffee pot and start the brew. Meanwhile, Kahlua would have jumped down from the bed and laid on the floor, head between her front paws, looking from me to the cats and back again from under the tangle of curls over her eyes. She knew she must wait her turn, and she would do so patiently, politely. But first, we had to attend to her toilet. While the cats were scarfing and the coffee was dripping, Kahlua and I would venture outside to the cobbled road. There she would snuffle about, pick a spot on the grass, squat and relieve herself. Then she was ready to chase apples. At least I thought they were apples. The hard, round fruits littering the road looked like little green apples and probably tasted just as bitter. They dropped from a neighbour’s tree onto the street, and there was always a fresh supply each morning thanks to nightly storms that shook them loose from their high branches. Barbara and Bill instructed us to throw five of these fruit balls for Kahlua. Not four, not six. Five. You couldn’t fudge the numbers, either, because she’d be on to you in a heartbeat. The darn dog could count. And, as had been established, she was a creature of habit.

So, you’d gather the five apple balls, toss them down the road, and Kahlua would then gamely chase after them. She would not, however, return them to you, we had been warned, so don’t attempt to extract them from her jaws. She would instead stockpile them in a place of her choosing, sometimes in front of the door, sometimes under the drooping bougainvillea, sometimes on the grass. It would be whatever she felt like that day. And, as I quickly learned, she had a way of marking the apple balls she’d already retrieved, so I couldn’t get away with throwing the same one twice. Once she fetched the apple, she would rip its skin slightly with her teeth, then place it on her pile. Smarty pants.

Anyway, it took me a few days to get it right. My first toss landed just a few feet away. Kahlua looked at the apple, then at me, as if to say, “That the best ya got?” She didn’t demean herself by attempting to fetch it, she just waited. The next one bounced off a dip in the road and hit her in the face. She scowled at me. Clearly, I’m no famous baseball player. The third went farther — too far. It rolled down a drainage embankment toward the street below. I panicked and hollered at her not to chase it but she did. She must have thought, “If this is the only one that has any roll to it, I’m going after it.” I, meanwhile, was breaking into a sweat thinking, in her zeal, she’d collide with a car; her first day in my care and she gets injured, or worse. No such thing occurred (mostly because a car passed by every few hours out here). She dutifully returned with the apple in her mouth and surveyed the scene for a place to stack it. Today it would be under the bougainvillea. She dropped it, then looked at me with a face that said, “Again. And this time don’t f#*k it up.” Feeling the pressure, I tossed four more (to tally the required five since the first two feeble attempts didn’t pass muster), and most were pretty decent throws. Finally, with the five apples neatly piled, she turned and headed for the door. Her work was done here; time for breakfast.
Inside, the satiated felines were sauntering away from their half-eaten breakfast, pointing their back legs out behind them like ballerinas, toes splayed in a long stretch, licking their lips. At various points in the day, they would demand the leftovers, so they must be preserved. I learned this the hard way. On the first morning’s feeding, after the cats had retreated to their corners for post-breakfast grooming, I busily readied Kahlua’s meal. When I turned to place her mixture of dry and canned in her dish, I noticed her tongue snaking along her lips. She must be salivating, I thought. When I presented her dish, she sniffed at it and walked away. What? How could she not be hungry? As I turned back toward the sink, I noticed that the cats’ dishes were mysteriously licked clean. “Oprah!” I chastised. She slinked away, eyes downcast. I felt the felines’ wrath later in the day.

After the morning meal ritual (which was duplicated at supper — rinse, repeat), we were allowed our coffee in peace and could check our e-mails and start some work — but only for a few minutes. Then the maid, Linda, would arrive. She would come nearly every day and, although it was a large place, we wondered what could possibly keep her busy for four hours a day, six days a week. We would have liked to ask her, but our languages clashed and mashed so that we each heard only gibberish. Unfamiliar with her routine, we found ourselves picking up and putting down our mugs and laptop, moving them to and fro in a kind of comically bad dance trying to dodge her mop and rag. By the third day, we’d learned to pour the coffee into our thermos mugs, grab Kahlua’s leash and head to the beach to get out of her way.

Before that, however, there was one more routine to be followed. After Kahlua had finished her breakfast, she would flop on the floor by the front gate, waiting. When she sensed Linda’s arrival, she would jump to her feet, tail wagging, ready for the game. A good sport, Linda would come through the door, hand Kahlua a rag, and head to the kitchen, dog in tow. There, Linda would dig up a dog biscuit and trade the treat for the rag, softly cooing her approval in Spanish. The two of them would do this every single morning, without fail. Bill and Barbara had told us we’d have to play a similar game when we went out and left Kahlua behind. Upon our return, she would expect us to give her the keys after opening the outside gate, so she could carry them over to the inside door for us to unlock. Taking on these tasks made her feel pretty important so we carried them out just as seriously.

