Vegan Dog

In the beginning of the year decisions are made to change behaviors. This effort normally lasts a couple of months if I am lucky, and usually involves food, drink and exercise - totally exhausted subjects for change.

For the past few years I have flirted with the idea of becoming a vegan. No meat, cheese or dairy products. That would mean using my creativity to make plant-based gourmet dishes that are so succulent that I won’t miss what I’m not eating. This is in direct contrast with the philosophy that deprivation never works. It merely makes you want whatever you don’t have, even more.  In the meantime I experiment with various vegan products so if I do decide on a permanent change, I will know what’s out there.

After a dog walk with nine exuberant canines, all but two come back to the house for a nap while RockDog, Bunny and I go to the grocery store for dog kibble. As I pass by the cooler I notice a pack of vegan hotdogs and think a bun-less dog with mustard and a salad sounds pretty good. Recently I bought a variety pack of mustards made in France and the basil one might be good at disguising a meatless dog. When you are hungry anything sounds good.

We are greeted at the door by seven barking dogs just waking up. It’s chaos at the gate as I come in with a bag of groceries, and a few dogs go out. The hatch on Sooby is left open because I am coming right back. Of course someone had piddled on the floor so I am temporarily distracted while wiping it up and then mopping the area – 5 minutes max. I then get the remaining bags out of the car and notice DoDog rushing up the driveway with her head down. She must really have to go potty, a bit odd since we just had a long walk. I unpack everything putting stuff in the refrigerator and cabinets.

Wheew, I am finally ready to fix my lunch. Wait a minute; I don’t remember putting the vegan dogs away?? I search in the bags to be sure I got everything out.  Maybe I subconsciously put them in the fridge, or the cupboards? Finally, I return to Sooby to see if the dogs fell out of the bag. I did buy them, didn't I? Could they have fallen out of the cart? Were they listed on the item printout I tossed in the trash on my way out?

Wait a minute! Didn’t I just see a lone Basset Hound quickly walking away when I returned to the car? Could she? Would she? Did she? The light bulb finally goes off. Of course she did! All the dogs are off the deck and anxious to get to a spot in the bushes where DoDog is hanging out nonchalantly looking my way. The other dogs have confirmed my suspicions with their relentless sniffing of said area.  I’m not about to walk over the hill on the ice to investigate the spot in question because I already know there is nothing left.

And now for the rub, I know she snagged them out of the bag while I was cleaning up dog pee, she knows she did it and has a sated smile on her lips, and the dogs know she did it because they can smell the residue of hotdogs on the earth where she opened the bag and no doubt consumed all eight dogs along with the plastic evidence. But, I can’t accuse her of such a heinous crime when I have no real evidence that she did it!

I wonder what does a Vegan Dog taste like? I have yet to know, but out of nine canines I bet eight know what one smells like and the other one knows they are truly delicious. But she has an indiscriminate pallet. Grrrrr! This human should know by now to never, ever leave tempting food anywhere near opportunists, even for a few minutes. Bottom line, the hotdogs are history and I must now find something else for lunch. Sigh. . .

Vegan Dog?

Isn’t this just like a DoDog becoming a Vegan? NOT!

Gobble! Gobble!

Who Let the Dogs Out?

A beautiful warm winter day in Homer, Alaska at 43 degrees on February 5th! Unbelievable.  The dogs are begging for a walk but the driveway and street in front of the house are extremely icy. I have busted my ass twice in the last two weeks so that is not an option.

Instead I load 7 dogs in Sooby the dog wagon, driving one street over to Easy Street. The car is rocking to and fro with Forty, the Yellow Lab, Lexie, the 130-lb. Mastiff, a Petit Griffon called Emily Pearce, RockDog, Bunny, Anne, and last but definitely not least, DoDog. They are over the top excited and can hardly wait to get out of the car. We are parked on a vacant six-acre lot that belongs to a friend and are ready to hit the dirt road that has limited traffic and no ice. I can’t get the doors open fast enough. RockDog and Bunny scamper over my lap as I get out to open the back hatch, and the rest of the dogs roll out onto the ground jumping, whining and barking their freedom cheers.

