
“Do you promise she’ll be safe for the weekend?”
“Absolutely,” I lied.
Nobody can promise what the future will hold.
“And you read my instructions for her care?”
“Absolutely,” I lied again.
Nobody can read four pages of dog care instructions on a Saturday morning. Not while cooking breakfast for a two-year-old, an infant and an insomniac-homicidal wife.
“And you read the part about heating up her meals to medium warm? And how much kibble to mix in with the soft food at breakfast?”
“That was my favorite part. It was Pulitzer stuff, really.”
Aunt Leslie eyed me suspiciously. It occurred to her that I might not be incredibly honored to babysit this yappy little dog.
“Marshall … you know Lulu isn’t some ordinary Pomeranian, right?”
“I know she has some pretty high culinary expectations.”
“Lulu is a show dog. She has placed in three American Kennel Club competitions.”
“Can’t you place her in an American kennel now?”
Aunt Leslie sighed. Before marriage, I would have mistaken this sigh for fatigue. Now I recognized it as suppressed rage, used most often we’re in public or my wife needs something. In this case my aunt needed something big.
“Because this is such a huge responsibility,” Aunt Leslie said slowly, “I’m asking you to do it.”
First, I’m morally opposed to responsibility. Second, my mother had asked me to do it. Via a five-word text at midnight: Watch Leslie’s dog this weekend. Third, Mom had mysteriously misplaced her phone when I responded with three WTF texts and two voice mails. Technically I had not yet accepted this assignment.
I didn’t speak a word. With my facial expression, I didn’t have to.
“Marshall, please! I’m meeting friends in Monterey tonight and my sitter just flaked. Her grandfather broke his hip and he needs her at the hospital for some reason, so she left me stranded.”
“How inconsiderate.”
“I know, right?” Aunt Leslie nodded. “It’s so last minute, I don’t have any other options.”
“Except putting her in a kennel.”
“Lulu is not a kennel dog!”
“Then why is she part of a kennel club?”
Aunt Leslie sighed again, loudly. I sighed back. My sigh wasn’t nearly as contemptuous, probably because I didn’t have as much practice. And because I’m a guy.
“Marshall, will you please take good care of my dog? Just for the weekend?”
I nodded. We both knew I didn’t have much choice.
“Thank you. Just make sure she gets plenty of rest, only eats the measured amounts in my instructions, and doesn’t get anything in her fur that would ruin the shine.”
“Like tar? Because my kids play with tar a lot.”
“Yes …” Aunt Leslie struggled with abstract humor. “I was thinking gum or mud or whatever your daughters play with. Actually, it’s best to just keep Lulu away from them. We have the Del Monte Kennel Club show in Carmel next week and I plan to win.”
My aunt dropped off the five-pound dog in a sleek leather carrier-handbag. She also gave me the dog’s food, bedding and toys in a Gucci suitcase. Aunt Leslie hopped back in her Mercedes and sped away faster than I could ask which female dog was more spoiled.
I brought Lulu inside. Ricki looked up with wide eyes.
“Daddy!” my two-year-old exclaimed. “We have a dog?”
“We have Aunt Leslie’s dog for the weekend.”
“Yeah! Thank you, Daddy!”
In toddler time, a weekend is about a decade. I forecast tears for tomorrow night.
“Can I play with the doggy?”
From her flashy carrying purse, Lulu yipped. I took this to mean Lulu wanted the company, so I set the dog at Ricki’s feet. I returned to making breakfast. Cooking for this dog would be more involved than our usual cereal and toast.
“Daddy, I can’t catch the dog,” Ricki whined.
“Try harder.”
I’m a fountain of great parenting advice.
“And I’m hungry.”
“Eat this.”
I handed her a bran muffin. It was the closest edible item that required no preparation. Ricki hurried away and I return to figuring out the yappy dog’s breakfast mix.
“Honey, what are you doing?” my wife asked as she entered the kitchen.
“Making you breakfast.”
“Are you microwaving dog food?”
“We’re dog-sitting Lulu today and tomorrow,” I sighed, hopefully with enough exasperation for my wife to appreciate. “The dog only eats Michelin-rated meals.”
“You can barely boil water, sweetie,” Allie grinned. “Don’t hurt yourself. Where’s Ricki?”
Ricki sprinted into the kitchen holding Lulu under the front armpits. The dog’s hind legs dangled and kicked the empty air. Lulu whined in terror. I suspected this wasn’t how they showed dogs at the kennel club.
“Lulu had her breakfast!” Ricki announced. “I gave her my muffin!”
That muffin was almost half the size of the dog. I was at a loss for words.
“She also ate the wrapper,” Ricki added.
“Oh shit.”
I found my words.
“Marshall!” my wife snapped.
