Growing up, we loved our pets: a sweet long-haired Chihuahua named Samantha and a temperamental white cat named Guinevere (her brother, Lancelot, had found another home) whom we nicknamed “kitty.” We had our share of hiccups as pet-owners. Kitty was a hunter and one day ran into the house with a pet parakeet stuffed in her cheeks, like a real live Sylvester and Tweety bird cartoon. We chased her around the kitchen with a broom trying to get the bird out of her jaws. There was a lot of shrieking, some from us and more from the parakeet. We succeeded in prying him loose but he flew out the front door before we could trap him and find his owner or attend to his wounds.
As for Samantha, she dug herself out of a hotel kennel one time when we were on vacation. Distraught, we thought we’d lost her forever, but my parents heard on their CB radio, in a very Every Which Way But Loose fashion, that a trucker had picked her up. We met him at a truck stop and reunited with her. Sure, we had some bumpy times with our pets, but we loved and cared for Sam and Kitty. They were family.
So I understood the responsibility that comes with being a pet-sitter. When my good friend’s parents asked me to stay in their beautiful home and pet-sit for them one weekend, I was glad to do it. Their dog, Caesar, was a happy, hairy thing: all Shih Tzu and smiles. Caesar and I were going to hang out. I’d water plants and flowers in their glorious garden and make phone calls while planning my upcoming wedding.
“The only thing about Caesar is, don’t let him out the front door.”
That was my one instruction. If he got out into the front yard, he might decide to frolic around the neighborhood. I assured them Caesar and I would be fine.
And we were great, Caesar and me. He liked me to rub his belly while we watched TV. He waddled outside with me when I did the watering. The next day, my fiancé (now husband) came over. I was on the phone when he rang the doorbell, so I opened it quickly and stepped back into the other room to finish my call (in my defense, this is pre-cell phone era and I was probably on a landline). That’s when I heard, “Oh No! Caesar! Come back!”
Caesar had made a break for it.
We ran outside chasing him and he ran right into the road. Bill was able to swoop him up and carry him back to the house. That’s when I saw all the black in his little paws. And I realized the acrid smell outside, and the noise. They were paving the street.
In case you wondered, Dawn can do a lot, but it can’t get tar off doggie paws. Nor olive oil, nor dial soap, or anything else I could find in the kitchen and bathroom.
“Don’t worry — I’ve got this.”
Bill took Caesar outside for ten minutes. When they came back in, Caesar was sporting make-shift booties from cut up trash bags and rubber bands. Bill thought it was ingenious. “You can’t do that – it’ll cut his circulation off!” I started calling pet groomers for an emergency session. I must have called 15 places. They all laughed at me, saying stuff like, “Lady, it’s Memorial Day Weekend.” I didn’t understand, is that a big show dog weekend? Finally, I found some place that’s long since closed called Paws and Claws.
I waited about an hour while they worked on him. “You realize he had tar all in him.” Yes, that’s why I brought him. “You do realize he was severely matted.” Well, he seemed tangled yes, so he probably could have used a good grooming anyway. “Well, there was only so much we could do.”
Wait, what? What does that mean?
Out walked some kind of cross between a plucked chicken, a hairless cat… the phrase naked as a jaybird came to mind. Antony’s line from Julius Caesar rang with cruel irony: “this was the most unkindest cut of all.”
“You shaved him? “ I was in pure panic mode. “We had no choice.” This line had a threatening edge to it. I paid and left the scene of the crime, vowing never to return to Paws and Claws. What would my friends say? They entrusted me with their baby and they’d come home to this…creature.
It was almost as bad as this:
When my friends parents returned the next day, I told them there had been an incident. I explained what happened, and how I was so sorry about it. Then I took my friend’s mom outside to see Caesar. “Oh my God! Caesar! Look at you!” The shock of it was a lot to take in. I didn’t know an adequate way to apologize or make this up to them.
But that’s when she did something amazing.
She laughed. God bless her, she laughed and told me not to worry, that he probably needed a good grooming anyway. She kept saying “I mean, just look at him!” Then I told her about Bill trying to make little booties for his feet and we both laughed. And I was the recipient of forgiveness. It was both a valuable learning lesson and an immense gift.
Later, she told me that until his hair grew back in, she’d had to slather Caesar with sunscreen. And that at first he’d been embarrassed, but then he decided being sans-mop for a while felt fancy-free. Whenever I visited their house, Caesar never held a grudge. He never once looked at me with the “Et Tu, Brute?” glare. He’d come up to me and want me to rub his belly.
Understandably, I wasn’t ever asked to pet-sit after that.
But I think about all the lessons I learned — that I should have been more responsible, that Caesar never should have gotten out the front door. And the grace I received, and how that made me even sorrier and want to do better and be better. Caesar is no longer with us, but I remember him with a smile. And that grace and forgiveness he and his owners gave, that’s his legacy I want to remember and hope to pass on.
Note: Please, if you have time, go back up and click the link on the word “creature” to see a photo display of some of the most unfortunate dog grooming haircuts.