As quickly as we are out, DoDog and Anne take off in the opposite direction. Hey wait, you guys! I call them but they ignore me as the other five follow me onto the road headed north. I call and call these girls to no avail. Fine, go where you must. I will leave both your asses home next time. The rest of us are going on a walk! Grrrr! They are so frustrating!

The other five dogs walk, sniff, chase, bark, kick up their heels and have a marvelous time in the sun. Occasionally I look behind to see if the two renegades are coming. I complain to the other dogs that we are definitely leaving these two at the house next time. Even though the walk is perfect for this sunny day, I can’t help but be concerned about the missing twosome. We have walked about a mile when I finally see the DoDog running at top speed to catch up with us. Her short legs are kicking up dust all around so it appears to be a blur coming toward us except for an occasional glimpse of black and white fur. I don’t worry much about her because she will eventually find us with her hound dog nose. But Banane, well that’s another story. She only obeys when there is a treat involved, in other words she wants to be paid. Otherwise she marches to her own drum and thinks about it later, when she is lost.

We cut the walk short and head back in the direction of the car hoping to find Anne waiting for us there. NOT, she is nowhere to be found. The other dogs load up and I realize that DoDog has once again disappeared. WTF? Maybe she is looking for Anne? This is exasperating. The other well-behaved dogs are hot and need a drink of water. I cruise the lot where I last saw Anne with the windows down, calling her name and offering a treat. Nothing. . . And no DoDog either!

I decide to drive the others home for a drink of water and a much needed nap. As I pull out I see DoDog in the middle of the road waiting to be picked up. No Anne. We arrive back to the house and I call the vet clinic to advise them that Anne is missing in case anyone calls to report a blonde cocker spaniel on the loose. I take RockDog and Bunny with me back to the property and then I realize, DUH. I need the treat jar, a large black and white dog. When his head is lifted the sound of “Who Let the Dogs Out” rings out and if you shut and reopen it, ”You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog” plays. Anne is trained to this sound and no matter where she is in the neighborhood she comes running when she hears it, a true chowhound. After going back to retrieve the treat jar, I drive approximately three miles out Easy Street, windows down, dogs barking while I continue to lift the head of the jar to play her favorite songs.  Nothing . . . Where could she be?

We return to the place where Sooby was originally parked and drive the complete circle, again letting the treat jar sing out the windows. Finally, I spot her inquisitive little face looking at us from the bushes. She is sitting with her blue scarf askew and ears perked. “Anne, where have you been?” I say as I once again lift the head of the jar. And, that’s all it took for her to come running toward the car. She had obviously been there in the bushes all along, smelling and scavenging to her heart’s content – not even 5 feet from where the car was parked. And she had no doubt heard me calling for her and totally ignored me. The treat jar did the trick. She is now safe in the car enjoying her payment of a delicious Yummy Chummy.

On the short ride home I called the vet clinic to let them know she was safe. “You want to know how I found her?” I asked Sue, as I raised the dog’s head and “Who Let the Dogs Out” rang out.

“What’s THAT,” Sue asked?

“It’s a treat jar," I explained as “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound dog” played in the background.

She laughed, “You’re dogs aren’t food motivated, are they?”

Well, DUH.

Anne Banane is now sound to sleep, snoring on the back of the couch as I write this post. Being in the bushes for an hour and then having to eat some treats to make up for it, is exhausting. She is such a frustrating yet adorable little rascal, who can be mad at her? Not me! She’s a writing inspiration!

Woof! Woof!

Road Trip and Rednecks!

One of the huge drawbacks to living in Homer is the lack of fresh fruit and produce eight months out of the year. Early fall is apple season so the chance of getting a decent one is good right now. The rest of the year the apples are flavorless and mealy because of course they are coming out of cold storage where they have been for years. Well okay, that might be a slight exaggeration but they are crap most of the time. I refuse to get conditioned to buy them anyway, so apples are a rarity for me. The Honey Crisps were big and luscious at Safeway today, plus they were on sale for $3.49/lb. Because they were ‘on sale’ that sticker price did not register as to just how absurd it really was. I grabbed two of those babies on my way through the produce section. Imagine my surprise when I checked out - $6.18. I was aghast! “$6.18 for TWO applies?” The clerk replied, “Well, they are on sale.”

