Journal entry, 5/15/92 housesitting woes, Ripley the neurotic dog

5/15/92 The dog barks, wanting in, how do I tell her that her owners have spoiled her rotten, and not in a good way, and the house is not hers by right? She, who will eat all the catfood the moment I turn my back, out of sheer spite. She, who bites their ears if I so much as pet them, or carry them outside. She, whose eyes darken with jealousy if they come inside, and she is not invited in. When are they supposed to eat?

She, who I reprimanded for eating the cat food again, sneaks off and eats my best pair of underwear. And the feeding ritual: dry and wet food, oil, a hard-boiled egg, finely diced, yogurt, and vitamin C, while the cats eat straight out of the can. Someone says all that fat and cholesterol. I guess it’s come to this—worrying about dog diets on human terms. I finally moved her food bowl outside because she had to be constantly told to eat, she’d restlessly pace, lick, pace, steal the cat food—sometimes never even touching her own food. She dug up the front yard and slayed a family of moles. Poor moles. I can’t leave her unattended for 10 minutes without her wreaking pure havoc, and this house is pretty dog-proofed.

She, who, no matter how many times I scold her, jumps up on me, ruining my clothes. They said don’t let her jump on you.  So much for dog obedience school. A large German shepherd, a guard dog who barks at imaginary things and is scared of the most mundane of things—a new poster on the wall, something falling from the table. She’s a neurotic chicken with a big bark.

I put her bed outside, and now she’s miffed because she’s banished from the house. So she ate her bed. The deck is flocked in chunks of white foam. When I let her back in, she sits in front of the TV while I’m watching and bathes and scratches so loud that I have to turn the volume up, and move aside to see the show. I could smell her from 10 feet away. Why does she choose to bathe in front of me as if it were a privilege? I find the smell repulsive, especially when I am trying to eat. Doggy odor and food, enough to make me puke.

After her owners left for vacation, she was depressed, hiding in the master bedroom—they expected me to sleep with her too. I tried, but I woke up, severely allergic. Anyway, I had to go in and give her therapeutic hugs and make her feel loved, and there was nobody doing that for me. Turns out she may have been acting weird because of the tremors after the big Eureka earthquake. But then, she ate my brand new underwear, never been worn. I was screaming at her, smacking her with my crotchless panties, feeling violated myself.

So she went outside with her dinner and the eating problem magically disappeared because she had only herself to distract when she was outside. She wants in at every opportunity, the house, a forbidden delight. Thing is, as soon as she is in, she wants out again, she is a Mobius strip, entering and leaving each door. I am not a doorman. I tried leaving the doors open and she just galloped through them like a merry-go-round. Oh, I am not a dog person, if I wanted to be this responsibility I would’ve had children. Remind me never to get a dog. Still, when she cooks her head, barks, and listens to me, it’s cute. But I cannot wait for Simone and her lover to come back from Europe. I’m running out of underwear.