Adventures in Housesitting: Your senses are gone so don't you hesitate

My friend and his father left early Sunday morning for a week-long cruise in or around the Bahamas. I'm not entirely sure of where they'll be visiting, really. All I know is that seeing as I'm unemployed and thus have pretty good availability, I have once again been entrusted with the keys to a real, live suburban home—complete with cable television, internet and a dog that was probably born before either of those were invented.

As you might recall, it was nearly some four years ago that I was asked by aunt & uncle to take care of their cat, Cosmo. But whereas last time I was anxiously waiting for the cat to pinch a loaf, this time around I'm tending to a white lab whose problem isn't with having a bowel movement so much as where he's having them (i.e. in the house).

I originally misheard the dog's name as "Plato" and was impressed by the idea of my friend and his family naming a pet after a student of Socrates and a mentor of Aristotle that laid the philosophical foundations for Western culture/civilization.

Then after clarifying, I found that the name was actually "Play-Doh," which seemed to remind me of about the 3:33 mark of this routine. I'll laugh about it now while I can.

(Another Edition of:) Adventures In Housesitting

I have just as much cash in my wallet as I recall leaving with before the previous night began, one cigarette left from that moment's fresh pack purchased following work, and now ... now I'm staring at the same sheet of itinerary I saw the last time I was at this place.

The instructions are the same, but I'm only now separating which directions the most attention be paid from those of lesser importantce. This is difficult in that the two pages are prited entirely in capitalized letters.

Early lessons in "nettiquette" taught me that the effect of writing a simple, innocent statement like—:

"HEY! HELLO! HOW ARE YOU?!"

—when entirely capitalized is the equivalent of shouting out every word that comes out of your mouth. If somebody came up to you on the street and trying to shake your hand, you'd turn and run as though they were a lunatic who'd mistaken you for a different N.R.A. buddy of theirs. That or a locally campaigning Republican. Same difference.

Point here is that these following days will not be as fruitfully rewarding as the times of the past.

Why?

Well, let's look at one warning about fucking Cosmo's seemingly constant battle with constipation:

"AUNTIE FROM SAINT CHARLES WRITES: 'SIGNS HE'S PLUGGED UP—HIDING UNDER THE BED, SQUATTING AND TRYING TO POOP OUTSIDE THE KITTY LITTER. IF NO POOP FOR 3 DAYS, CALL THE VET—'..."

The bastard child I'd rescued as a young, still-believing-Jesus-mighta-happened teenager has come back to haunt me. Not only is he crapping (all over the house, actually), but he's also HIDING UNDER THE BED, and SQUATTING AND TRYING TO POOP OUTSIDE THE KITTY LITTER.

So, there's reasonable belief for conern. But there's also reason for hope. Call uncle or vet first?

Phone lines NOW OPEN . . . (I'm screaming it, by the way, if it isn't already evdient.)

Adventures In Housesitting

I wouldn't call myself the most responsible person in the world (many assorted cops and bartenders would attest to this), but every now and then my aunt and uncle deem me to be the person they entrust with watching over their happy home when they leave town.

It's not all that difficult a task, really. There's but a single cat who needs to be fed twice a day. Oh, and the mail needs to be brought in.

So I've been spending the week here with the singular goal being not to let the cat die. And while that sounds simple enough, I should add that poor "Cosmo" has one wee little problem: He occasionally goes through periods of constipation. This was fully relayed to me in horribly graphic detail in a two page printed letter of itinerary for the week.

Until Sunday, I never knew cats could have an "emergency enema." Or that they would spend a span of days following such a procedure by, ahem, "cleaning" themselves in the privacy of the garage.

The house isn't any type of drastic upgrade from the folks' place (no cable television, dial-up internet service, etc.), so I've mostly been trying to finish reading a book and checking the litter box for a turd or two.

I had been told that if there was no fecal matter to be found—either in the litter box or perhaps on the floor somewhere—I would need to phone the vet, because the hell if I'm performing the procedure on a cat myself. When the first two days passed without Cosmo having a number two, I began to worry. I considered picking him up, embracing him, and quite literally squeezing the shit out of him.

And then I thought back to what additional food I could feed him that shoots right through me and basically spray the bowl. That food, as I hope you might not have had the horror of experiencing yourself, is of course jalapeno cheeseburgers from White Castle. There's a reason some people call this restaurant's sanwiches "steamers."

I'll make the regrettable late-night deperation decision about once every two years to go through the White Castle drive-thru for what, at the time, seems like an innocent post-midnight snack. One particularly memorable evening after leaving a party or a bar, I placed my order for what I thought would be a "sack" of five or six. Driving up to the window, I was asked to pay something like 20 bucks. "W.T.F.?"

Turns out I must have mistakenly said "case," which is why I begrudgingly shelled out the dough (I was really that hungry) and was handed a gigantic cardboard box filled with probably about 25 of the burgers. Upon returning home, I tried to choke down as many as possible and probably got through about ten before passing out.

I slept fine, but going to work the next day, my stomach rumbled its displeasure. And drinking the second-most effective laxative, coffee, along the way didn't help matters any. Seeing as I was working at a country club that was an hour drive, the journey was unbearable. It's hard to cross your legs and steer at the same time.

Upon arriving (late, I add), I burst into the facility, clocked in, and ran directly to the member bathroom. It was what an old boss referred to as "pissing outta your ass." And the member entering the bathroom after I emerged had to turn away as though he'd just been punched in the face.

So if White Castle has a proven track record for cleaning out my system, it would certainly work for Cosmo.

But on Tuesday, as I began wondering what time I should wait until to call the vet, sure enough, there it was on one of the small area rugs in the garage: sloppy, wet brown goo. Normally, you'd run to find something to clean up the mess and kick the pet across the fucking room for something like this. But I just stood and smiled, placing the phone back on the set to charge, relieved that this might have to be the only "cleaning" I'd have to deal with.

Hey, shit happens.