it's a dirty job

I'm dogsitting the little ratdog of my inlaws again. This task is always a befuddling one—a mixture of strange ritual, excessive distraction, and unexpected humor. I feel sympathetic for parents of toddlers when I care for this dog. If he doesn’t get his way, he cries and whines and makes you feel all guilty, which is no fun for either of us. I never thought a dog could make me feel guilty.

I have to admit, he’s a lot less evil than he used to be, now that he’s two. He doesn’t eat his own poo, pull the toilet paper off the roll or constantly pee on every square inch of run in my apartment. He does, however, turn into Satan when he’s put to bed (he bit me!), flinch at the slightest tap from the upstairs neighbors, break into unstoppable barking fits and eat underwear. He’s used to being babied like the upper-class only child he is. He’s fed human food regularly (then given drugs for his “upset stomach” and diarrhea), sleeps in bed with his owners, and worst of all is still rewarded with doggy treats after each time he pees outside. All of this makes me want to hate him, but all his other traits make me love him despite his rotten spoilage. He’s a loyal cuddler, with lots of energy who loves to roughhouse. And, man, he sure can bust a mean backspin!



Still, after all this I can’t help but someday want a dog of my own. And it makes me think about how much the life of a dog is shaped by the life of his owner. Will my future dog like loud music, eat organic dog food, ignore the garden, and hump the legs of strangers? Will he pee his own bed after a long night of drinking?