One of the worst things that can happen to an awkward, clumsy person such as myself is when your boss gives you a job that deals with their personal life. While not said aloud, there’s always a threat looming beneath each request. For example, “Please drive my car from location A to location B” clearly implies “You will pay for each scratch in blood.” This past Labor Day weekend, my boss offered me some extra cash if I stayed at his house and watched his dog while he was out of town. Two things you should know about my boss: His dog is his life. Any harm that comes to her will be multiplied tenfold on the person who inflicted said harm. (I wasn’t allowed to leave the apartment for more than three hours because he was worried about the emotional stress this would put the dog through; that’s how much he’s into this dog). He also lives in a very fancy apartment filled with very fancy things (I’m pretty sure the living room rug cost more than my yearly salary). Two things you should know about me: I am clumsy. His dog hates me.
Despite the fact that all odds were against me, things went fairly well (there was a moment of panic when I dropped avocado on the rug, but it rubbed in nicely). The dog, who normally runs under the bed when I approach with a leash and growls when I attempt to pet her, actually began to warm up to me. I was starting to get used to ritzy life on the West Side. The bed was the biggest perk about the apartment. The only way to describe sleeping in the guest bed is to compare it to sleeping on a bed full of puppies. The down comforter was so soft I considered stealing it. I would’ve been okay dying on that bed. It was as white as a cloud, and felt like one too. I started to get comfortable. Too comfortable. So comfortable that I convinced Boyfriend to make out with me, only to have the dog jump onto the bed and scare the shit out of us. We tried to take things further while she sat on the floor and watched. It was unsettling, to say the least. I felt like she was condemning us to Doggy Hell, taking notes of all the things to relay to her Dad when he returned. Luckily, dogs can’t talk and snitch on the babysitter, which is the same reason I only babysit children under the age of one.
Paranoid there was a Teddy Cam watching us, I resigned myself to reclining on the cloud-bed and playing Mario Kart 8 with Boyfriend. After a successful Grand Prix, I got up from the bed and went to get water (even the water tasted amazing) when I heard, “Caaaarrllyyy!” I ran into the room to find the dog hunched on top of the snow white comforter, about to lose her dinner. Without thinking, I lunged onto the bed, arms outstretched like a running back in the endzone, and before I knew it she was retching into my cupped hands, filling them with kibble, saliva, and probably some of her own poop. Boyfriend stared at me, horrified, holding back a gag, as I mechanically walked back to the kitchen to wash my hands. Then I heard it again. “It’s happening!” I ended up getting a handful of dog vomit twice that night, and while it’s much easier to wash my hands than a pure white comforter that costs more than my life insurance, Boyfriend refused to get near me for the rest of the weekend.