Diary of A Dog-Sitter — Day One

Poo bags and routines

I’d forgotten how well dogs can read. How else do you explain their uncanny tendency to foul the grass verge right by a sign that clearly states ‘No Fouling?

And then, who can forget the joys of clearing up after your dog? Once again, every pocket of every clothing garment I’m wearing has at least a dozen poo bags scrunched up inside them. Which means when I go to pull one out, another half a dozen follow and drop to the floor. And if the wind isn’t blowing, I’ll catch them all again, so I can repeat the process in about the next five minutes.

Betsy isn’t my dog, but I’m in charge of her for the next few days while her owners are away. When I say I’m in charge, what I really mean is that I have this idea that I’m in charge, but I don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance. She’s got me wrapped around her little paw and jumping to her every need.

I’ve known Betsy since she was a puppy. For eighteen months, we shared an office for three days a week. And when she was old enough, we shared lunchtime walks. And that’s what she associates me with. Walks. If nothing else, my FitBit will undergo a serious testing over the next few days.

I do know from when I used to have my own dog, that they like nothing more than a routine. Therefore, if I’m to stay in full control, I need to be the one to establish that routine. To fit in around my writing day, I’d planned on waking Betsy around 7am, making some tea, having my breakfast, taking Betsy out for her first walk, then giving her breakfast. After that, I’ll be able to settle down and do some work for a few hours.

No. That wasn’t the routine Betsy had in mind. Her routine involves getting up at 7am, and going out straightaway. After, at least half an hour’s exercise, we then come back, and she has her breakfast. Only then can I make some tea and get my own breakfast.

And if I thought that was enough exercise to keep her quiet while I sat at my laptop and wrote, I was wrong. Completely wrong. What was needed after I’d had my breakfast was a much longer walk. At least another hour. And a half.

At the end of my first morning’s exercise regime, I glance at my FitBit. It’s registering 11,000 steps already. Time for work. But I’m shattered. Too knackered to think properly. I glance at Betsy, now asleep on the floor by my feet. She’s got the right idea. And then I realise. When she wakes up, she’ll be ready to go out again. Ready to foul beside yet another No fouling sign.

Why is it called dog-sitting? It seems to me, there’ll be little chance of me doing much sitting over the coming days.

Read Day Two’s entry here:

https://readmedium.com/diary-of-a-dog-sitter-day-two-7c5d94a1ef6c