And in that same vein, I was convinced my current challenge, Sweetpea, had a heart of gold buried somewhere deep within that itty-bitty bitchy body of his. Sure, on the outside he appeared to be the devil’s spawn. There was nothing sweet, or pea, about him unless you counted the puddles of urine he left all over the house. But, the bleeding heart in me reasoned, even inappropriately named Chihuahua mixes were worth the effort.
Still, the short-tempered pup was depleting my reserves. Feeding time with Sweetpea was an exercise in survival. He was a carnivore with a taste for blood. When it was time to eat, I gingerly placed his bowl on the floor and pushed it over with a broom. I’d been warned about fingers near his food, and the loss of said digits, so I wasn’t taking any chances with the miniaturized meat grinder.
Playtime with Sweetpea was about as fun as a bikini wax following a long, cold winter. Both scenarios usually ended with me quivering on a chair screaming for relief. My hero came in the form of Hercules, the family’s enormous Saint Bernard, who was as sweet as his little brother was rotten. Herc was not only a peacemaker, but also a Chihuahua-whisperer. He seemed the only one able to talk my nemesis off the cliff.
Nighttime with Sweetpea was reminiscent of a hostage situation, with the diminutive dictator cuddling up next to me for warmth but not allowing me to move a muscle. If I had the gall to pivot in my sleep, I could expect a splinter-sized tooth planting itself deep in the tender flesh of my patootie.
Maybe I was just rusty in the pet-sitting arena. After all, I hadn’t owned an animal since relocating to Southern California. My current landlord, a cranky, rules-oriented woman, didn’t allow pets or the cooking of certain smelly vegetables. The veggies rule I could live with as I wasn’t the biggest fan of leafy greens anyway, but I struggled with the other. There were times I missed animals so much that I snuck into dog parks under the guise of being a pet owner just to frolic with other people’s pups.
So it was a no brainer when I was asked to pet sit for the Kufrin family. Cindy, the mother of one of my child clients, presented the offer to me after an animated conversation about a baby bird I attempted to return to the nest before getting browbeaten by his irritated mother. How was I to know the little guy was testing his wings?
Anyway, Cindy’s proposal was one of those too-good-to-be-true deals and I should have known there was something fishy about it. But a hundred and fifty dollars a day to spend weekends and evenings with her family’s pets in a multi-million dollar mansion while they were in Europe for twelve days was just too good to pass up.
And then I met Sweetpea. You know you’re in trouble when the pet owner leaves a copy of his rabies certificate right next to the number for the nearest urgent care. Thank god he was up-to-date on his shots or I’d already be foaming at the mouth. It soon became clear that Cindy hadn’t offered the job to me out of the kindness of her heart. She was offering it to me because Sweetpea was very likely blacklisted in the canine community, his mug shot hanging in animal establishments all along the coast as a warning to unsuspecting pet sitters like myself.
“Please, Sweetpea,” I pleaded with the tiny Napoleon. “If you let go I’ll let you spoon me tonight, no questions asked.”
Our current deadlock was over a cat toy. He’d swiped it from Lucy, the mansion’s cat, and she wanted it back. With both hands on the toy and the dog’s teeth clasped securely over the sparkly mouse, Sweetpea and I began our stare down. It was going on three minutes, twenty-eight seconds and neither of us was budging.
Until the lights went out.
* * *
Time goes by so much slower in the dark, especially when sleep was off the table. Had I known I’d be spending the evening in obscurity, I wouldn’t have taken a nap earlier in the day. Now I was wide-awake and bored to tears. With no television, and the Internet only accessible on the front porch with my arm lifted and tilted at a seventy-degree angle, my options for entertainment were limited. Since my mom and Terrance were teaching their evening couple’s relaxation class, I took to texting or calling every human I’d ever known. In a moment of extreme weakness, I even dialed up my wayward father.
Four rings later and he was on the line.
“Hello?”
His intro was less a greeting and more reminiscent of a person trying to figure out how the strange talking device worked.
“Hi, Dad.”
Silence filled the space between us. I pulled the phone away from my ear to make sure we were still connected but, sure enough, the call time was still ticking away.
Confused, I tried again. “Dad?”
“Who’s this?”
Since I was the only one qualified to use the moniker, I was instantly pissed.
“It’s me. Your daughter.”
More silence as I held my breath, waiting for his reply. I’ll admit, it had been a while since we’d spoken, but certainly not enough time to forget his own child.
“Breeze,” I added quietly in an attempt to jog his long-term memory. This pretty much summed up our entire relationship. He had to be repeatedly reminded of my existence.
A long, relieved exhale. “Ah. Right … Breeze.”
“Who else would I be?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “Unless you have another daughter somewhere.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he chuckled. “Sorry, I’m just a little distracted right now. Got some old high school buddies over for a few beers. You just sounded so old, baby girl.”
“Old?”
“Yeah, like a woman. I got confused.”
“You do know I’m twenty six, right?”
