Pet sitting and babysitting…we all have our stories… and our crosses to bear!

Pet sitting and babysitting…we all have our stories… and our crosses to bear!

For the next two weeks, I have been tasked with cat sitting while my son and daughter-in-law enjoy a vacation cruise.

The cats’ names are Sassy and Mimi. Sassy is a furling dervish in a cat tuxedo, while Mimi is a purring victim of her burlier cohort, who shoves her away majestically from their favourite foods and treats.

I have to ensure that these precious fur balls continue to thrive in a relatively hygienic environment, a Sisyphean task as they leave a crackling trail of hard food pellets, cat toys, and half-devoured treats in their wake.

I am a very nervous, neurotic cat sitter. In fact, I am a very nervous, neurotic human being.

Each time I open the front door of my son’s house, I’m terrified that my charges are going to escape into the suburban wilderness of Orleans, Ontario.

There is a precedent for this animal flight. One day, many years ago, my wife and I were left in charge of my parents’ Terripoo dog, a hideous yapping creature called Sprout. Somehow this canine catastrophe managed to untether itself and flee into the thick forest surrounding my parents’ cottage in Vermont. We clambered and thrashed through the dense woodland for hours, calling out for the villain until we fortuitously stumbled upon the delinquent fluff ball at the edge of a stream, whereupon I tackled the bedraggled creature, so that it – and we – might live another day.

As a teen, I was also something of a fishy babysitter, with a propensity for nosiness.

When I was in my early teens in London, Ontario, I would babysit for our neighbours throughout the entire year… and for my parents’ Scottish friends Mr. and Mrs. Ian Martin on New Year’s Eve. After whiling away the hours before the Martins’ return from the Saturnalian festivities of what they called ‘Hogmanay’ by rummaging through their drawers looking for incriminating evidence of sexual proclivities or activities, I would welcome them home at around 4 a.m., with Mr. Martin “properly pie-eyed and right sloshed.” Then began Ian’s annual pickled harangue and Highland serenade, with a thoroughly plastered Mr. Martin caterwauling his favourite tunes from the Caledonian homeland like a libidinous tomcat with a thick Scottish brogue. A good time was had by all.