Though dark wouldn’t fully descend until around eight o’clock, the birds’ second sun salutation of the day began as soon as the blindingly golden light of late afternoon started slanting through the window blinds at a certain angle. They knew collectively, instinctively, that the sun was waning and it was time to celebrate. Walking down the sidewalk from where I’d parked, I could clearly hear the jungle concert in full force. I knew from that morning that the chorus shook the house. What must the neighbors think? I had yet to encounter anyone on the sidewalk during my walks with the dogs, but I was desperately curious to see their reaction to this twice-daily assault on the ears.
Opening the screen door and then the weathered wooden front door, I could also hear the dogs’ frenzied growls and whines within. They turned tight circles in the living room while the birds made their joyful noise. With the front door open wide, Sasha and Max were out like ochre-furred bullets into the yard, turning larger and less-frenzied circles there until I opened the front gate out onto the sidewalk.
At least one of the daily walks had to be long and vigorous enough to even come close to tiring these guys out. If I did it right, we’d get back to the house as the sun set, casting long lavender shadows over the low houses of the neighborhood.
In Max and Sasha’s neighborhood, the sky was just as wide open as anywhere else in the East Bay, and I found myself standing on the sidewalk with my head thrown back, tracking jetliners as they inched across the darkening sky. I was used to the soaring trees of my Atlanta home. The dense green growth there shielded us from the Southern sun and limited our exposure to what filtered through the canopy, dappling the landscape with a shadowy, shifting light. I was already addicted to the bright, unobstructed California sunshine that drenched everything beneath the perpetually cloudless crystalline sky.
I couldn’t speak for the dogs, but I was certainly tired out after our walk. Between all of my other visits that day, I hadn’t even walked that far—maybe five miles.
Before heading upstairs for the night, I placed blankets over the cages, returning Sterling to his cage last.
“Good night,” I said.
“Good night,” he replied.
It was barely nine o’clock, but I was ready to crawl into bed. I only hoped Sasha would lay off the kidney shots.
I arrived at the house on my third evening of bird duty to find Bonsai’s cage spattered with red. The shells lining the bottom of the cage were flecked with white guano and the deep crimson of congealed bird blood. Sterling was perched high atop the armoire in the living room, looking like he’d swallowed a canary.
“Hello,” he called to me.
“Fuck!”
The broom was lying across the kitchen floor, presumably dislodged by one of the dogs on their way to or from the back door. I extended my arm to Sterling, who turned his head demurely away.
“I’m not asking. Come. Here. Now!” I used both hands to grab him, and he gave a squawk. Once he was locked in his cage with the broom in its right place, I opened Bonsai’s cage. He hopped nimbly up on my hand, favoring his left leg. His right leg was mangled, the blue gray of his skin torn and still bleeding. I’m not a bird expert, but I knew that birds do not have a lot of blood in their bodies to lose. At the pet store, we’d used a yellow powder to staunch the flow, in those rare instances when they had reason to bleed. This wasn’t covered in these birds’ notes, though, and I had no idea where to even start looking for a little bottle of coagulant.
I placed Bonsai back in the cage and went to the garage where the bird carriers were. Thankfully, Bev had noted this in the binder. Bonsai went into his Pet Sherpa without objection. I only dimly registered the additional damage Sterling had inflicted on the window molding during his rampage, a fresh dusting of wood shards and paint underfoot as I shuffled awkwardly out the front door and through the gate to the car, trying not to bump or jostle the unwieldy carrier too much.
I called Bev from the laminate-and-upholstered chair in the waiting room of the veterinarian’s office. Bonsai was in the back, being examined. According to Bev’s vacation itinerary, she should’ve been at her daughter’s rehearsal dinner. Ashamed at my cowardice, I was hoping against hope that I’d be able to leave a message instead of having to explain the situation to Bev in real time.
My message was brief and to the point, and I asked her to please return my call at her earliest convenience so that I could update her on Bonsai’s condition. Soon after I hung up the phone, the doctor emerged.
