Rachel Fields: Dog Whisperer

Part 1.

After college, in order to escape the terrible boredom that was Lemont, IL summer, I took a job as my neighbor's dog-watcher. I've never had a dog, but this seemed like a pretty simple task, and it paid improbably well. The thing is, this dog has been alive since I moved into the neighborhood, which was 13 years ago, and it wasn't a puppy then. I don't know how long dogs live, but I think this one must be on its last legs, because it has a few health problems. And by "a few", I mean "a lot of" and by health problems I mean "incontinence."

When my neighbor left for vacation, she warned me about this issue. Not to worry, she said. There are cleaning supplies in the closet, in a bucket marked "Accidents." If your dog is having accidents so often that you actually need to designate a separate bucket for the occasion, it might be time to not leave it alone for long stretches of time. But whatever, I thought. What's the worst that could happen?

What indeed. So last night, I went over to take Shadow (alias: Boo-Boo) out. As soon as I opened the door, I knew something was wrong. There were a couple of clues that tipped me off, the first being that it smelled like what hell must smell like. The second being that everything (and I mean everything) was covered in feces. There were even feces on a wall hanging five feet off the ground. Either Boo-Boo can fly, or - well, I dont' want to think about the alternative.

It was about the worst thing ever, but I was at least grateful that my neighbor had told me about the "Accidents" bucket. I went to the closet, and sure enough, there it was. But for some reason, the only things inside were a duck-shaped nail brush and a tiny little scooper that one might use to pick up pistachios. Really, I thought. Okay.

I spent about fifteen minutes feeling very upset and sorry for myself, hoping that someone might burst in and say, "Aren't you a college graduate? You do not deserve this! Here, have a muffin and a beer while I fix this." But alas. Everyone else was asleep, so I spent about two hours cleaning up this ridiculously awful mess and trying not to vomit on myself. This morning I called my neighbor to inform her of the situation, and I told her that the "Accidents" bucket was empty and none-too-helpful.

"Oh, you got the wrong bucket," she said, as if I was a little slow. "You should have looked behind the door."

OH I SEE. So I went back to the closet, and sure enough, behind the door was another bucket labeled "Accidents," this one full of cleaning supplies that would actually work. I told her that having a decoy bucket and hiding the true bucket behind a door are possibly not the best ideas, but she just laughed as if this was a hilarious inside joke that we came up with together.

So on my list of the Worst Nights Ever, I think beat out most seventh grade dances for a top ten spot. A decoy bucket. I am still speechless.