The Tale of the Doggie Doorman

I wasn't always a Doggie Doorman. Or woman. Whatever.

Once I had dreams and aspirations of my own. I went to college. I went to graduate school. I had my future all mapped out, and I was going to be SOMEBODY (not sure who I had in mind...just somebody other than my meek, mousy little self.)

The less-than-stellar job market, motherhood and Other Events conspired against me, and now years after my triumphant graduation, here I am, secure in the knowledge that the only meaningful thing I do day in and day out is open the basement door so that Canis Feisticus and Canis Dafticus can go outside. Or inside. Or outside again.

Being a Doggie Doorman isn't all bad. There are some benefits *pause whilst I try to come up with some*. For example...*think, think, think*...one earns the undying gratitude of the four-footed ones, who repay my efforts with devotion, loyalty, and a penchant for tracking mud into the house at any opportunity. Which means I am also the Doggie Maid Service.

The Doggie Maid Service's responsibilities include but are not limited to scrubbing the floors free of muddy paw-prints and the greasy residue left over after the consumption of marrow bones, vacuuming up the fine drifts of hair which accumulate on the floor and couches during shedding season (which occurs about every five minutes), laundering the blankets that protect the couches from doggie indiscretions, divesting the walls of the grey shadow of dirt that accumulates at about dog-height, performing the always satisfying Poop Patrol, cleaning up when the rabbit/weed/dead animal/unidentifiable piece of garbage they managed to scoff down during a walk does not agree with their delicate digestive systems, and administering The Pink Stuff to soothe said delicate digestive systems. Which means I am also the Doggie Health Maintenance Organization.

The Doggie Health Maintenance Organization's responsibilities include cleverly disguising required medications in bits of cheese, escorting the dogs to their vet appointments, administering their monthly heartworm and flea prevention treatments, and The Trimming of the Nails. The Trimming of the Nails is an ordeal for all of us. Canis Dafticus has a sixth sense about such things. He knows, even before one has the nail clippers in hand, that the Horrible Event is about to occur, and he high-tails it to his crate, where he sits and watches accusingly through the grate in the side. It takes two of us to hold him and get the nails trimmed. And afterwards, he must be coddled and soothed. Which means I am also the Doggie Psychologist.

The Doggie Psychologist is required to deal with traumas such as thunderstorms, fireworks, The Trimming of the Nails, and The Dreaded Bath. Which usually results in me ending up just as wet (and hairy) as the dogs.

All in all, quite a large part of my day and my energy is taken up with caring for these dear fur-children of mine.

Not that I'm bitter.

What's a career compared to this?