The early part of the day was taken up with the three of us walking on the beach or through the jungle, both just steps from the home. Kahlua was a giddy child on the beach. Once we hit the sand, we’d remove her leash and she’d take off like a cannon, tongue lolling. She would race along the near-empty beach, sniffing at whatever washed ashore — coconuts, seed pods, driftwood and, occasionally, dead fish, which, regrettably, she loved to rub her face on. If the corpse was particularly putrid, she’d roll over it with her entire body; the stinkier the better. Then she’d plunge into the sea and ride the waves like a boogie boarder. Back on shore, dripping wet, she would then flail around in the sand on her back, legs bicycling through the air, and we would return home with an 80-pound piece of sand paper. Fortunately, she loved to be bathed, and stood obediently as we hosed her down. Depending on the extent of fish decomp and how deeply the sand was embedded, this could take three full washes. When she was as clean and stink-free as we could get her, she would then trot over to the garden and roll around in the dirt. This happened just once; from that point on I’d grab a beach towel and hustle her into the house, using the towel to shield her eyes from the garden.

Since the post-beach wash-up could be time-consuming — and grueling under a searing high-noon sun — we interspersed the beach walks with a jaunt through the cool, leafy jungle. Just around the corner from the B&B a dirt road led into dense, steamy vegetation. An occasional rough track marked a winding driveway through the trees, up to a spectacular cliff-top home, but otherwise, there was just us, the palms, vines, ferns, snakes, land crabs, scorpions and ticks. Ah, yes, the ticks. We discovered these evil little vampires after our first backwoods trek. Flopped out back home, sipping an icy cerveza to cool down, I draped my hand onto Kahlua’s back and absently started to run my fingers through her luxuriant curly hair. Then I found a lump. Peering closer, I saw a reddish-brown blob the size and shape of a jelly-belly, gorging itself on the dog’s blood. Ick. Beating back nasty visions of Lyme disease, mouth frothing, and seizures, we quickly gathered our surgical instruments. Armed with tweezers, cotton balls, mineral oil and rubbing alcohol we performed the delicate procedure of tick extraction. It has to be done right, otherwise you can leave the head embedded in the skin, causing infection and disease. First, you swab the area with mineral oil (we didn’t have any, so olive oil would have to do). Why oil, I don’t know; either it suffocates the tick, thereby loosening its grip, or just makes it easier to slide out. Then, using tweezers, you grasp the tick as close to the skin as possible, and pull straight out in one quick, smooth motion. Don’t squeeze or twist the tick or the head will break off and then you’re screwed. For her part, Kahlua didn’t seem to notice the tick dining on her, nor did she flinch when we yoinked it out. We, unfortunately, would become quite adept at the process since Kahlua was such a tick magnet for these revolting little parasites. In fact, just as beach romps ended with a thorough sudsing, jungle treks concluded with a head-to-toe body search.

Most of the time, as the sun rose along with the temperatures and humidity, we all spent the rest of the day inside, panting under a few select fans, saving the air-conditioning for when we absolutely couldn’t stand it anymore (electricity is expensive here). This was usually around suppertime, when the sun pointed its beam directly through the windows. Fantastic for sunsets, unbearable with no breeze. So we’d flick on the A/C and feel the heat seep from our skin. On the hottest of days, the cats, who normally sought shelter under a shady bush, would drag themselves in and flop on the cool tile. And that was how we’d all stay until the moon rose.

Occasionally, Kahlua would announce the need for a bathroom break. She wouldn’t do this by barking or whining by the door. That would be too undignified. Instead, she’d rise from her nap on the floor, walk over to me, sit down, place her paw gently on my arm, and fix her eyes on mine as if to say (and this is where I, inexplicably, imagined a crisp, upper-crust British accent): “Begging your pardon, madam. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I do believe I need to urinate. I wonder if I might impose upon you to briefly escort me to the outer courtyard where I may tend to the nasty bit of business at hand. I assure you, it won’t take but a moment, and I’d be ever so grateful.” How could I resist? I’ve always been a sucker for an English accent.

At bedtime, the menagerie assembled for the night (The Duke, after restlessly patrolling the perimeter for a way out, surrendered grudgingly). Kahlua settled down next to us in her own bed on the floor (unless there was a storm, which was most nights, in which case she’d prop her chin on the end of the bed and beseech us with her eyes; we’d relent, up she’d jump and wedge herself between us, shivering with every thunder clap: most undignified); Horatio would curl up behind the fan, which would now be off; Bebe and Monte, with the energy of toddlers hopped-up on sugar, would continue to play long into the night until they dropped, mid-chase, out like the lights.
The next day, we’d wake up and do it all over again. This was one routine that, even if it did slip into a rut, we would be perfectly comfortable in.

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