The Dog Sitterer

The Dog Sitterer

Zeake’s his name. He’s an eighty-five pound, seven-year-old, yellow Lab. He’s pretty, he’s smart, and he’s all mine this Labor Day weekend.

As dogs go, Zeake’s highly intelligent and my son trained him well. He can tell me when it’s mealtime, or when he wants to go out to do his business, or wants to play, or wants attention, or if there’s a threat to the household; and he likes to do all this, in middle of the night.

Around 11 P.M., he’s ready to turn in. His mommy and daddy retire at that time and he’s used to their schedule. Now that he’s here, his schedule is too. He heads to the bedroom, then stops and looks over his shoulder at me with pleading eyes and a bowed head. He whimpers and his tail does a low, slow wag until I turn off the TV and head into the bedroom. It takes a bit for me to get used to his snoring, but after I do, I drift off a half-hour or so later than usual.

Then about three in the morning, he starts with a barely audible, low-level whimper. Pretending to be asleep doesn’t fool him—oh, no. He stands there, waiting … and watching … and waiting, with his wet nose and dog breath panting on me. If I move—or raise an eyelid the tiniest bit—I’m toast. His tail wagging triples in cycles and he knows thumping it against the wall will soon knock the house from its foundation. If that doesn’t raise me, he knows that dragging that slimy, three-inch-wide tongue of his across my face, will.

I have a king-sized bed with lots-o-room, but rolling over is futile. That’s the trouble with big dogs. They can get you. I hear the bed frame groan as it bends under his weight when he climbs up and lays his upper body across the mattress to reach me. Then the prodding begins. First, it’s the paw drop. He whines and paws at me trying to get me up. If that doesn’t roust me, he whines and jabs that huge wet nose into my back like a battering ram. I’ve got the bruises to prove it. Sliding to the far side is a temporary recourse at best. He won’t climb all the way onto the bed; although fully capable, he’s been trained not to. But he will trot around the other side and begin his attack anew. So I find myself moving from one side to the other, back and forth, until I eventually wind up laying arrow straight on my side in the exact center of the mattress—and he waits.

He waits until my body cramps up from holding that position for an excessive amount of time. He waits until I have to move to promote blood flow to muscles that burn from over-extended use. He waits until I’m forced to shift position to stem the mounting pain; and when I do, he detects the motion and gets excited, thinking I’m finally going to get up. Then he starts again with even more of the wagging, more of the whimpering, the whining, the pawing and the breathing, but adds snorting which leads to sneezing and showering me with whatever that stuff is in his nose.

I look at the clock, curse, and sit up on the edge of the bed. He won and he knows it. He does his little victory spins in the middle of the floor, hootin’ an’ hollerin’ like a banshee, and then darts toward the door. He stops at the hall and looks back to see if I’m following. If I procrastinate in the least, he trots back, spins some more, hoots an’ hollers some more, and licks some more until I stand up. And if that doesn’t get me to my feet, he starts talking to me as his body curls from side to side with the wagging of his tail.

“Euuuah … euuuah … ruh-ruh … ruh!”

I dare not speak. If I do, he thinks I want to talk and engages in regular conversation.

“AOUF-RAOUF-AROUF!”

Yes, different barks mean different things. This last one means: “If you don’t hurry up and let me out, I’m going to piddle all over your brand-new wall-to-wall carpet.” The sheer volume and power of his canine aria ruffles the curtains and I can see the dust particles launch into the air. I hear the neighbors slamming their windows shut because Zeake has activated every car alarm on the street. Of course, all the other dogs in the neighborhood must have their say too and join in the doggie conversation. If I’m to get any sleep at all, and retain my standing amongst the neighbors, I have to let him out.

Then comes 6 A.M. He wants his breakfast and it starts all over. Dogs can’t read calendars and can’t know when it’s Saturday morning. But with Zeake, you’d have a hard time convincing me of that. By this time, I’m whipped. I resign myself to the fact I’m getting out of bed whether I want to or not. He bolts from the bedroom when my feet hit the floor and scrambles to the door. For a big dog, he sure has a small bladder.

I open the door and out he goes. Then I hear growling and look out the window. He’s spotted a squirrel. What fun! He completely forgets about piddling all over the nearest tree and tears off after the squirrel growling and making all kinds of racket. During past visits, I’ve tried to explain to him he’s to go #2 in the very back of the yard. I’ve discovered many a landmine by the shed door in my bare feet, so I watch him. After standing at the back door for a minute or two, observing Zeake chase what he thinks is a furry chew toy, my own bladder reminds me that I too, possess a wastewater disposal system. The Void Warning is the same one I get washing dishes under running water:

ALARM! ALARM! VOID SEQUENCE INITATING IN … 5 … 4 … 3….