Holy Shit! They would have been over $7 at regular price, and they are not even organic. Based on their abnormal size, the apples must be genetically modified (new buzz term). The corporate bastards are making tons of money for something not even good for me and that pisses me off. I picked apples as a kid in West Virginia and they were never this big - almost a pound each. And, the price is ridiculous even by Homer standards. Supply and demand theory dictates, and we are easily ripped-off here because we have no choice other than to drive 75 miles north, to Soldotna. After this purchase, it was time for a road trip in Sooby, our new/old 1995 Subaru.

The next day still seething over being held hostage by big, fat, gorgeous apples (and they were delicious) I loaded up five dogs and we were off in search of better prices. Just to clarify, I am not a coupon shopper by any means but I do resent being blatantly screwed. The leaves were in full color and the sound of snoring dogs inside Sooby created a peaceful, beautiful drive north. We arrived at our destination where I shopped, filling my cart with sale items that included apples @$2.49/lb.  (a mere $1.00/lb. savings).  While loading the car with groceries the dogs only raised their heads long enough to see if I was offering treats. Satisfied that I was not, they went straight back to sleep. We were on the road home in just under an hour and $100 lighter. The money saved on food prices, more than made up for the gas used to get there.

It was important to be home by 5:30 as Forty West was being picked up from doggie day care. We had plenty of time to make the deadline so there was no need to rush. All dogs were happy to settle in for the ride home without a potty break. After about 30 miles, Woody began his demand barking signaling to me that he could not wait - he had to pee now. I passed a couple of rest stops but thankfully kept going. Finally we reached Nilnilchik, a small village with a couple bars, a pizza joint, a coffee shop, a gas station, and not much else. Still forty miles to Homer town, I was hoping Woody would go back to sleep but the tone of his bark changed and I knew it was time to stop, he could not wait.

I pulled off the road into a large parking lot with a rundown bar sitting about 100 yards back off the road. It was now drizzling rain and the wind had picked up. I told the other four dogs to stay put (one look outside and they weren’t getting up anyhow), and we would be right back. I left the car running, quickly hopped out, fastened his leash and let WoodBoy out to take a much-needed whiz. He barely cleared the car before assuming the position. We then rushed back to Sooby anxious to get out of the rain, only to find my door locked. WTF. I then tried the back door, locked; the other two doors on the passenger side, plus the back hatch - all locked. It slowly dawned on me that I had locked the keys in the car, it was running and four dogs were watching me from inside. SHIT! How the hell did this happen? Only one answer made sense, the car automatically locked because it was running? OMG, the rain is now coming down hard, we are cold and have no idea what to do. The only two obvious choices are: go to the bar and ask for help, or break a window. How in the hell can I do that with four dogs on the other side, I wonder? So we hiked toward the sign that read Inlet View bar. I literally had to pull on Woody to get him moving because he wanted to smell everything along the way, and pee some more, oblivious to the rain that was soaking my sweatshirt. Did I mention my down vest was in the car, along with my purse, the cell phone and the rest of my life?

I opened the heavy bar door to find a small, empty convenient store on the left, and a bar to the right with three people, two customers and a bartender. The smell of greasy fries and cigarette smoke filled my nostrils and was instantly absorbed into my wet hoodie. WoodBoy raised his nose to sniff the air hoping for a snack. He might be deaf and almost blind, but there is nothing wrong with his nose. A rebel flag hung on the wall behind the bar, along with a sign that read: ‘what part of redneck don’t you understand?” Two middle-aged men sat hunched over their mixed drinks not about to let go of them, much less get up.  I explained my problem and they just nodded, without comment. I then mentioned that I would just break the window (hoping one of them would volunteer to help me do just that). Instead, a guy called Bubba advised me not to do that because it would be expensive to replace. The other guy just sat with his back to me, never once turning around. It was apparent there was not going to be any help here, these were just warm bodies occupying barstools. The bartender volunteered to ask the cook if he had any ideas, about the same time another woman came from the convenient store, sporting an air of authority.

