Memoirs of a distressed dog handler

Dog Handler 4 Super Fantastic 1

Super Fantastic, CC-BY-SA 2.0 via Creative Commons

This post is written for the Humor Me Blog hop hosted by Terrye Toombs, Julie DeNeen and Kate Hall.


Link up with the hop if you have a funny post-it must contain humor-to contribute!

Today’s contribution from Pets Aware News is on the angst that our beloved pets sometimes put inexperienced dog handlers through.

Enjoy this little story about a young fellow who takes the job on to get a little pocket money – and gets a bit more than he bargained for.

Day ONE  : 8:45 p.m.

Dear Journal,

Dinner was an utter fiasco today. Dad came in, sat himself down, cut through a mound of roast beef and all of a sudden said, “Son, I won’t pay for your college tuition anymore.”

“Why?” I asked, choking on my food in shock. Dad had NEVER refused me any expenses before.

“You’ve become way too high maintenance.

Book after book, class after class. I even had to get you new laptops for you to do your assignments, but you’ve downloaded so many of those RPG computer games in them instead. You buy a new shirt every other day. If this keeps up, I’ll go bankrupt.”

The old man was being ridiculous. I have got to be the most frugal kid in my uppity neighborhood and here he is telling me that he cannot afford my college classes!

After all, I had only put in a request for 20 laptops, bought a total of 100 designer shirts, and bought a total of 1500 reference books for my various classes, each one (I must be able to beat the competition, you know.)

Dad sounded really persistent, though. “You will need to find yourself a job and put yourself through college. There’s no way I can do it for you anymore.”

Gosh, I only ask for a $500 weekly allowance!

Day TWO : 9:30 a.m.

Dear Journal, Dad plonked a newspaper with an advertisement at the breakfast table today. He drew my attention to one which he’d already circled in BRIGHT RED.
Dog Butler Wanted
Must Love Dogs
Professional training not required
Noblesse Oblige.
What? No, no, no, no, surely dad must have made some kind of mistake..
“Dad, are you sure you want me to do this?” I began to panic. “Maybe you forgot your reading glasses…..”
My father just smiled. “Just something I thought would help you make your way around the world,” he whistled as he read his morning paper, ignoring my anxious pleas. He really must be growing old. I made up my mind to make that secret appointment to have him checked for dementia. I tried to relax, to think things through positively. There was at least ONE thing good about being a dog butler. You get to go to work in your Calvin Kleins. I cheered up a bit. There was a new pair I badly wanted to show off.
Mike Cogh CC-BY-SA 2.0 via Creative Commons

Mike Cogh CC-BY-SA 2.0 via Creative Commons

Day ThrEE: 6 p.m.

Dear Journal,
The experience at my employer’s was overwhelming to put it mildly. I arrived in my best Calvin Klein outfit, all prepped and ready for the interview. I drove over in my Porsche to the address, which was an awesome, Victorian influenced manor with an ambling lawn.
An old, prim and proper, skinny lady answered the door. “You must be interviewing for the butler job,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “Madam is waiting. But before that,” she looked hard at me again,”You’d best change. Here.” She dumped a set of loose, ill fitting blue overalls at me.
“What?” I looked with horror at the worker’s uniform I was being made to wear. “Surely you don’t want me to…” She stared hard at me and pointed. “Your outfit is just not suitable.” What! How could my Kleins not be good enough for a DOG? And to wear…… Her stoic features stared me down and won, so I changed anyway.
I went into a room where a loudly dressed old woman with a diamond ring on each of her fingers was waiting. In her arms was a miniature poodle. She looked me up and down. She spoke in a shrill drawl. “I’m Mrs. A. Ford. You sure you love dogs? This IS a noble profession,” She asked, in an uppity sneer.”Are you absolutely SURE you’re suitable?I don’t want any Tom Dick or Harry hurting my Doby,” She looked me up and down as if I was about to commit a major crime.
“Er…yes….’ I was a little taken aback. No one had ever spoken to me like that before. God, I nearly wanted to kill my father. She stared hard at me, then continued. “Here’s Doby, my precious. You make sure you’re good to him, now.”
The dog impeccably groomed with little balls of hair a la poodle. It seemed she was holding it too tightly in her arms, because it struggled right out of them. And came towards me. It kept jumping and scratching on me in greeting, so I picked it up. Mrs. Ford, wide eyed and holding her nose, pointed at me. I looked at myself up and down, then discovered why.
The silly dog had let itself go in the front of my overalls, in the place where my most precious jewels were kept. Ignoring my scowling face but still holding her nose, Mrs. Ford continued. “You’re to serve him well. Give him a bath every day, and he must have his early morning walk. And here,” she threw a set of keys at me. “What are these for?” I asked, somewhat impatiently. It isn’t easy to listen to your employer in urine soaked pants. “Your’e to take him out for rides, too,” she instructed.”He has a special car.” I nearly fell to the ground in my smelly overalls.

