Laney
The first sign that my brilliant pet-sitting plan might be more complicated than anticipated comes at seven-thirty the next morning when a pristine white SUV pulls into my driveway.
I’m still in my pajamas—thermal underwear and an oversized sweatshirt—clutching my first cup of coffee and wondering who’d be visiting this early. Through the kitchen window, I watch a woman in designer winter gear step out, followed by a man who immediately starts unloading multiple carriers and what appears to be a small refrigerator.
My stomach drops. They’re early. I’m not ready.
The knock is sharp and efficient. I run my fingers through my sleep-mussed hair and try to look professional.
I take a deep breath, grateful that the summer I spent handling Mr. Dexter’s menagerie in high school is finally going to pay dividends. His boa wasn’t as big as Jasper, but the principles are the same.
“Ms. Hillman?” The woman on my doorstep is immaculate—perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m Caroline Kliborn. We spoke yesterday about Jasper?”
“Of course! Right on time,” I say, stepping aside. The reality of her pristine appearance against my secondhand furniture makes me suddenly conscious of the chipped coffee table with a stack of half-read books doing double duty as a leg. “Please come in. Call me Laney.”
“Wonderful.” Caroline sweeps into my living room. “We have Jasper with us.”
What must be her husband follows her in, sets up an elaborate terrarium in my living room, and introduces me to Jasper—six feet of beautiful, terrifying boa constrictor.
“He’s very gentle,” Caroline assures me. “He needs to be handled for thirty minutes twice weekly—more if you can manage it—to maintain his socialization. You’re not afraid of snakes, are you?”
“Not at all,” I say honestly, watching Jasper coil gracefully in his new habitat. “I actually got comfortable with snakes back in high school—my neighbor paid me to care for his collection one summer.” Best-paying pet-sitting gig I ever had. I don’t mention that I took the job specifically because the money was too goodto turn down, or that it took me two weeks to stop flinching every time I opened the door to what Mr. Dexter fondly called the snake room.
After the Kliborns leave me with a detailed two-page list of care instructions, I approach Jasper’s terrarium with the calm confidence that comes from experience. He’s bigger than Mr. Dexter’s boa was, but the body language is the same—relaxed coils, head down, no defensive posture.
“We’re going to get along just fine,” I tell him, already mentally planning when to schedule his handling sessions.
The second arrival comes two hours later while I’m refreshing my memory about snake-handling techniques. An older gentleman hurries in, worried about missing his noon flight to Switzerland.
His pet is Peanut, a Yellow-headed Amazon parrot who immediately surveys my cabin and announces, “Cheap stuff!” in a voice dripping with disdain.
“He’s very intelligent,” the gentleman explains while setting up an enormous cage. “Picks up phrases quickly. I do hope you don’t use colorful language around him.”
Peanut’s gaze is so sharp it could grade papers. Perfect. A bird who’s going to judge every word I say.
“Of course not,” I tell him primly. “Profanity is for those lacking imagination.”
He blinks once, slow and knowing, like he’s already preparing to quote me when I inevitably slip.
The third arrival overlaps with the second departure. Mrs. Foster, a kind elderly woman, brings Hamlet—a pot-bellied pig who’s her emotional support animal. He’s freakishly large and immediately makes himself at home, sniffing every corner of my cabin with intense curiosity.
“He’s perfectly litter-trained,” she assures me, “and quite fastidious about his bathroom habits. The litter box setup is in his travel crate.”
After asking me where to set it up and placing it in the bathroom, she adds, “He’s very social. I’m going to miss him, but I can’t take him with me. He gets anxious and destructive when left alone. I hope that’s not a problem?”
It’s not, until I realize Hamlet has opposable-thumb-level dexterity and an apparent fascination with cabinet doors.
By noon, I’ve also welcomed Napoleon the rooster with his three hens (thankfully housed in the outdoor pen), Duchess, a very pregnant black cat, two goats, and several dogs and cats of varying energy levels. All but Duchess will stay in a special area of the barn equipped with separate cages.
My quiet mountain cabin has become a bustling animal sanctuary, and I’m starting to understand the difference between theoretical knowledge and practical experience.
The moment that breaks me comes when I’m trying to coordinate feeding schedules around dietary restrictions. Peanut shrieks, “Chaos! CHAOS!” like he’s auditioning for the role of Doomsday Narrator, Hamlet has broken into the pantry with the determination of a truffle pig on a mission, and Duchess is pacing like she’s considering popping out kittens right on my quilted Christmas throw.
I kneel beside her carrier, watching her pace and pant, and try to remember everything from my animal reproduction course. She’s clearly uncomfortable, probably hours away from delivery, and I suddenly realize I’m completely alone with all of this responsibility.
A dozen animals are depending on me. One about to give birth. A six-foot snake I’m supposed topetregularly, not to mention a pig who’s smarter than I anticipated. All while I’m isolated on a mountain with the nearest emergency vet an hour away.
My stomach cramps with something between panic and determination. These animals’ families trusted me with their most precious companions. I can’t let them down.
