Barefooted

Being single lends itself to certain desperation jobs. The I-can't-find-anyone-to-water-my-lawn-but-you-aren't-doing-anything-right? jobs. Or the I-need-someone-to-feed-my-cat-and-get-my-mail jobs.

You know, the really tough things in life.

I have a few regular housesitting gigs in town, and I generally love all of them. Most involve not just sitting in a house, but also watching certain four-legged family members as well. And it being summer, my services are proving to be a hot commodity.

Last week I was in the company of two distinguished dachshunds, Sir Henry and BoBo. Ahem, that's SIR Henry thank you very much. He was knighted by the Queen of England last year in quite a regal ceremony.

And being dachshunds, I spent most of my week with my eyes to the ground so my rear wouldn't end up there as well. But as important as it was to not step on a tiny paw or trip over my over zealous and slightly lonely friends, the biggest lesson learned is one that I am compelled to pass on to you.

Never walk outside barefooted.

NEVER.

After spending what I am sure was a miserable morning inside containing tiny bladders and waiting on the lazy human to roll out of bed at 6 a.m, one of my little friends just simply could not make it beyond the deck to the yard. And I, after showering, putting on makeup and my "work" clothes (read, not my jeans and t-shirts), failed to put on my shoes (because who wants to wear heels any more than she has to, right ladies?) before walking out to feed my friends.

And how does my day start? With a foot full of poo.

I think I said something like "Which one one of you would be responsible for this?" Only I'm pretty sure I screamed and I am pretty sure it woke the neighbors.


This was Sir Henry's response:






I think they were too relieved to care.

Sigh.

Favorite Thing Today: new running shoes