Day Four: 12 p.m.

Dear Journal,

Finally, I have some afternoon sanity and time to write in you too. The morning was HORRIBLE. I can’t believe my father actually subjected me to this.

Getting Doby to walk was a complete nightmare. If you’ve ever tried walking a dog, please don’t.

All was going well at first, with that darn dog following me at my heels as all dogs should.

Then, it decided that it didn’t want to move any more. It sat, rooted to the spot.

I called “Doby,” and persuaded it to come. Still, it sat there, a picture of immobility.

I pulled and tugged gently at the leash, to no avail.

Then, he struck.

He lifted himself on all four feet and sprinted, pulling me like an inexperienced jet skier along the entire street. He kept running and running…..

And screeched to a sudden stop. So sudden that I lost my balance, did a pirouette in the air and landed, flat on my face.

I got up and Doby was looking at me, head cocked to the side and giving me the “You all right, dude?” look.

I could have strangled him.

Dog handler 1(1)

Day Five 5 p.m.

Dear Journal,
I don’t think I can take this insanity any longer. If this goes on I swear I’ll kill myself. Getting a dog to take a bath has got to be something left to the experts. I swear I cannot do it.
And believe me I tried. Getting him to take a bath was the first nightmare. Doby made me chase him around the house and played hide and seek for hours. I finally managed to corner him in the living room. “Can’t get away now,” I grabbed him, looking at his poodle tresses with a satisfied smirk. He struggled, whining and kicking. I just ignored him.
But in the bath, the smelly canine finally got his revenge. After I had soaked him, he was ready for his final rinse. Then… He suddenly jumped out of his tub, shaking himself all over. And Dog Handler Extraordinaire got himself a bath.
It got worse. He ran out into the garden, found himself an area full of mud and rubbed himself all over it. To top it all off, he ran right back in to give me an invitation to play, via mud marks which decorated nicely my precious Calvin Kleins. So much for canine cleanliness.

Day Six: 6 p.m.

Dear Journal,

One more day of this, and I will tender my resignation, whether my father likes it or not.

Getting that dumb mutt to eat is such a pain. I brought out a can of prime lamb for dogs, but he just sniffed and looked away.

I had to think of a clever idea to persuade him to eat. So I used a teaspoon and waved it in front of him. Still, no response.

Now I really had to do something. With no other choice, I picked up a piece of meat with my bare hands and waved it in front of him.

Oh, he ate the meat alright. With a bit of my own mixed in between.

The next few hours were spent with me moaning and groaning in the emergency room, having that damned finger stitched.

Journal, if you ever have to feed a dog, never do it by hand.

Dog handler 2(1)

Day Seven 4 p.m.

Dear Journal,

I really don’t know where to put my silly face. Dad still won’t let me resign from this crazy job.

I brought Doby out for his morning walk as usual. Guess I’ve sort of mastered(after several sessions of pulling, tugging and being dragged across the streets) how to really rein him in.

And just when you think you’ve finally got it, that darn spanner is thrown in the works.

You see, Doby met a female friend on the street. They sniffed each other, doing what

dogs normally do.

Then, Doby jumps, again, doing what dogs normally do.

Much to the delight of a small crowd of kids which had gathered to watch and laugh.

One of the kids even said to his mother, “Look mum, a dog’s pushing a wheelbarrow.”

If only he knew.

Day Eight: 6 p.m.

Dear Journal,

It was a day of mixed feelings today.

I was canned. Sacked, Axed. I expected to feel happy about it, but am actually not.

After I was given the earful for my incompetence by a very iffy Mrs A. Ford, I sat down on her patio, feeling rather put out and drained from the really exciting week with Doby.

But, just as I am about to leave, guess what. Even a mean dog like Doby has a doggy heart.

He came over and lay next to me, paws outstretched. Then, he nudged me with his nose, licking me on my face.

If I’d known he wasn’t that bad a canine, maybe things would have been a little bit better.

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Yours from Petdom,

Michelle's Signature

12 Replies to “Memoirs of a distressed dog handler”

  1. I loved your post because it brought back many fun memories of when I use to be a pet-sitter. What I miss most of those days is that every dog, every house and every customer was so unique which made the job so much fun.

    1. Yes indeed, Debbie, and the personalities of each dog/owner are so different too! Thanks for sharing!

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