“He lost a lot of blood, but he’s stable. We’ve cleaned and wrapped the leg and started him on antibiotics. He’ll have to wear a collar to prevent him from interfering with the bandage.”
“A collar?”
“Yes, a cone, around his neck.”
“Ah.”
“How are you at administering oral meds to a bird?”
“Oh, I am fair to … ya know … good.” I’d never done it in my life.
“Are you ready for the bird, then?”
“Yep.” The doctor must have sensed my hesitation, though, because he demonstrated how to squirt the yellow liquid down the bird’s beak using a hand puppet as a standin for Bonsai.
Luckily, the vet agreed to bill Bev by mail so I didn’t have to worry about the payment. The only substantial amount of money I had to my name was the graduation gift from my parents, sitting in a no-access, high-yield CD at Bank of America. Beyond that I had about $72.
I’d seen the charges, reading the final sum upside down as I stood at the counter waiting for the vet tech to bring out the bird. I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the leg cleaning and bandaging, the collar, antibiotics, and the demonstration on the puppet, which they surely charged for, too. But I was. Shocked, even. I wondered if $1,200 was par for the course when you have exotic birds for pets. But mostly I was just relieved to not be held responsible for the balance right then. Or hopefully ever, though I had no idea how Bev might react to the news and judge my culpability in the case of Sterling versus Bonsai.
Back in his carrier, Bonsai’s cone kept scraping the top and sides of his plastic cage. His e-collar was a comically tiny version of the one that Pearl sported. I was impressed that the vet stocked cones that small, though perhaps it was about the right size for a Teacup Chihuahua or toy poodle. I had Bonsai’s meds in a white bag with instructions tucked inside, just like I’d get when I picked up a prescription at the drugstore.
Once we were home, I left Bonsai in his carrier while I scrubbed his cage clean of blood. At last, I gingerly replaced him on the lowest, most substantial limb. Though his leg was wrapped, he still had use of his claw. He was holding it suspended above the perch, tucked close to his body in a way that made him look like a sleeping flamingo, but for the absurd-looking cone around his head. He seemed to be peering at me with a look of reproach.
Since finding Bonsai in his gore-flecked cage, I’d been fighting a growing anxiety that I’d completely missed—or misheard—Bev saying that Bonsai should be left out of his cage while I was away during the day. Only now that it was too late, I heard her voice in my head saying he’d fly into the towel hutch if Sterling should get past the broom barrier.
I reread Bonsai’s write-up on the last page of the binder with some measure of dread at what I might discover. In all caps, written beneath his name and breed: OUT during the day. Idiot! In the event that Sterling slipped past his broom and attacked, Bonsai would fly to the towel hutch in the hall where he could hide from the larger, stronger bird.
I walked into the hall by the downstairs bathroom and flipped on the light. Sure enough, there was a telltale gray feather in the topmost stack of towels from the last time Bonsai had sought refuge there.
Without flight from his cage, poor Bonsai was a sitting duck. Sterling had grabbed him through the bars of the cage and pinned him there on the other side of the wire, mauling him repeatedly. Inside his cage, Bonsai wasn’t safe. He was defenseless.
And I was screwed.
> “I’m sorry, little buddy,” I said to Bonsai. He continued to stare, unblinking. I walked back to Sterling’s cage, maneuvering around the broom.
“You’re an asshole.” He fluffed his feathers and said nothing. “No toast for you tomorrow.”
If there was any hint of a silver lining to Bonsai’s injury, it was that I didn’t have to shower with him. In the binder notes, I was instructed to take him into the shower with me and deflect some of the spray from the showerhead over his feathers. Far stranger than sleeping with dogs, showering with a parrot felt complicated in all sorts of stressful ways. How would I know what was enough, or too much, water? I didn’t want to inadvertently waterboard the poor thing. On a very basic level, was it weird that I felt really … weird about being naked in the shower with a bird? However obvious this process might have seemed to Bev, it wasn’t to me.
