It was the night that I [first] hit rock bottom. Picture this: At 3 a.m., I find myself underneath a ratty comforter, between musty sheets, completely overwhelmed by heavy panting. Heavy panting that--won't--go--a--way. And, oh, it is vile, thick, heavy as the smog over Mexico City and it smells like, well, shit.
This incident does not have anything to do with a [what a surprise!] twilight romp, subsequently followed by a 48 hour hangover/ fleeting concerns of v.d./ unwarranted pregnancy . My apologies, I am not stupid enough to slander myself like that (not until i get a book deal). Nor am I not trying to write a porno. I only wish I could be so talented. I will leave that to professional writers. This is actually a warning about the dangers of being a pet au pair, a mistake I made for the first time a few years ago.
As a college student, I had no idea that pets could be as dangerous and needy as children. Therefore, during the August of my junior year of college, when my aunt's neighbor asked me to pet sit for her eight cats, two dogs, and raccoon, I did not think twice. To provide some context, my aunt lives on a beautiful block in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods of the Detroit Suburbs. Grosse Pointe Farms was, in fact, recently described as the Nantucket of Detroit (whatever that means) in the New York Times. I envisioned myself in a garden of Versaille replication, lounging on a cabana, the dogs romping in a meadow way o'er yonder, the raccoon, of course, fanning me with maple leaves. I also envisioned a $500 paycheck for five days of service.
My aunt and uncle had mixed opinions of my latest business venture. Respecting my young entrepreneurial spirit, my aunt encouraged me, constantly reassuring that she was just across the cul-du-sac if I needed anything, anything at all (looking back, I wonder if she meant barbituates). My uncle, au-con-traire, gave me a look that read: don't be a jack ass. My uncle is a stern, Austrian Anesthesiologist, who, appropriately, I would trust with me life. My aunt is a lively, disciplined multitasker, who, appropriately, I would be more likely to gravitate toward. Though I trusted both of their opinions, there were visions of Seven jeans and Popov dancing in my head-- I set up shop at Dr. Doolittle's.
Act II, scene 1: Who needs labels
If there is one pet peeve I have, it is when people CHOOSE to feed their pets canned food. Though feeding pets canned food is a great diet for me as it induces on-site bulemia, I cannot understand why a dog's canned food should have a fancier label than anything I eat. Lamb chop souffle, beef au jus, filet mig-fido... it's just atrocious.
Of the two dogs I nanny-ed, one was a non-descript border collie whose name and face I have a loss for right now. The other was an emaciated doberman-shephard mutt named Carlos rescued from the beaches of Cancun (how appropriate). Apparently Carlos, despite being covered with parasites and other soon to be airborne diseases, had been packed up onto a plane after a veterinarian had flown down to Mexico to nurse him back to health. Don't get me wrong, this was a very nice dog, nicer than most American dogs. I just had a hard time grappling how he was already able to digest Purina souffle after living on stale taco shells for his entire life.
Act II, scene 2: Simon and Garfield
Taking care of the cats was kind of like playing Legends of the Hidden Temple. I felt like i needed a map of the Temple, marked completely with, litter box locations, cat perches, cat food dishes, etc. For instance, Carly lived in the kitchen. Carly also ate in the kitchen. Max ate in the kitchen as well, but he lived in the Foyer and living room. Carly ate at 5 and walked in like she was walking onto a yacht, but Max liked to eat at 5:10. Carly had cat alzheimers and could potentially eat herself to death if not monitored during the cats' feeding times. I know people like this and i'm pretty sure it is called no self respect/control. While some of the cats ate just canned, others ate a mixture of both, and a a few unfortunate souls only got dry food. CC Rider lived in a guest bedroom and only got Meow Mix. I didn't know why Carly was so prioritized over CC Rider who sat on top of a dressing table everyday and never moved once. CC Rider was a total creep, with his pedophilic stare, but probably my favorite cat because he didn't cry or vomit everywhere like Carly and Lilly. Or leave surprise shit piles on top of dusty Edith Warton books in the guest room.
After feeding all of the cats all around the house, I was usually far too exhausted to put too much effort into litter box procedures. But since CC Rider never moved, I figured it wasn't too big of a deal that i didn't clean his box everyday. I mean, the house already reaked of domestic life, what were a few extra clumps and logs in the litter box that he shared with Lilly and 1-4 other cats that might have been passing through?
Act II, Scene 3: The Black-eyed bandit out back
was an agile rodent named Tooner. In all reality, Tooner was not really part of my responsibility, as a kindly, elderly woman with a name like Eleanor or Blanche would come over to feed Tooner from baby bottles. The rest of the day, he would scale a net like contraption in the backyard. As I lazily read The Fountainhead on a 70s era lounger out back, drifting in and out of sleep and Howard Roark burning shit down, Tooner made gross noises and the collie slept under my chair. Carlos, meanwhile, was inside the house as he had continually panted and stuck his mouth in my eye, as if I needed another dog trying to attack my face. I got enough of that at school.
