I went pet sitting for a peaceful week away. By Wednesday, I was taking orders from a dog and arguing with a hoover. 😂

It started beautifully. A lovely house, an adorable dog and owners who assured me, “Honestly, the dog is an absolute angel!” What I hadn’t realised was that I’d already been appointed Head of Household Staff, without pay, holidays or the right to use the toilet unsupervised.

By Tuesday, I was opening the back door 47 times a day so the dog could inspect the weather before deciding the sofa was preferable. Eating a biscuit had become a covert military operation, with the dog watching me like a tiny tax inspector investigating undeclared income.

Then came Wednesday night. At 2:17am, I was woken by a horrendous noise downstairs. Armed with a slipper, I crept into the living room to discover the robot hoover repeatedly ramming a dining chair like a drunk bloke refused entry to Wetherspoons. The dog watched from the sofa while I crawled around in my pyjamas arguing with a vacuum cleaner. At one point I actually shouted, “Now, that’s quite enough of that!” The dog looked at me as though I needed professional help.

By Friday, I’d completely surrendered. I was apologising for disturbing afternoon naps, negotiating over sofa cushions and considering booking the squeaky chicken a one-way flight to Australia.

When the owners returned, they asked, “How’s everything been?” The dog sat beautifully, looking like a model citizen who spent weekends volunteering at the local food bank.

“Absolutely lovely!” I replied. And the ridiculous thing was, I meant it.

Because that’s pet sitting. You arrive as a responsible adult, spend a week being outsmarted by something that gets excited about a leaf, and leave already missing the little troublemaker. 😂❤️🐾

The Guardians Tribe 🐾

Where Care Meets Adventure.