Now that Bonsai was coned and bandaged, I could’ve bagged his leg securely against the water and temporarily removed his cone. But, no. I’d already broken Bonsai once; I couldn’t bear to risk doing it again.
Bev called the next day as I was coming back into the house from the dogs’ morning walk. My heart was in my throat, fully expecting some combination of rage and ridicule at my stupidity. I felt certain that I’d be responsible for the bill, too, which was totally fair.
Bev was thankful for what I’d done for Bonsai and utterly unfazed by the astronomical cost of the vet bill. Even after she’d said her part, I continued to explain my logic, assuming Bonsai was safe from Sterling in his cage and never realizing that the opposite could be true. Though I had read and reread the notes, my certainty that the cage was impregnable must’ve played tricks on my eyes and caused me to elide the obvious instructions.
“Of course I understand,” she said. “Just keep Sterling and Bonsai caged until I am home.” Either Bermuda was a magically restorative and calming place, and I had it to thank for the reprieve from a $1,200 punishment, or else braless Bev of the tea and the yoga really was that Zen and benevolent.
In my great relief and infinite kindness, I relented and fed Sterling his toast after all. Even standing at attention in the kitchen between Sterling’s and Bonsai’s cages, I wasn’t taking any chances, not even allowing him to enjoy his breakfast in freedom. He took umbrage at being fed his toast while locked up, instead of on his usual cage-top perch.
“Sorry, fella,” I said as I latched his cage after refreshing his water bowl. “You brought this on yourself.”
Poor Bonsai couldn’t manage his usual feeding routine with the unwieldy cone around his neck. He maneuvered well enough to reach his pellets, water, and fruit and vegetables, but the cone prevented him from holding his peanuts close enough to his beak for gnawing in the manner he was accustomed. I fed him the nuts, stripped of their shells, and a couple pistachios as an extra treat. Sure, I’m anthropomorphizing, but his resentment felt palpable. As he snatched each nut from my outstretched hand, he stared me down with an angry glint in his black eyes.
Before I left the house, I triple-checked the locks on Sterling’s cage and left the broom in place, propped across the entrance to the kitchen. As little trust as I had in Sterling, I had even less in myself. Despite my diligent review and frequent referencing of the instructions provided, and my fastidious attention to detail when it came to feeding the birds and maintaining their cages, I’d still managed to screw up in spectacular fashion. As prepared as I’d thought I was, I wasn’t nearly prepared enough.
I couldn’t imagine that many pets would require care as involved or specific as the birds had, but that remained to be seen. In any case, the stakes would always be just as high. I sincerely hoped that even more careful review of my every action—and fewer easily enraged animals—might result in less violent sleepovers in the future.
Upon her return, Bev gifted me with a book on herbal medicine. So kind, and so very random. I secretly hoped that I might find the secret to Bev’s outrageous magnanimity revealed within its pages.
After depositing my check, I updated my business profile on the pet-sitting association’s website. Experience with exotic animals: check! Though there wasn’t a field for it, I was mentally noting that I now had bona fide experience with animal-on-animal aggression, too.
Little did I know how indispensable this skill of managing the wilder and less-predictable aspects of the menagerie in my charge would prove. I’d leaped enthusiastically into the pet-care industry for the serenity, the simple joy, of spending my days in the company of animals. But my job, it would seem, was more about maintaining the illusion of control.
Hi Annie,
I have an overnight visit with the pug brothers scheduled for tonight, so I put dinner in the fridge. Greek chicken. Yum! I’m with these dogs through the weekend but should be able to have dinner with y’all at least a few nights this week. Just going early this first day to get the lay of the land.
Pugs! Chicken! Love you.