As I thought to myself that, perhaps, Tooner and the collie were my favorites of the brood, Carlos was down in the basement creating an 8 foot diameter a pee that i would not discover until the next day. Upon discovery of said pee, I would shake my head, roll my eyes, and make the executive decision to let it evaporate. This was a decision based on strategy, the economy of time, and how badly i wanted to return to the pending drama of Dominique Francon and Howard Roark. It took 5 days for the pee to evaporate. On the 6th day, I grabbed my check and ran, wanting to black out the entire experience. But, guess what, I still remember.
Act III: Strangers in the night
When I signed up for this gig, I had signed on to stay the nights. Therefore, after the initial introductions to the motley crew, I set up camp in the owner's bedroom. The room smelled like Old Woman and was cluttered with trinkets and troves of assorted perfumes dating back to the fifties. Amidst the perfume bottles, I discovered a pint of Jim Beam, and prayed it was not an omen. My life in a house filled with hundreds of cats- Britney, Christina, and Beyonce-- was too fucking depressing to even consider.
In order to lighten the mood of the room, I had packed a boom box and a few favorites, namely a Jessica Simpson album featuring "sweetest sin" and Lionel Richie's definitive collection because I liked to play "3 times a lady" while I showered.
As I settled in for the evening after a lovely Lionel-laced shower, I picked up where I left off in The Fountainhead. After such an intense day, however, I was rather exhaused and began to feel sleep's fold after 10 minutes. clicking off the light, I drifted off into the beginning stages of REM, when a storm began outside.
There is nothing I love more than a summer night storm in Michigan. Unlike Arizona, Michigan storms do not involve tumbleweed and sheets of dust. Just a lot of thunder and lightning, accompanied by a soothing downpour.
Soothing for some at least. With the first crack of thunder, I heard another type of thunder rumble up the stairs. I shot up in the bed and shouted, "what the fuck" because there really is nothing more appropriate to say when a fucking fleet of animals comes charging through a door you thought was tightly shut. This brings us full circle to the opening act.
It was the running of the bulls in Pamplona, domestic pet addition (thank god Tooner stuck on a the patio in his cage). I now understood why Noah had only allowed pairs of two on his arc. The Collie was first. Luckily the Collie was my favorite and was the most welcome. Carlos was second. He smelled like ass and howled. I began to wonder how this dog had survived on the beaches of Mexico. What a little prick-- had he completely blacked out his homeless days? Not to mention, he was huge and had laid half of his body on top of the Collie. I pushed him to the floor because i was not prepared to give CPR to the Collie. I had not been trained in this procedure with canines and did not want to be liable if something went wrong. Pure breeds are expensive and, besides, I had to make room for the cats.
Lilly and Max came tumbling onto the bed. Max was just as annoying as Carlos with howls but i was too afraid of his claws and yellow eyes to push him to the floor. I strategically lodged the Collie closer to my body as a buffer from Mad Max. Next an assortment of other cats vaulted onto the bed, mewing and moaning. Feeling left out, Carlos hopped back up at my feet and I was completey engulfed in a beast attack. Outside, the storm began to calm down as if on the verge of a quell, when, of course, the loudest crack of thunder erupted accompanied by extreme lightning, setting off Maseratis and A4s below. and, of course, my fucking arc of all things bright and beautiful. Even the Collie was now panting nervously.
I had to take action. "Oh my fucking god, mom" I screamed into the phone, "these animals are freaks!" My mom, of course, talked me off the ledge and told me to just lock them out of the room. "You are a smart girl- I am confident that you can get them out of the room." Apparently, she did not realize the gravity of my situation. This was the only time in my life when I might have envied those androgynous Chinese gymnast that cheated their way to the top in last summer's olympics, had i known about them at that point.
After turning on the light, I vaulted my body over the Collie and landed on my feet atop the shag carpet. Apparently, I was taking after the cats that were now engaging in REM cycle which, naturally, pissed me of because the cats are supposed to be nocturnal.
I pulled Carlos off the bed and shoved him into the hallway. After, I led the collie to the hall, too, and threw some random dog treats to them that I found on the night stand. While they engaged in a midnight snack, I began to move the comforter of the bed up and down like a parachute and the cats popped off like popcorn kernels. All of the cats except for Mad Max. Mad Max gave me a sickly look and showed his claws as the other cats scattered into the hallway. I had no choice. I turned on Lionel "Lady (you bring me up)" full blast and began to jump on the bed. Mad Max was appalled by my behavior and jumped of the bed. I pounced off after and slammed the door shut, locked it, and contemplated taking a shot of Jim Beam.
Act IV: Beast Attack
After that traumatizing night of too many visitors in bed with me, I decided I could not risk my sanity by sleeping in that house. Therefore, I decided to simply leave at 7 and return at 8 am. This system seemed to work. I mean, of course, the house smelled like the zoo every morning, but it was not something that i could not, at least, temporarily quell with Febreze and Fresh Step.