“You can’t have a dog in the bar (dive).”

“Okay, I locked my keys in the car . . .”

“Doesn’t matter, get that dog out of here.”

Enough said, who was I to argue? My life was inside the car. No money, no phone – what’s a girl and her dog to do, except leave? We began walking back to the car, Woody again smelling every bush along the way. The people aren’t particularly friendly at the Inlet View Bar. As I thought more about the situation it finally dawned on me as to why that might be. It had to be my Salty Dawg sweatshirt symbolizing liberal Homer town. Probably not the best thing to wear in a redneck bar – you think?

The windows of Sooby were filled with sweet faces and wagging tails. If only I had trained RockDog to hit the lock button on command. . . Why can’t I be more like my dogs and just relax, I wonder. This too will pass. The good news, had I pulled over at a rest stop before getting to this village, there would be no one around! Yikes! All the tourists have gone home so it can get pretty desolate along the road. I’m working on finding the positive here, but the clock is ticking and I have no way to contact Forty’s mom because as you know, the cell phone is locked up. I have to break a window but then the question becomes, which one? The bar door opens and Bubba comes out, getting into his car and driving off without giving me a second glance. Whatever, Asshole!

Back to the situation at hand. . . not the drivers side, not the passenger window, and not the boot because then how would I reach the door lock? Maybe one of the windows on the side, but I need to find a big rock to do the job. During this process the bartender opens the door and yells something out at me. I have to move closer to hear her, again dragging Woody away from smelling another bush: “the gas station can open your car door but they want $45.” OMG, music to my ears! The gas station of course, why didn’t I think of that? “That’s fine, have them come.” Obviously $45 is way cheaper than any window I might break.

We wait another 15 minutes in the rain and see a truck pull up in front of the bar. A guy gets out and retrieves something from the back bed, and I know he must be our man. I start waving my hands, “Over here, Hello! Over here!” Ecstatic, I’m almost jumping up and down and of course all the dogs are now barking! He gets back in his truck and races over to us. After assuring him all the dogs inside the car are really friendly, he goes to work and has the back window rolled down in less than five minutes. Apparently it was easier to push the automatic window button than to flip the lock with his Slim Jim. The open window is on Forty’s side of the car and with the wind now in his face he just sits there looking at us, not one bit interested in getting out of the warm car.

OMG we are finally back in Sooby and the dogs greet me like I have been gone for hours. In total it was about 45 minutes. I wrote the guy a check  (after first convincing him that it was a good one), and we were once again cruising the road back to Homer town. I should have tipped the bartender, but I was so excited to get the hell out of there that I forgot. Next time through I will stop and if she’s there, say thanks and give her $10. We pulled into our driveway a little late but still five minutes before Forty’s mom arrived to pick him up! He definitely had a story, if only he could talk.

This too did pass, but not without leaving behind a navy blue Salty Dawg sweatshirt that reeked of cigarette smoke, greasy food and a liberal attitude, not necessarily in that order. Not to mention the inspiration for a story.

Woof! Woof!

The Moose is Loose

Earlier this week fifteen dogs and I head out on our trail for a romp around the sand pit. Halfway down the path about twenty-five yards ahead of me, I notice an unfamiliar profile peeking out the bushes. What the hell??? OMG, it’s a big one. The dogs are leading in an auto-racing mode to the pit, hitting their brakes just in time to see Mama Moose lower her head for the charge. SHIT!

With little Sophie the Shih Tzu on leash, I immediately turn around and start running, calling to the dogs in a high-pitched panic voice. Assuming they follow, will the moose come charging after us? No time to wonder; just time to run like hell. I can only hope the dogs are behind me, without her in hot pursuit.

We make it back to the house safely and the moose goes off in the opposite direction. Once she realized we weren't a threat she moseyed on her way. We didn’t see the baby, but no doubt one was nearby. One lone basset hound stayed behind just to get in the last ARF! before hightailing it back to the deck.