As you know, this warning is really no warning at all. It’s all I can do to get to the wastewater processing tank. Of course, Zeake knows this. As soon as I disappear from the window, he makes a beeline for the shed completely ignoring a squirrel he’d never catch anyway. I get back just in time to see the last mine being laid. I stick my head out the door and scold him, but I can’t get past the feeling he’s grinning at me as he wags his tail and pants.

Well, the last thing I want to do at six in the morning is form a mine-sweeping detail, so I let him in and make his breakfast. I know I’ll locate the mine later. Probably the next time I’m in the yard barefoot.


Next is the insult to the injury. Now that I’m wide awake, I decide to do the chores; laundry, vacuuming, dusting, dishes—all the regular stuff. And since my girlfriend isn’t here, I have to do it myself. I turn on the TV and begin. Then, I see this big yellow dog sound asleep on the floor. The nerve! But I figure he’s out of the way and I can accomplish something. An hour or so later, I’m finished (it’s a small house). The dishes are away, clothes are in closets and it’s still early morning. I have the whole day in front of me so I decide to take a nap. Guess what happens next?

The squirrels figure the yellow monster is gone and begin foraging for whatever it is squirrels forage for. Somewhere just above the R.E.M. level of my slumber, I think I hear Zeake growling under his breath. I’m sure I’m dreaming until this progresses to a subtle woofing and louder growling. Another problem with big dogs—they can see out windows.

Zeake’s standing at the back door and his tail is wagging slightly as he imagines the pleasures of catching the uncatchable. He’ll be able to brag to all his doggie friends that he and he alone, caught one of the beady-eyed furry things that climb trees and eat nuts. He’ll be king of all he surveys, revered by other dogs and get all the hot canine chicks. If he can just convince me to let him out of the house, he’ll do the rest.

Ah, but I outsmarted him. I closed the bedroom door. And it stayed that way until he opened it. The doors in my house have door levers instead of doorknobs. It was childs’ play for him. I should have wedged a chair against the door like they did in the old westerns. The next thing I know my face is dripping wet and a paw is thumping me on the head. What could I do? I got up.

I decided later there was no sense in trying to get any rest with the K-9 sleep police in the house, so I made us dinner—me, a grilled steak, and Zeake, a delicious bowl of Gravy Train. We settled in to watch TV.

Zeake decided Gravy Train didn’t hold a candle to top sirloin and sat in front in the coffee table watching me. You would have thought there was an open faucet in his mouth from the drool. I watched as a dark circle began to form on my new carpets just below his jowls. I tried to get him to chase more squirrels, but he would have none of that. Catching furry tree-climbers is one thing, steak is quite another. I thought about moving into the kitchen, but then I couldn’t see the TV. I had no choice. I cut the steak in half. It’s just as well. I wanted to lose some weight anyway.


That night went as did the first. Up, down, up, down. I was beginning to hallucinate from lack of sleep. But his father would pick him up in a couple of hours, if I could just hold out a little longer.

It was a beautiful Sunday, 75 degrees and sunny, so I pulled out a lawn chair and Zeake and I spent the afternoon lazing in the back yard. The occasional squirrel would happen along and Zeake would explode from beside my chair scaring the be-Jesus out of me. Then he’d trot back, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, and lay down next to me again. I drifted off.

The next thing I knew, my son pulled up and Zeake recognized the throaty exhaust of the Mustang’s V8. His ears shot up, his head cocked to one side, and he listened for a moment. Then he started barking and yelping and whining to tell me daddy was here, and then bolted around the side of the house to the front. By the time I got there, he was standing on his hind legs, front paws on the top rail of the fence, and his tail was going a mile-a-minute. Barking wouldn’t quite describe it. It was more like talking. He was beside himself with excitement.

Once he settled down, my son put him in the back seat of the convertible, gave me the traditional bear hug, and got in the car to leave. I stood watching as he pulled onto and down the street. Zeake sat in the back seat sniffing the sky above him. My son waved as he always does when he pulls away, but Zeake did nothing, content he was back where he belonged. When they were out of sight, I went back into the house.


Closing the door behind me, I couldn’t help but notice how quiet my little house had become. I picked up his food and water bowls, and washed, dried, and put them away for the next time they’d be needed. Closing the cabinet, I stepped into the back yard and began picking up his toys—a golf ball he’d chase and return but not chew; a wonderful new stick he found back in the yard and brought to the deck, and an old soccer ball—deflated now, unable to hold air due to the holes from his teeth.

I took them in the house and put them in their customary place in the closet. I stopped to look around when an overwhelming feeling of loss washed over me. I picked up the soccer ball and held it in silence. Then, running my hand across its surface, I realized just how much, I missed that dog.

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