By John Suval
When I recently agreed to take care of my folks' Maltese puppy for a week, the drill seemed simple enough: give him plenty of walks, fresh food and water, a good brushing now and again, and lots of love. No problem. I mean, how hard could the job be if thousands of pet sitters across the country can handle it every December when families take holiday trips?
All I knew about Robby before I became his primary caregiver was that he was a relentlessly cute five-pound package of energy and affection, forever frolicking and peering up at you with those soulful baby-seal eyes of his. I also knew that he had come to dominate my parents' world like some kind of charismatic cult leader. Phone calls home had devolved into protracted progress reports on the dog's evolving skills: Robby was a wee-wee pad prodigy. He could bark in seven languages. Sometimes my dad would actually forget he was on the phone and just start talking to the dog: "Robby sit. Sit. Robby, sit. What a goooood boy!"
My parents' home had turned into the Museum of Modern Chew Toys, chockfull of stuffed animals, rubber bones, and a host of little squeaky things. Robby had his upstairs toys and his downstairs toys. Even things that weren't toys became his toys, like old sweat socks. In the event that he grew weary mid-romp, he had an array of cushions to plop down on like an Arabian prince of old. His empire had spread to every nook of the house, including my parents' bed, where he settled in every night on the plumpest pillow.
In essence, I was babysitting royalty. The question was: Would I be able to resist his charms?
As a freelance writer, I spend my days working at home. This, of course, made me a big fat target for a smooth operator like Robby. Whenever he approached with a toy in his mouth—about every five seconds—I indulged him in games of fetch and other activities that promised hours of growling fun. We threw ourselves heart and soul into games of chase, racing around the ottoman like a couple of idiots.
Work turned into unbroken periods of play. Walks, too, became less tactical strikes and more like journeys of discovery through distant neighborhoods and along scenic nature trails. The little rascal had me on such a short leash, I even let him sleep in my bed. I had to hand it to him: He was good.
Within a few days, I was deep into the Cult of Cuteness. I had fallen into a kind of trance, gushing meaningless nothings to the pup when I was with him, boasting to friends about his rare genius when we were apart. It's a miracle I didn't shave my head and give up all my worldly possessions. Needless to say, I got virtually no work done.
I realize now that it was insane to believe I could ever resist Robby. I've come to the conclusion that the best I can do is try to turn our time together into something productive. In fact, I've decided to launch a major study to examine the hypnotizing effects of preternaturally cute pooches. My hope is to harness this awesome power and use it to help animals worldwide. We could use it to free all the poor pooches at puppy mills. Or convince people to spay or neuter their pets or to stop buying exotic animals as pets. Ultimately, by understanding this incredible animal magnetism and putting it into good use, we may even succeed in liberating pet guardians (and sitters) from the frightening power of their furry masters.
I'd love to tell you more about this study, but Robby just popped up—and he's carrying a toy!
John Suval is a freelance writer based in Washington D.C.