Lindsey
CHAPTER THREE
Nanny Cam
Until I started walking the Tervuren shepherds, or Tervs, I didn’t know that there was such a thing as an agility dog. Or that these dogs competed against one another and won awards for their speed and precision. Hunting dogs, sporting dogs, herding dogs, guard dogs, lap dogs, sure. I’d watched Westminster. But agility dogs were all new to me.
There were three of them: Zipper, the female; Rascal, the male—both seasoned champions, judging by the statues and ribbons that crowded the mantel in the living room—and Slinky, the newest addition to the family and still “in training” through her puppyhood.
On their cul-de-sac, I parked next to the owners’ giant passenger van bearing a Terv sticker on the bumper—the touring mobile, I assumed, for when they traveled to competitions. By the time I reached the front gate, Zipper was already barking through the mail slot. At the porch, the front door was shaking from the impact of her front paws. As I unlocked the screen door, I braced myself to make like these dogs and be as swift as possible. Once the front door was unlocked and open, I’d have to somehow be quicker and stronger than Zipper to get in and shut the door without her and Rascal bolting past me into the front yard. I had zero confidence that the waist-high white picket fence would hold them for a moment.
Contrary to my initial assumption, Belgian Tervurens and German shepherds have little in common. The Tervs have a sleeker build and a shorter stature. Their snouts can be so long and narrow as to evoke a collie’s face. Their long, glossy fur is soft to the touch and fluffs out in a ruff around the head. While both breeds are highly trainable, intelligent, and most successful as pets if they are given a job like herding or guarding, the more time I spent with this trio of Tervs, the more I wondered at my own ignorance that the two could be confused or even compared.
The German shepherds I worked with were keen to please and get their job done with care and efficiency; the Tervs’ sole focus seemed to be getting where they’re going or obtaining what they want, and fast. Of course, that could have been specific to these particular dogs and not all Tervuren shepherds. I was quickly learning that for every generalization about breeds, there were as many exceptions that challenged my previously held conceptions. Environment and especially training seemed to have just as much to do with any dog’s temperament as their genetic provenance.
The athleticism of these particular Tervs, at least, overrode any impulse control or command to slow down. Which is where the extensive agility training surely came in handy. Just as much as their speed and precision garnered them awards, it seemed that same conditioning to stop, sit, wait, and heel were equally beneficial for the humans—and any other dogs—that came into contact with them.
The front of the house was entirely overrun by the dogs. Toys were strewn over every surface; there were water bowls of varying sizes and heights in strategic locations throughout the entryway, living room, and kitchen. The pantry was stacked deep with treats for training, reward, and dietary supplement. Their owners a
dministered these very carefully depending on the dog and the context. It took me at least a week’s worth of visits to get the treat distribution down pat.
Then of course, there was the mantle of fame. The owners were going to have to extend the mantle or add a shelf, as the trophies, certificates, statuettes, and ribbons were threatening to spill over onto the floor. Or, more hazardously, into the fireplace itself.
Once the front door was bolted, offering no option of escape, Rascal backed off to see what I had to offer. Zipper was barking madly, running laps at warp-like speed around the large center kitchen island, while Rascal awaited my next move, his intelligent eyes trained on me and his head cocked. Though he was still, he was wired for action, his whole body tensed for my cue. He was significantly larger than his female counterpart, standing about half a head taller. I was grateful that it was the smaller of the adult dogs that was so excitable. If he were as wild as Zipper, there would be no managing him.
What I had to offer Rascal, always, was freedom from the house in the enclosed backyard. But first, I had to retrieve the third corner of this Terv triangle. Slinky was still being crate trained and was kept in the back bedroom in a handsome mahogany affair that had to have cost a bundle. The wooden slats of the cage matched the wood of the dresser and bed frame, her enclosure as much a piece of furniture as a tool for training. She waited patiently as I unhooked the latch to her crate, and she accepted my caresses and kisses upon the supernaturally soft crown of her head, offering me a reciprocal lick on my hand.
Sleeps with Dogs Page 4