The third morning I went over, however, I overslept and did not arrive until after 9. When I entered the house, I felt more uneasy than usual. The cats were quiet. The dogs did not come to greet me. And then I walked into the living room. Pictures on mantle were knocked over. The screen door was torn and pushed out of its socket. Pillows thrown off the couch. Newspapers shredded. At first I thought there had been a robbery, but then I realized that the tv was still there and so was an expensive bag of golf clubs. And, perhaps most obviously, there was a tail twitching under the couch.
Once again, I threw my hands up in the air and screamed, "what the fuck" but then immediately stepped into action. Tooner, aware of my presence, had come out from under the couch and looked up at me before sticking its tongue out at me and making a creepy racoon hiss.
My immediate inclination was to trap the little creep. I picked up a faded floral ottoman and, wahm!, slammed it over tooner's body. Then I pushed up the area rug while still placing pressure over the ottoman so that Tooner could not escape. And then i went for it, pushing the ottoman across the floor and flipping it out the broken back door that led to the patio. After my little experiment with the coon-apult, I rushed to look the door leading to the back porch and to secure all entries from Tooner's return. Then I popped my head downstairs to examine the pee pond. Excellent, I thought, it had shrunk from 8 to 4 feet. We were on track to evaporation.
Act V: What the fuck
It was the 6th day. The light at the end of the tunnel began to shine and the pee had evaporated from the basement so much that i could throw some Mr. Clean on it and slosh it around to mask the odor that comes with a room previously inundated with dog urine. Life was good again.
My sister and my cousin had come over earlier that day and had helped feed the cats. As a prize for their help, I let them go through some random hall closet that they had been dying to mosey through. Jules laughed hysterically while putting a pair of raccoon binoculars up to her eyes while Emily tore through unwrapped Christmas presents. Then I showed them where the pee had been and re-enacted the beast attack incident.
After the girls left, it, of course, began to cloud over. I prayed for no rain as I did not have the mental stability to host another arc. I spot checked the house for the cats and fed them. As I went through my evening ritual, I noticed someone was missing: Mad Max. Max was an outdoor cat and had probably slipped out earlier. I poked my head outside and looked around, calling for him. No Max.
It began to drizzle. I went back inside and assumed that he would just show up on the porch. It began to rain, but, thankfully, without thunder and the animals seemed to be fine with this. After checking the porch every half hour, I began to worry a little as Mad Max normally did not leave the front yard.
Outside I heard a screech of tires, and shuddered, imagining the worst possible situation. All of hte sudden, I had sweet visions of mad max crunching his chow and covering up his shit in his box. Carlos licked my hand and i did not shoe him away. The collie nuzzled my leg and Carly rolled her eyes back in her head and let out an exorcist howl.
I called my mom to tell her that i had lost a cat. My mom assured me that it would probably turn up. I cried, "but the other cat is showing me signs," in reference to Carly. My mom responded that she was glad my job was almost over.
About a minute later, the phone rang again. I ran to grab it, hoping my mom had come up with some solution.
"Hi there!" the voice on the line said, without introducing himself, "did you lose something?"
I counted on my fingers all of the things I had lost, my mind being the most notable. But seriously, what kind of weirdo asks a question like that?
"ummm.. my cat went missing a few hours ago, if that is what you are implying--" I didn't mean to get snippy with this man, but, seriously, I didn't have time to play head games. I began to think it might be a catnapper on the other line.
"Yes..." said the voice, as I waited for it to post a bail of at least 400 dollars for the cat's return, "yes, Max? I have him here- he seems very, very upset!"
"Well he's an outdoor cat," I got defensive- the nerve of that little fucker!- " he knew what he was doing- where did you find him?"
"Down by the lake," the voice responded, vaguely (this person still was not in the clear for catnapping), " he was crying on the corner of Fishcher and Lakeshore. He is shivering a little still, but I was able to dry him off."
"Oh," I said, suddenly feeling a little sorry again. I, mean, maybe Mad Max was senile just like Carly, "well can I have him back?" I felt really stupid saying that but it didn't seem like this person would think of returning the cat as a logical next step.
"Yeah, well, I guess I can bring him by your house, the address is on the name tag."
"Sure, thanks." I hung up, waited for the cat, and wondered what the person had meant by 'I guess'. I hoped they were not banking on a reward. I thought about the Jim Beam and went to look for some ribbon.
About 15 minutes later, Mad Max returned wrapped in swaddling cloth. It was almost biblical. Almost. After the stranger pulled away, mad max began to stir and flashed his yellow eyes at me. He pulled on paw out and scratched my arm, jumped out of his loving swaddle and ran across the street into my aunt's shrubbery.
Too angry and wet to move, I threw the mangy towel into the gutter. "What the fuck" couldn't even cut it. I had no words or analogies left.