“It’s okay …” I said cautiously.
“No, it is not okay!”
“The muffin was mostly bran and healthy stuff …”
“I’m not talking about the muffin!”
“The wrapper was one of those paper things on the lower half. She’ll probably digest it.”
“I don’t care about the wrapper!”
“You think the dog might be allergic to something?” I realized. “Oh shit.”
“Marshall! I’m talking about your language! And in front of the kids!”
I tried to look sorry as I googled a vet. After a few minutes I had one on the phone. Dogs aren’t allergic to bran. Expect serious constipation.
“Exactly how big was the muffin?” the vet asked.
“Smallish.” I would consider it a small meal, for me.
“Pomeranians have very small, delicate stomachs. You should bring her in for observation for 24 hours. It’s only $500.”
I thanked her and hung up. I didn’t have the heart to mention the wrapper.
“What did the vet say?” my wife asked.
“She said no more meals served by our two-year-old. And when the dog poops again in a few days, you don’t want to be standing behind her.”
Lulu wasn’t interested in the shredded chicken, soft food and kibble mix I’d heated up. Either she was full, or terrified to stand still. Ricki insisted on raising her high and singing Lion King. Only once did Lulu wander close to our six-month-old. Josie grabbed the dog and treated her like a stuffed animal. Josie’s stuffed animals don’t last long.
“Are you sure the kids should play with the dog?” my wife asked later that day.
“It’s probably a bad idea,” I admitted. “But I can’t keep the dog in the carrying case all day; the girls will just torment her through the openings. And I can’t lock up the girls so the dog can roam free.”
Allie shrugged. Like most minor parenting decisions, there was no good option. I just tried to pick the one that did the least damage.
“Daddy!” Ricki laughed. “Can we play in the backyard?”
Ricki held Lulu in a headlock. The dog’s legs kicked wildly.
“Yes, you can go in back. But let Lulu run around. Don’t grab her and carry her like that.”
“Are you sure?” Allie asked. “The area on the side of the house would be terrible for her fur.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “That is kind of a transition area.”
The side was transitioning between wild marshland and dangerous grassland. With mud puddles, knee-high weeds, scrub brush, and enough burs and thorns to shred bare ankles, the side yard would give most gardeners nightmares.
“I can’t see Ricki taking the dog there,” I said. “She’s afraid of that area.”
Ten minutes later: “Daddy! Lulu is hiding from me in bad part of the yard!”
Twenty minutes later: “Oh Marshall! That poor little dog.”
“Holding her is like holding a porcupine,” I muttered. “She must have a few hundred needles and foxtails stuck in her fur. Maybe a thousand. This is going to take a while to get out.”
“I have to do the grocery shopping for the week. Have fun.”
“I will,” I replied sourly. “Don’t worry, this won’t take long.”
Three hours later: “Marshall! What are you doing?”
“Still getting the burs out,” I growled. “A lot of these won’t untangle. Her outside hair is long and smooth, but then there’s this thick undercoat — ”
“You can’t cut her hair!” Allie exclaimed.
I looked at the scissors in my hand, the shivering dog on my lap, and the pile of hair and burs. My wife isn’t very observant.
“I think I’m qualified to operate scissors. It’s not rocket science, and nobody’s missing a paw.”
“Isn’t Lulu a show dog? Your aunt will kill you if you put a crease in one strand of hair. You just cut out a hundred big chunks.”
“Not more than fifty,” I corrected. “And they’re not that big. Not compared to that muffin she’s trying to pass.”
“You won’t be joking when your aunt comes back. She’ll kill you.”
“It’ll be okay,” I said with borrowed confidence. “She isn’t very observant.”
Allie left, muttering something about not wanting to witness a crime in progress. I cut out the remaining two dozen burs, the ones down deepest near the skin. Then I held up my trembling little Frankendog. She looked like she’d entered a fight with a weed whacker and a crocodile. After evening up the haircut in a few places, she looked a little less pitiful.
Maybe some hair would grow back by tomorrow morning.
“Dad!” Ricki shouted the next morning. “What happened to the dog?”
“Your father happened to it,” Allie replied.
“Her hair looks broken.”
“It’s growing back.”
“Not here. Or here. Or here. Or here. I can see her skin here and here— ”
“It’s growing slower than I’d hoped,” I interrupted.
“Can Lulu play outside?” Ricki asked. “I want to show her to my friends.”
“Lulu can’t go outside the house any more, sweetie.”
“Is she going to poop inside the house?” Ricki asked.
“She won’t poop again this calendar year. We’re pretty safe.”
“Will she pee?”
I pondered this. Like her father, Ricki is pretty observant.
“You can show her to your friends in the front yard,” I decided.
