Cousin Wanda's Pet Sitting

...A little like a Stephen King novel

We left Mt. Rainier and headed inland toward Spokane, pausing to spend a night at an RV resort on aptly-named Potholes Reservoir. This manmade “pothole,” studded with pontoon boats and rimmed in mud, was hot, buzzing with flies, and crowded. Eager to put that experience behind us, we got an early start for Spokane the next morning. 

We’d planned a break in the trip with Spokane as the hub. I was flying back to the Bay Area to see our daughter and grandkids for a long weekend, badly in need of some “Nanee time,” while Mike craved solo “me time” hardcore fishing in nearby Idaho.

I found a pet sitter via the Internet who agreed to take Koa for the weekend even though we were just passing through. Following Lady Google’s directions, we headed for Cousin Wanda’s Pet Care on the outskirts of Spokane. 

The neighborhood we entered was run down, sporting abandoned vehicles and unkempt grass. Mike found an open stretch of sidewalk long enough to accommodate both our truck and the Wanderlust Retro, but it was a couple of blocks from the pet care place.

I opened the car door as a teen in a hoodie with jeans hanging off his butt moved in. He stood too close, holding a bottle of bright red soda in one hand, the other in the pocket of the hoodie. 

“Hey.” He gave a toothy grin with no goodwill in it.

“Hey,” I said, hardening my voice. “What’s up?” 

Mike leaned over from the driver’s seat to get a look. Koa cringed in the footwell as he usually did with strangers.

“I need help,” the guy’s grin hadn’t become friendlier. “Got any money?”

His shoes alone cost more than anything I currently owned.

“No can, brah.” Even as my heart speeded up—was I about to get robbed? I gave the kid full pidgin and some tita-style eye contact. “Move on.”

The kid shrugged. He slumped off, hoisting the baggy pants up over his bling-y shoes so that he could walk.

“Come back if it seems sketchy at Cousin Wanda’s,” Mike said. “I have to stay with the rig.” The kid hadn’t tried to rob us, but parking a nice rig like ours in a neighborhood like this and leaving it unattended was asking for trouble. 

“It already seems sketchy, but I don’t want to try to find another pet sitter just a few hours before my flight. Cousin Wanda’s website seemed legit and she sounded nice on the phone.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “Go check it out. But don’t leave Koa there if you don’t feel good about it.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking: I already don’t feel good about it. 

I gathered up Koa’s extra-soft fuzzy bed, supposedly designed to calm animals with separation anxiety. I took out his overnight bag containing a toothbrush, water and food bowls, a bag of kibble, hairbrush and poop bags.

Leading my fluffy boy and feeling as nervous and conspicuous as a parent dropping a kid off on his first day at a school in a questionable location, I walked down the cracked and weedy sidewalk. Hopefully Cousin Wanda’s address was nearby.

A couple of blocks later, a small mint green clapboard house adorned with lawn gnomes and animal cutouts on sticks indicated the address was the petsitter’s. A cacophony of barking in various depths of tone confirmed it when I walked up and rang the bell. 

Cousin Wanda was a short, barrel-bodied lady with tufts of purple hair escaping a scarf wound around her head. We could not converse over the cacophony of dogs. Miming that I should follow her, she led me through a series of baby gates that sectioned animals into different parts of the house. 

I scanned for filth or any indications of abuse or neglect as I passed through the house; the pets in situ were numerous, but segregated into groups by size and type (big dogs, small dogs, cats in the front room.) Everything was clean, the place smelled okay, and there was water available on demand.

Once we reached the relatively quiet and poop-free back yard, Cousin Wanda showed me appropriate paperwork, which was reassuring.

Koa, who is shy with humans but great with other dogs, bounded away to play with an outgoing chihuahua he met there. He was distracted enough for me to close him outside while Wanda and I returned to the front to complete the paperwork.

