The Great Dog Sitting Disaster

It was supposed to be a simple task. Sit. Stay. Those two commands had been drilled into every dog’s brain, and if they could do those two things, they’d get a treat and a scratch behind the ears. How hard could it be?

As a professional dog-sitter, I had mastered the art of keeping my clients’ furry friends alive, fed, and mostly happy. The job had come with its share of challenges, of course. There was Toby, the Corgi who believed he could fly (but only off the couch). Then there was Bella, the golden retriever who was convinced she could herd squirrels, even though she could barely walk in a straight line. But nothing prepared me for the horror that was the McKellen household.

It all began with a phone call.

“Hey, Sarah!” My friend Jane’s voice crackled through the phone. “I know you’re a pro, so I’m wondering if you can take care of my dogs for a few days. I’m going to the Bahamas!”

Jane was in the Bahamas. I was in a cramped apartment with my second-hand couch, living off instant noodles. Naturally, I said yes.

“How many dogs?” I asked, eager to confirm the amount of chaos I was about to take on.

“Three,” she replied, sounding as if she was about to say, "no big deal." “You’ve met them before. You’ll be fine.”

“Oh, yeah! No problem,” I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was getting myself into.

Her three dogs, however, were a different story.

First, there was Rex, a bulldog with the temperament of a grumpy old man who had just woken up from a nap. Rex didn’t like anyone, especially people who weren’t Jane. He looked at me like I’d stolen his lunch and was planning on eating it in front of him.

Then there was Fifi, a tiny teacup chihuahua who believed she was the size of a lion. She barked at anything that moved—including shadows—and considered anyone who didn't worship her to be a mortal enemy.

Lastly, there was Max, a golden doodle who was, at best, a bundle of chaotic energy and, at worst, a walking tornado of slobber. Max had the attention span of a goldfish on Red Bull. If you didn’t keep an eye on him, he would either chew on your shoes or attempt to dig his way to China in the backyard.

Day one started with a disaster.

“Okay, dogs. We can do this,” I said, trying to sound confident as I stared at the three of them. Rex was eyeing me suspiciously from the couch, Fifi was growling at a stray sock, and Max was chasing his tail in circles.

I decided to start with Rex, thinking that if I could win over the grumpy bulldog, the rest would be a breeze. I grabbed his favorite ball, tossed it across the living room, and waited for the magic to happen.

Rex looked at the ball, looked at me, then proceeded to roll over and fall asleep.

“Rex! You’re supposed to fetch the ball!” I yelled at him, but he just snorted in his sleep, clearly uninterested in my concept of fun.

Fifi took that moment to start a full-on battle with a throw pillow. It was her sworn enemy, and she was going to destroy it. I thought about intervening, but honestly, I was afraid of her tiny, toothy wrath.

Meanwhile, Max had abandoned his tail-chasing and decided the curtains were a much more interesting challenge. I rushed over to save them, but the curtains had other plans. Max wrapped himself in them like a mummy, dragging half the living room with him. I found myself trying to un-tangle a very wet, very confused dog from a curtain, all while Fifi continued to bark at the pillow.

When I finally got Max free, he looked up at me with those big, hopeful eyes that only a dog could give, like he was waiting for me to say, “Great job, buddy.” Instead, I simply sighed, muttering to myself, “I’ve made a huge mistake.”

The day went on like that. At one point, Rex knocked over a plant. Fifi ate an entire bag of treats that were supposed to be for her next meal. Max pooped in the middle of the living room—twice. And through it all, I learned that dog-sitting wasn’t just about feeding and walking. It was about surviving a full-on circus.

By the time Jane returned from her trip, I was exhausted, covered in dog fur, and questioning my life choices. But when she opened the door and saw her three dogs, she gasped.

“They’re all so well-behaved!” she exclaimed.

I blinked. “Uh… sure. If by ‘well-behaved’ you mean they’ve destroyed your house, eaten their body weight in treats, and given me an existential crisis, then yes, absolutely.”

She laughed, completely oblivious to the chaos I had endured. “I knew I could count on you!”

As I walked out of the McKellen house, my phone buzzed with a new text from Jane.

“Oh, by the way,” it read. “I’m planning a month-long trip to Europe next year. You’re still up for watching the dogs, right?”

I looked at the three of them, who were now peacefully napping on the couch. Then I took a deep breath, smiled, and replied, “Of course! It’s my calling.”