“You go with her,” my wife added. “A two-year-old isn’t qualified to run around the neighborhood and babysit a fragile little dog. You’re not much better, but I have to feed the baby. And I when your aunt returns with a PETA SWAT team, I want to honestly say I had nothing to do with this abuse.”
We live on a street with a dozen kids under age six. They were all out Sunday morning, and all took turns chasing, catching, and awkwardly holding Lulu. I hoped the constant sprinting would work that bran muffin through faster. And maybe stimulate hair growth.
“Daddy!” Ricki called. “Max wants to play!”
Our neighbor’s 40-pound border collie sprinted into the group. He introduced himself to Lulu by sniffing her butt. Unimpressed by her all-bran muffin diet, Max raced after his true nemesis: the tennis ball. One child threw the ball and Max bolted down the street to retrieve it. He brought it back, dropped it at her feet, and the ball was thrown again. And again. And again.
Then Ricki picked it up.
“Here Lulu!”
Ricki rolled the ball to Lulu. Lulu sniffed the ball. Max bit into Lulu’s face. Max lifted Lulu by the head, shook hard, and threw her to the ground. Then he retrieved the ball and dropped it at a kid’s feet.
The children screamed in terror. Lulu yelped in fear. I responded appropriately.
“OH SHIT!”
Blood flowed from her lip and the side of her head. I rushed Lulu inside and thrust her head under a water faucet. The dog screeched and squirmed — out of my hands. She tumbled to the kitchen floor and sprinted away.
“Marshall!” Allie cried. “What did you do now?”
“Nothing. Everything is fine.”
“Then why is a drenched, bloody show dog hiding under the bed?”
Allie helped me wrestled the dog still and wash away the blood. The dog looked okay.
“I see a torn lip here,” Allie pointed out. “And two puncture wounds over here. And a few burs you missed yesterday.”
“She doesn’t look too bad.”
“Marshall, she looks like she’s been mauled and scalped — which she actually has!”
“The wounds are superficial; they’ll heal. And the hair will grow back.”
“Not before your aunt picks her up tonight.”
“Maybe Aunt Leslie won’t notice. She’s not that observant.”
“You always say that when you’ve done something stupid and hope nobody else will notice!”
Maybe my wife was more observant than I thought.
We cleaned Lulu up as much as possible. Band-aids wouldn’t remain stuck to her fur. I settled on cotton balls over the wounds, secured by a lot of gauze wrapped around the dog’s head.
“Are you making the dog into a mummy?” Ricki asked.
“Daddy’s hiding his past doggy care mistakes with larger, more obvious ones,” Allie explained. “And then he’ll naively assume there will be no consequences, until there are. Then he’ll act surprised, and compensate for his total lack of responsibility by making a few witty comments that only he thinks are funny.”
My two-year-old’s face twisted in confusion. She didn’t understand.
“So … Daddy’s doing something wrong. Again.”
Maybe she did understand.
“Daddy is trying to make a few bad things better,” I clarified.
“But you caused those bad things, right?”
Yep, she understood just fine.
We decided Lulu would recover in our bedroom for the rest of the day. Lulu seemed content to curl under the bed and quiver in fright.
“Daddy?” Ricki asked as we closed the bedroom door. “When does Aunt Leslie pick up the dog?”
“Tonight.”
“Good. I think the dog won’t get hurt as much with Aunt Leslie.”
The Mercedes pulled into my driveway late that evening. Darkness helped a lot. I hurried out with the dog’s bag packed and Lulu in her carrying case.
“How was everything?” Aunt Leslie asked.
“The dog survived,” I answered truthfully.
“Any problems?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
I handed Aunt Leslie the carrying case, with the dog inside.
“I wouldn’t take her out right now,” I said. “Lulu is sleeping.”
Or paralyzed by PTSD.
“Did Lulu get enough to eat?”
“Plenty.”
“But you didn’t feed her too much kibble, right?”
“She definitely didn’t eat too much kibble.”
“That’s great … thank you! You really made my weekend. I don’t know what to say.”
“You’ll think of something real soon,” I muttered.
Aunt Leslie and the traumatized dog sped away. I returned inside and grabbed my wife’s phone.
“What are you doing?” Allie asked.
“Enjoying a nice, relaxing, dog-free Sunday evening.”
I put our phones in a desk drawer and cooked dinner. After the girls’ bedtime, we watched Netflix. Later as we climbed into bed, Allie tapped me.
“Where’s my phone?”
I opened the desk drawer and handed it to her.
“There’s thirty missed calls — and fifty texts! Marshall … these are all from your aunt and your Mom!”
“They probably want to make sure we’ll be at the Del Monte Kennel Club show in Carmel next week.”
My phone buzzed. Aunt Leslie was calling me, and not for the first time. I turned off my phone and my wife’s and went to sleep.
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