This morning the remaining twelve dogs and I race out the back door at 5:30 AM for a quick pee (them, not ME!) only to be stopped in midstream (no pun intended). At the top of our dark driveway stood a very large moose (probably the same one). We could only see a stoic unmoving shadow but the dogs were immediately on alert, stopping me in my bare feet. Yikes!

We scurry back to the house in the dark without a bark escaping anyone’s lips (including MINE). What could have easily been chaos was only a close encounter of the third kind. Good, Good, Good Dogs!

The adventures of a dogsitter are never predictable, especially when there is a loose moose lurking in the bushes.

Woof! Woof!

Sweet-Tooth Anne

I’m invited to Dr. & Mrs. Smith’s dinner party on Thursday evening. He’s heard I’m a good baker so he requested I bring the dessert. I’m substituting at school all week so it has to be something seasonal and easy because time is a factor. I decide on a pumpkin spice cake with a Grand Marnier cream cheese frosting. I can mix, bake, cool and ice it in just the amount of time I have between getting home from work and being at the party by 6:30. I shop during my lunch break and begin the baking process when I get home. The timing is perfect. I take the cake out of the oven and place it on my bistro table to cool while I go to the bathroom for a quick pee.

When I return to the kitchen I am aghast at the scene before me, so much so that it takes a few seconds to register in my brain. Anne is on top the bistro table, gobbling up the cake so fast that crumbs are flying and the other dogs on the floor are catching them in midair. When she sees me she scurries off the table straight into her crate. Holy Shit, it is 6:00 PM and the entire top layer of the cake is demolished – and I’m talking in nanoseconds. Had I been even 10 more seconds in the bathroom the entire thing would have been gone. I am so pissed I can’t even speak, and she knows it that’s why she’s hiding. I slammed the door on her crate without saying a word. What to do now? I have to tell them.

Gutless Cake

I text Mrs. Smith because it’s easier than calling: “Forget the dessert, Anne ate it. Sorry”. I’m so embarrassed I don’t even want to go. How the hell did she get up there? A bistro table is tall enough to be cocker-proof and I always shove the chairs all the way in to prevent table surfing. I assume she jumped on her crate and leaped three feet across the room and onto the table. With the aroma of pumpkin filling her little nostrils, apparently she just could not resist. Sigh. . .

My cell rings and a man says: “Hi Karen, this is Bob.” I say hi not having a clue who I’m talking to, as I’m still in cake shock.

“You know I used to use the same excuse when I was in medical school and late turning in a paper - the dog ate it.” What? Oh, it’s Dr. Smith.

“Oh Bob, I am so pissed off, sorry about the dessert. And I just sent you a photo to prove it” I say.

“I have a terrible sweet tooth, bring what’s left of the cake and I will eat it.” Of course I think he is just being nice and trying to make me feel better. But no, he insists that I bring the remainder of this gnawed out spice cake. I hang up thinking he can’t be serious. I then get a text from his wife, “he’s such a sweets whore, bring the cake. He will eat it.” Okay, so I take the cake.

Dr. Smith meets me at the door and immediately grabs a bite of the spice cake as I set it down on the counter with the icing container. “Wow, this is really good and it doesn’t even look that bad. Maybe we can fix it?”

Mrs. Smith gets a large glass platter out of the cabinet and we flip the cake out of the bundt pan onto the plate. We begin working with the icing, filling in the sagging areas - a little lopsided, a bit flat but not too bad considering the bottom half has been gutted like a slaughtered animal. A finishing touch is needed to complete the art piece we have created. Something green for the top like a few fern fronds, voila! I must say it doesn’t look that bad, but do we dare serve this dessert?

After the Repair

Serve it we did! Even before we finished our salmon entree Dr. Smith had the cake out ready to cut pieces for all of us, making sure the icing filled any obvious holes on the plate. The guests went on and on about how moist the cake was – maybe Anne left some slobbers? When I left the party there was only a sliver left on the platter. No one breathed a word about a cake-eating cocker spaniel named Anne Banane. Who knew? Only the three of us, and the dogs at TBTB - and they aren’t talkin’! Mum was the word.

