Dog Days

My life is ruled by dogs. Morning walks. Potty breaks. Belly rubs. Squeaky toys. Moments measured in kibbles.

Leashes and tennis balls are the tools of my trade.

I’m an occasional petsitter, a job I serendipitously stumbled upon after agreeing to watch a friend’s dog during her vacation.

It sounds like the ideal job. Easy money. Playing fetch all day. But when the pet parent worries like a mom on the first day of school and requires hourly texts, or the pup has separation anxiety and won’t eat, or I accidentally set off the house alarm?

These are real-world petsitting problems.

It may not be the most lucrative career, but it gives me time to write. To think. A brief sabbatical from my real job: caring for a mom with Alzheimer’s.

Taking care, in any form, gives my life purpose.

Out of the Woods

Our new puppy, Max, was a bundle of joy. For the first day.

Then he stopped eating. Languid and lifeless, he lay on his dog bed. A visit to the vet confirmed our fear: the little guy had parvo.

The parvovirus, for which his vaccination was questionable, attacks a puppy’s immune system; those under ten weeks have little chance of pulling through. Our vet was optimistic. She’d seen far worse, and felt he had a good chance.

Still, for four days he wouldn’t eat, subsisting only on a daily IV of fluids. I resigned myself to his imminent death, making his life as comfortable as possible.

Some days it feels like everyone around me is dying. Our beloved golden retriever. A long-time friend with ALS. My mother.

Miraculously, Max rebounded. And now, he’s unstoppable.

If only Alzheimer’s were that easy.