The third day of dog-sitting was when everything changed. Not that the first two days with Nathan and Elise’s three pampered poodles had been uneventful—Baxter had already chewed one of my slippers, and Daisy had staged a brief but memorable escape into the neighbor’s yard. But it was on that third morning that my life tilted on its axis, though I wouldn’t understand the magnitude of the shift until much later.
I’d settled into a routine in my son’s sprawling suburban home, so different from my modest apartment with its carefully tended potted plants and shelves of well-worn books. Forty years as a librarian had left me with a passion for the written word and an organized mind, both of which seemed at odds with the chaotic energy of three dogs unaccustomed to my measured pace.
“Steady, Winston,” I murmured to the largest of the three, an enormous gray standard poodle who had the disconcerting habit of leaning his entire weight against my legs when he wanted attention. “We’ll go outside in a minute.”
The kitchen in Nathan and Elise’s house was all gleaming stainless steel and pristine white countertops—beautiful, but intimidating. I felt constantly aware of leaving fingerprints or water spots, despite Nathan’s assurances before they left that I should make myself at home. “Really, Mom, just relax,” he’d said, his hand on my shoulder, that familiar smile warming his face. “Mi casa es su casa for the next two weeks.”
But it didn’t feel like my house. Not with its soaring ceilings and modern art pieces that I secretly thought looked like accidents rather than intentional creations. Not with Elise’s subtle but constant reminders about the proper way to load their dishwasher and the specific temperature at which the thermostat should be kept.
I poured my morning coffee into one of the delicate bone china mugs Elise reserved for guests, still not quite comfortable using their everyday items. From the kitchen window, I could see the perfectly manicured backyard where the dogs would soon be romping. It was a beautiful spring morning, sunlight dappling the expensive patio furniture through the newly leafed oak trees.
The chaos of getting the dogs outside was predictable by now—excited barking, tangled leashes, the mad dash through the back door. Winston pulled so hard that I nearly lost my balance on the back steps, my coffee sloshing over the rim of the cup and onto the sleeve of my cardigan.
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