Hickory, Dickory, Dock

These are two of my three newest dogsitting clients. Let’s call them Hickory, Dickory and Dock. In this photo is Dickory and Dock. Yes, they do have eyes, and no, they don’t bump into walls. Dock, the white one, also the youngest, and you can see his eyes pretty easily. He’s also a SuperSnuggler, and sleeps on the bed next to me, which would be lovely if he didn’t think that 4:30am is the perfect time to get up, and if he didn’t smell faintly of pee. They all small faintly of pee, thanks to their dreadlocked fur that drags along the ground, picking up dirt, twigs, and errant pee drops.

Initially, I was gonna post picture of the house, and all the stranger than strange Southwestern deco, including a life-sized Mexican mannequin and a life-sized cowboy statue at the top of the stairs. But then Paranoid Brain took over and fears that someone out there is going to recognize the creepy life sized Mexican mannequin sitting in a rocking chair across from the life sized wolf statue across the room from the authentic Indian ponchos and then the jig is up. For all I know, going this far incurs some Navajo Indian protector ghost, but that would actually be kinda nifty, so bring it on, Navajo Skinwalkers! I ain’t afraid of YOU!

So the dogs smell, the décor also smells, (I’ve been existing on allergy drugs for the past five days.), the washer and dryer are on the far side of the garage, and it’s a little difficult to make your way past two cars to get to it, but this tour of duty ends with them tomorrow, (though I’m back with them next week for another few days.)

This is the part where my Dad, the Great Stoic Wonder, bellows, “Why are you doing this if it’s so miserable!?” (I’ve never understood why half the advice my Dad gives me is to quit when facing an uncomfortable situation. But the other half of his advice are good stock tips, so it all comes out in the wash)

But in facing this uncomfortable situation, some things become clear - while Dickory is a total yapper of a dog, especially when you get home from work, I discovered a HUGE ASS bottle of Patron tequila in a drawer next to a wine refrigerator. Patron tequila makes everything easier. These dogs are fine snoozing on the floor while I type on the computer. And if you really wanna get down to it, I’m getting paid to be inconvenienced first, and taking care of faintly-pee-smelling dogs second. Which is reason enough for me.

This is Hickory. She’s the only girl in the group, she’s the eldest, and she’s the one whose eyes I have not been able to locate on her face, because she won’t stay still long enough to lift up the dreadlocks to see them. I’ve found her ears, right where they’re supposed to be. But no eyes.


I did find the tag on her collar that says this:

I have no idea how useful a therapy dog she could be. She’s pretty aloof. Not a snuggler, not a comforter. Not a leader, not a follower. The only notable thing I’ve seen her doing is patiently suffering as her brothers take turn humping her. And I don’t think that’s advice that would be considered useful in any situation.

But, regardless of what my Great Stoic Wonder Dad says, no situation is as bad as you think it is. In this case, it’s that none of these dogs are a two year old 110 pound German Shepherd named Damien.

ThankyouGodthankyou. ThankyouGodthankyou. ThankyouGodthankyou. ThankyouGodthankyou.

I can survive anything that’s not that.