Pet-Sitting Can Be a Real Pet Peeve

Will E Sanders
Thu, 28 Aug 2014 21:00:00 -0700
Lifestyle

Pulling the rapture in tow behind their weary steeds, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse crashed over the clouds of Laura, Ohio, stopped and peered down, as though vacationing at the Grand Canyon. Clearly, these stone-cold heavy-hitters straight outta Revelations had gained knowledge that yours truly agreed to pet-sit for his boogie-boarding parents, who'd gone on sabbatical in Myrtle Beach — and his girlfriend's parents, who were judging a local dog show.

The Four Horsemen cackled. They weren't there perched upon high merely to sightsee. Where's the fun in that?

For those just tuning in, I was recently charged with the task of watching after several thoroughbred dogs, reformed alley cats and dozens of exotic fish belonging to my parents and my future in-laws. In sum, I was responsible for feeding, watering and — this is most important — not killing six dogs, 17 cats and too many fish to keep track of.
Updated: Fri Aug 29, 2014

Pulling the rapture in tow behind their weary steeds, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse crashed over the clouds of Laura, Ohio, stopped and peered down, as though vacationing at the Grand Canyon. Clearly, these stone-cold heavy-hitters straight outta Revelations had gained knowledge that yours truly agreed to pet-sit for his boogie-boarding parents, who'd gone on sabbatical in Myrtle Beach — and his girlfriend's parents, who were judging a local dog show.

The Four Horsemen cackled. They weren't there perched upon high merely to sightsee. Where's the fun in that?

For those just tuning in, I was recently charged with the task of watching after several thoroughbred dogs, reformed alley cats and dozens of exotic fish belonging to my parents and my future in-laws. In sum, I was responsible for feeding, watering and — this is most important — not killing six dogs, 17 cats and too many fish to keep track of.

It took Death only two hours to muddy his hands in the water after my parents pulled away on their sojourn to the sea. Being a good son, I followed my instructions — my mother painstakingly inscribed them on an entire legal pad — to the letter of the law. I managed to accomplish each itemized chore in her son-revenge playbook except for one: feeding her Siamese fighting fish.

My mom keeps the fish inside an antique aquarium at the bottom of her stairs. Since when has using antiques for their intended purpose ever led to beneficial results in the modern day? It's usually a recipe for losing a hand. My mother should recognize the technological advancements in the field of aquariums since the pre-Civil War era, including enclosed tops that prevent wayward fish from leaping out of the tank.

I bet I spent 10 minutes looking for that fish before becoming momentarily sidetracked by a hairball on the floor. Great, I thought, my parents haven't been gone one day and the cats are already tearing the place apart. Except the closer I looked at that hairball, the more I started thinking, "Gee, that hairball looks an awful lot like a Siamese fighting fish."

I called my mother immediately and in the simplest words I could convey told her that her kamikaze fish committed suicide.

On the next day, Famine reared his ugly head. Apparently, my mom's seven cats are so stupid that they won't eat a dead fish off the ground, but they'll cry foul when you don't feed them milk at the top of the hour, every hour. Unfortunately, my mother was all out of milk. So I gave them water, and when they protested, I informed them, "Drink it or don't, but it's been sustaining life on Earth for quite some time now. See if I care."

Mysteriously, Pestilence never showed during this endeavor. Maybe he called in sick? All I know is, War did show up, but he waited until my parents arrived home before meddling in family affairs.

One command contained within the tenth chapter of my mother's instructional novel called for my direct participation in a nefarious plot as deceitful as it was foolhardy. On top of seven indoor cats, my mother takes care of three others that live outside. Now let me ask you: What do you think my father hates the most in the world?

My father is a kind, fair and honest man, but when his foot comes down, it stays there. Cats are strictly forbidden in the garage — my old man's only feline-free sanctuary.

My mother wanted me to keep one of her outside cats, Thumperilla, inside the garage, because the mangy thing is so stupid that it actually sleeps in the street. While I don't take the prospect of running roughshod on my old man lightly, after killing one beloved family pet, I didn't want to risk a second.

For the next seven days, twice each day, I fed, watered and did not kill the cat. Like a perverse Dr. Doolittle, I picked up each piece of feces in some sort of drunken rendition of a Charlie Manson nightmare.

But alas, my father was tipped off when he found some bits of cat litter near the garage door. The fruits of my betrayal were in vain, and my inactions would impose repercussions of a biblical nature, I assure you.

To contact Will E Sanders, visit his website at willesanders.com, or send him an email at wille@willesanders.com. To find out more about Will E Sanders and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.