Sweet-Tooth Anne is now out of the doghouse and I’m wondering when she will strike again - leaping tall tables in a single bound, or bouncing like a ping-pong ball looking for something to grab off the counter and run. She’s an opportunist and when the situation is right for snagging food, she is all over it. It’s the smell of something cooking in the kitchen that drives her. But who can stay mad at a face that looks like this? Anne Banane you are both exasperating and hilarious!

Woof! Woof!

Hitchin’ a Ride on Easy Street

High Five!

Zippity DoDog is a riot. The girl has never known a stranger and is loved by many. A hound dog with a sense of humor that can sometimes be exasperating – well, it doesn’t get much better than that. So today . . .

I drive seven dogs to a dirt road called Easy Street where there are only a few houses, little traffic and lots of open space. The intent is to have a long hike to wear them out because a tired dog is a good dog. We cram ourselves into a white VW Beetle called VeVe. The group includes Forty West and Lady, the Labs; Bear and Mikke, the Old English Sheeps; RockDog, and BunBun Roush, the Spaniels; and DoDog. The car is rockin’ to and fro with excitement on our short ride to Easy Street. I finally stop, sling open my door as they fly over my lap into the open space. It’s always a race to see who can get out of VeVe first. 

The dogs walk, run, sniff butts, hike legs, and chase each other through the trees, into the bushes and over the hill. By Homer standards it’s a really warm day so they find a muddy stream right away to drink and get their paws wet. The labs lay down in the mud to cool their bellies. After a mile or so they all begin to slow down so we turn around and head back to the car. Zippy has chased Forty and she has chased Lady using mucho energy. When she runs she also barks with that deep hound dog voice. Her stubby little legs are low to the ground so she has to run twice as hard just to keep up. On the way back she is draggin’ her ass way behind the rest of us, doing the DoDog shuffle as she pretends to sniff the ground but we all know she is merely taking a breather.

Halfway back I turn around and see three cars coming toward us, slowing down because of all the dogs, finally coming to a complete stop in the middle of the road. I yell to the drivers: “keep moving, they will get out of your way,” as I continue walking and calling the dogs toward me. I round a corner and they all come running except for Zippy. Did I mention how stubborn she can be about doing what she wants, when she wants to do it?

The rest of us wait on the side of the road to let the cars pass. The first two are loaded with people ooohhing and aaaahing about the dogs. “Are all these YOUR dogs,” and “Boy, do you have YOUR hands full,” were some of the comments made as they passed us at a snail’s pace. Where is the third car I wonder, as we stand waiting in the sun? I finally see it rounding the bend with what looks like, oh but it is, a Basset Hound in the driver’s seat! What the hell?

As the car approaches, we see Zippy on the lap of a small woman, looking over the steering wheel and I swear she is smiling. They totally pass us by before the car stops and the door opens. DoDog jumps down and runs over to the pack with a smirk on her face, seriously. I figure she took at least a half-mile off her walk by getting in that car. The driver was apparently in awe. I apologize for the inconvenience but there was no need. The woman drove off laughing, waving at Zippy oblivious to the rest of us.

Snoozing on VeVe's dash on the ride home

We make it back to VeVe and all is quiet on the ride home. The dogs crawl slowly out of the car and onto the deck for a drink of water out of the swimming pool, and a nap in the sun. DoDog is totally spent. She sleeps the longest and snores the loudest twitching her legs ever so often. I wonder if she is dreaming of chasing labs through the bushes, or if hitchin’ a ride on Easy Street just wore her out? I can’t imagine how she got the lady to stop her car and open the door? Most likely she stood in the middle of the road refusing to move. That would be just like a DoDog. 

Spent

Woof! Woof!  