Sitting on an ottoman in the tiny parlor under the watchful gaze of a wall of cats sitting in cages and on a carpeted tree, I filled out the paperwork on a clipboard while Wanda went to another area in the house and made a copy of Koa’s immunizations and my driver’s license. 

The final page of the packet required a signature acknowledging that my pet would be sold or surrendered to the pound if I failed to pick him up.  

“That’s not happening.” I shivered. “I’ll be back.”

Paperwork done, I surveyed everything around me like the nosy therapist and crime writer I was. 

Wanda’s recliner, draped in doilies, was her throne. It was framed on one side by the huge and elaborate carpeted cat tree, complete with cats. On the other side teetered a stack of mystery novels. The parlor was clearly where Wanda liked to hang out in her spare time.

The middle section of the cottage, containing the kitchen and dining room, was occupied by Small Dogs. Three Staffordshire terriers, a toy poodle, and two chihuahuas hopped up and down and begged for pets through the baby gate separating the rooms.

Big Dog area was to the back of the house behind a second gate. Two Shepherds and a boxer in his crate bayed whenever I moved. 

Wanda returned; I handed her a down payment in cash, and the paperwork.

“Wow, Wanda. This is a great book stack,” I commented. “I’ve read many of these. I write mysteries and thrillers.”

“Oh yeah?” Wanda’s dark brown eyes sparkled with new interest as she looked me over; I’d noticed that reaction from people once I told them what my work was. She sat down in her recliner, and she was so short that her feet lifted off the ground once she did so. “What do you write?”

“Crime novels set in Hawaii starring a female detective who’s a woman of color. You can get the first in series free in e-book.” 

She groped in a side pocket on the chair and produced a Kindle e-reader, waggling it. “What’s it called?”

 “Blood Orchids.” 

Turns out she already had the book downloaded from one of my promos, but hadn’t read it yet. “I’ll be sure to read it this weekend.”

“Let me know what you think.” I found a small bookmark I tote around in my wallet for moments such as these, and handed it to her. “This has all my first in series on it.”

“Well, this is fun. I’ve been looking for something new. Hawaii sounds like a nice change of pace.” Wanda had warmed noticeably at meeting a fellow mystery buff and author. I wasn’t above exploiting that to make sure Koa was well cared for.

By then, Koa had realized what was up. Even with all the other dog sounds, I recognized his unique, rare bark from the back yard. He seldom barks; really only when separated from me. He barked again, higher pitched, worried now. 

I wasn’t coming. I was leaving him.

I felt the color drain from my face even as my eyes filled. “I hope he’ll be okay, Wanda,” I said. “I’m counting on you.” 

“He’ll be fine. I will take very good care of him.” She pulled the lever on the recliner so she could reach forward and pat my shoulder. “I’ll text you how he’s doing each day. I’ll send you pictures, too.”

I blinked rapidly and swallowed the lump in my throat; I was NOT going to cry. “That would be nice. Okay. I appreciate that.”

I have no memory of how I got from Wanda’s house back to the rig.

“You look like you just dropped off your dog with a stranger,” Mike said when I got into the car.

“He’s going to be fine,” I choked out.

“You sure? You were gone so long I was about to come see if everything was okay.”

“The place was a bit like something out of a Stephen King novel,” I said. “I hope I made the right call.”

Just then, my phone dinged. 

“Koa just came in and met the other small dogs. They are playing and he is doing great,” Wanda texted. A picture of Koa romping with the Small Dogs followed.

I immediately felt better at this reassurance.

“Thank you so much for taking care of my sweet boy,” I texted back. 

Mike pulled away from the curb, and we headed for the Spokane Airport.

It was going to be fine. Really, it was.

But on the plane, I got an idea for a cozy mystery: a dog walker/pet sitter service uses contacts with pet owners to identify animals to later kidnap and hold for ransom, including a fluffy German Spitz rescue dog belonging to a successful mystery novelist.

Everything, simply everything, is grist for the mill when you’re a writer.

P.S. Don’t forget to hit the ❤️ if this piece resonated with you!