"Bella the Dog, Pt. 2"

(Note: Barry is dogsitting. This is part two. Read part one here.)

This is what life has come to … I’m in my bed, early morning, afraid to move for fear of disturbing the dog. The dog is asleep in her very own playpen at the foot of my bed.

There is a dog in a playpen in my bedroom. It’s worth repeating.

I’m not quite ready to get up yet, but there is some business with my bladder I’d like to attend to before I continue my slumber. But I’ll be spotted. I’ll wake the dog, and then she will proceed to yap in a way that makes nail guns sound like soothing wind chimes, demanding that I pick her up.

I’m pinned down, basically, a prisoner in my own bedroom. I am living a Steven King novel. Sorta.

The miniature Cujo’s name is Bella, and we are approaching the end of our week of dogsitting. We are watching the dog while her owner purchases more suitable Aspen accommodations. She was evicted from her last place due to the strict “no dogs” clause in the lease.

To look at Bella, a tiny little Pomeranian puppy, you have to wonder how the landlord mistook her for a dog. She really looks a lot more like a bat. A wingless bat that somehow mutated a coat of fur, but still very bat-like. And she has certainly provided me with an ample supply of guano over the past week.

I looked up the name “Bella.” It’s Italian for “crap factory.” Seriously. I’m sure Bella Lugosi had a tough time in grade school because of that fact.

I scoop Bella out of her confinement and put her on the bed. Christina, my wife, is just waking up. Using her sonar, Bella closes in on Christina’s head and begins licking her face at a speed that can barely be registered by the naked eye. Her nimble, Q-Tip size tongue has a way of going far deeper inside the human nostril than I have managed to get comfortable with.

“Good morning, Bella,” Christina says. “I love you. Oh, we’re gonna miss you.”

She is being sincere. Unlike me, she has a hard time being sarcastic first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, I’m standing over the play pen, giving my standard morning report.

“Great. She scratched a bare spot in the carpet, missed the wee-wee pad twice, chewed up a corner of her blanket and then puked it back up. Now we have to rent a Mr. Steamy.”

Bella is still licking Christina’s face. Neither of them are listening to me.

“Barry, she’s so fun. What are we gonna do when she’s gone?”

“Well,” I offer. “First thing each morning I’ll wet a sponge, wipe it on my butt and then wake you up by rubbing it all over your face. It’ll be basically the same result as … um … uh...”

Oops. Her look told me that I'd gone too far, too early. Again.

A day or so into our dogsitting gig we discovered that rigorous exercise was the way to mellow Bella out a little bit. I decided it would be in my best interest -- a day free from yapping -- to get up and take Bella along on my morning run. My stride is about ten times the length of Bella’s body, so a jog around the block for me was roughly the equivalent of a full speed marathon for her. Perfect.

She only has a short leash, not one of those long retractable thingies, so she had to run right beside me. You have to close your eyes for a moment and picture this: Big, tall, freaky guy wearing black stretch pants (alas, my questionable choice of outdoor exercise clothing is one thing I can’t blame on Bella) with a tiny, biscuit-sized dog running alongside for all she is worth. We’d run past construction sites early in the morning and you could hear the laughter from a block away. Inevitably I’d run into somebody I’d know. The conversation would go like this:

“Oh, hi, Barry. What’s this? I didn’t know you had a …”

“IT’S NOT MY DOG!”

Still, there was something freeing about the whole thing. Once you’ve run down the street looking like an idiot, not much worries you anymore. You can open your eyes now.

As the end of Bella’s visit approached, my attitude changed. Knowing that life would soon return to normal, I was able to clean up indoor dog waste with a song in my heart. Doggie turd in my house shoe? I’ll get over it. Puddle of wee-wee soaks into my sock? Again? Think of it as a learning experience.

-RING-

“Hi, Barry, it’s Bella’s owner whose actual name you better not use in your column. Say, I’ve decided to get some new carpet installed in the condo, something that complements Bella’s fur color a little better. Do you think you could keep her for one more week?”

-----

Read part one.

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