Shit to Pay

Wants to remain anonymous

Waiting tables on Friday nights at the Elks Lodge provides me with enough leftover food to feed the dogs for a week. They dine on prime rib, rib-eye steak, halibut, chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, rice, homemade rolls, and squash – not a bad supplement to their organic kibble. I merely give them a spoonful each night to sweeten the bowl and let them know what great dogs they really are. Last week I actually had four boxes of leftovers that weighed between 2-3 lbs. each, that I put in the freezer. I cannot believe how much food is wasted – working in a restaurant is evidence of just how much we toss without a second thought, while thousands of people go hungry every day – but that’s another subject.

On Tuesday I placed one of the boxes in the kitchen sink to thaw, and forgot about it. The next morning much to my amazement the box while still in the sink, was empty with only a few grains of telltale rice on the floor. There are only two likely culprits that had access to the kitchen overnight – Bear and Mikki, the Old English Sheepdogs. I threw the empty box in the trash and made breakfast for twelve dogs. Bear walked away from his bowl making it all too obvious he was the one that consumed the three pounds of steak. He never leaves food so I can only assume he is too full of beef to care much about oatmeal and yogurt. Whatever, it’s a done deal so there is no point in mentioning it. A dog must be caught in the act to understand when you tell him a behavior is unacceptable.

Later in the evening I went to dinner and indulged with my girlfriends – one has just signed the closing papers on selling her home and the other had her possessions moved to Hawaii where she just bought a house. Not one, not two, but THREE Cosmos – one too many for the girl known to be a cheap date. Returning home to twelve canines I took another box of leftovers out to thaw but this time I put it in the oven, out of sight out of mind. Off and on during the night I heard the Sheeps walking around downstairs but they are often restless on summer nights when there is so much light.

The following morning the dogs would not let me sleep past their usual get-up time of 6:30. There is no mercy this morning, only hell to pay. I grabbed my sweatshirt, found my shoes, opened the loft door and stumbled down the stairs in a fog behind ten dogs going down and the Sheeps trying to climb up. This is too much chaos in the wee hours of a rainy morning – the perfect time to be sleeping. Sigh. . . We quickly get into a bottleneck situation, the lead dogs stopping abruptly at the bottom of the stairs and flat refusing to move forward – what the hell?

Oh NO, the dreaded fear clinches my already queasy tummy. I have a hunch something is lurking at the bottom of the stairs, just waiting for me as I wade through the frozen-in-space canines. That’s when I see it. OMG not today, ANY day but this one, please. Piles and piles of runny excrement scattered in blobs throughout the first floor everywhere – thank God for vinyl flooring. One of the Sheeps obviously had a major blowout and the results cover the floor. I try to always look for the good in any disaster – so the good news? The stairs appear clean and that is a consolation. Adding dogs with shitty feet to the equation would have plunged me over the edge into the black abyss.

And the smell, well it’s pretty bad. Finally getting around the dogs, I know what I have to do and it isn’t pretty. Paper towels, a trash bag, a bucket of disinfectant and a mop, but first I have to lead each dog around the poop infused obstacle course without stepping on anything. No worries they make a wide berth around each pile, walking on their tiptoes. For over an hour – before I even have a pee - I cleaned and I cleaned and I cleaned SHIT.  GAWD, it was exasperating.

No face shots!

The Sheeps have been coming to dog camp for five years and have never had an accident in the house. No doubt they were trying to wake me up from my alcohol induced sleep but failed to do so. I wonder if they are sick - is it one or both of them? Maybe I need to call the vet. Several hours later after multiple cups of coffee it finally hit me. I had totally spaced out the box of steaks that had been consumed just 24-hours ago. Of course it was Bear because he’s the one that ate the three pounds of rich food and was merely purging it out of his system. I realize with relief he’s not sick at all, just stuffed. It had to come out somewhere and when the urge hit him, it happened to be in the middle of the night when the house was asleep. Poor boy must have been traumatized, albeit relieved.

Today was a long day but we managed to get through it by washing blankets, rugs, floors and butts. OMG it’s going to be an early night. I had shit to pay all day and I’m exhausted! Serves me right. . . The work of a dogsitter is done for today.

Woof! Woof!

We Woof You BearBoy!