when I started this blog five years ago, I was a pet sitter and the name animal-crackers made sense. now I'm a stay-at-home-dad and freelance writer, but rather than confuse everyone by getting a different blog, it's just easier to keep posting things here.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Planet Plush
My name is Todd. I'm a full-time dad and part-time pet sitter. I've written a couple dozen unpublished short stories and am struggling to write a novel. I guess this blog will be another place for me to blather in hopes of finding an audience.
***
With so much to write about, I never know where to start. So I'll begin with my part-time job. Every Saturday and Sunday, I take care of pets while their people go away on vacation. And you should just see how these people live.
Some are seriously rich, although not rich enough to afford a house staff. Many spoil their pets like you wouldn't believe. And more than a few are bat-shit crazy.
For example, today I took care of Plush -- a morbidly obese cat who has recently been diagnosed with diabetes. Plush lives in *the* most disgusting apartment I have ever seen with a hygienically challenged guy.
Plush doesn't believe in litter boxes. Instead, her owner lines large areas of the floor with garbage bags. On top of this, he puts a layer of neatly folded paper towels. On top of that, Plush does her business. Often times, she misses. Much of the carpet is soaked with dried urine and fecal stains.
My job is to take a deep breath, run in, scoop the yellowed paper towels and cat turds into another garbage bag, replace the garbage bag liners and paper towels, feed poor Plush, and hopefully run out before I lose consciousness. Oh, and feed the catfish named Mr. Big.
I don't mind getting my hands dirty, and I have a stomach that's stronger than most. But what the fuck? What's wrong with this guy? Does he not notice the overwhelming stench? He must go through half-a-dozen biggie rolls of Bounty and three dozen garbage bags every week.
Now he's feeding a feral cat he's named Hillary. Duff, Clinton, Swank? Who knows. It won't be long until she's part of the urine-fest.
I need to shower.
With so much to write about, I never know where to start. So I'll begin with my part-time job. Every Saturday and Sunday, I take care of pets while their people go away on vacation. And you should just see how these people live.
Some are seriously rich, although not rich enough to afford a house staff. Many spoil their pets like you wouldn't believe. And more than a few are bat-shit crazy.
For example, today I took care of Plush -- a morbidly obese cat who has recently been diagnosed with diabetes. Plush lives in *the* most disgusting apartment I have ever seen with a hygienically challenged guy.
Plush doesn't believe in litter boxes. Instead, her owner lines large areas of the floor with garbage bags. On top of this, he puts a layer of neatly folded paper towels. On top of that, Plush does her business. Often times, she misses. Much of the carpet is soaked with dried urine and fecal stains.
My job is to take a deep breath, run in, scoop the yellowed paper towels and cat turds into another garbage bag, replace the garbage bag liners and paper towels, feed poor Plush, and hopefully run out before I lose consciousness. Oh, and feed the catfish named Mr. Big.
I don't mind getting my hands dirty, and I have a stomach that's stronger than most. But what the fuck? What's wrong with this guy? Does he not notice the overwhelming stench? He must go through half-a-dozen biggie rolls of Bounty and three dozen garbage bags every week.
Now he's feeding a feral cat he's named Hillary. Duff, Clinton, Swank? Who knows. It won't be long until she's part of the urine-fest.
I need to shower.
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