A few months ago I signed up to be a dogsitter through an app called Rover. Since I work a desk job from home and take a walk each afternoon and evening, it’s a perfect scenario for me and a (very) lucky dog.
The aptly named Rover is kind of like an online dating app. You sign up and write a short bio about yourself, add a few photos, and post some details about what you’re looking for in a dog (or cat). You list your desired pet by age (no puppies plz) and size, from small dog (0-15 pounds) to giant dog (101+ pounds).
If you don’t want dogs at your house, you can choose to stay with the dog at its home. Personally, I’m more comfortable on my own turf, especially early in a relationship. Rover also has options for those with commitment issues: you can do short-term flings like dog walking, doggy daycare, or drop-in visits. You can even do obedience training, if you’re into that. No judgment.
On Rover, you set your rates and post your availability on a calendar, and dog owners send a booking request. Then you can message each other through the app and ask questions, which in my experience is a lot like the first few messages exchanged in a dating app: How much energy do you have? Like, are we talking some moderate hiking (I can do that), or are you more of a mountain climber (I can’t do that)? Are we going to have to be doing things all the time forever, or can we just move straight to the hangout-on-the-couch-a-lot stage of the relationship? Do you pee/poop in the house? No judgment.
Pavlov’s pig
We never had pets growing up, but my brother and I always wanted a dog. I think my parents thought they’d end up taking care of it after we lost interest, and maybe they were right. We did once have a pet guinea pig that came to us as a sort of emergency adoption. Her name was Betsy, and not long after we got her we lost interest.
Because Betsy’s cage was kept in the pantry next to the kitchen, my mom became her closest friend. Mom would feed Betsy carrots from the fridge, and pretty soon, whenever Betsy heard the fridge door open, she’d squeak, knowing a carrot was potentially forthcoming.
Sometimes we’d let Betsy outside within a little chicken wire enclosure so that she could experience her natural habitat in the great outdoors, where she was no doubt once a fearsome predator before her lineage was domesticated. But one day a neighborhood dog named Cracker carried her home in his jaws, using her as a chew toy. We found her two blocks away, barely clinging to life, with four large puncture wounds and rapid, shallow breathing. I still remember carrying her home, how devastated it made me feel, how even though I’d lost interest in her, I suddenly wanted, more than anything, for her to live.
There was no money for vets, so we laid her in her cage on a bed of wood chips and prayed. Four long days went by with no noticeable movement or improvement, and then one day there came a weakish squeak, and a peek into her cage saw her hobbling around, a little unsteady, but ready to nibble carrots again.
Probably a good pet for us would have been a cat—something that can basically live on its own, stopping by for a little affection here and there and then going about its regular life, kind of like that Ashley Madison site for people interested in having affairs. But my dad absolutely hated cats. I think he thought they were gay. He was very much into traditional man stuff, like cars and grease, hunting and guns, and so anything that could be seen as unmanly—like showing affection of any kind—was not suitable for sons.
Falling in love
Over the past few months using Rover, I’ve watched half-a-dozen dogs, some for a weekend, some for a week-and-a-half. One of my favorites was Betty, a French bulldog. Betty is descended from wolves like I am made in god’s image—a hobo of a man, and a poor excuse of a dog, but all the more endearing because of it.
I’ve watched her twice now. She is a stubborn little B whose owners told me she liked short walks, but I didn’t realize quite what that meant until our first walk, when I realized that she would just rather not walk.
When Betty gets tired of walking—after about two blocks—she lets you know by parking her fat ass and refusing to move, turning her head slightly away from you, chin up and giving you the side-eye, as if to say, “You did this, and now you’ll be doing the walking for both of us.” As far as I can tell, Betty is into two things: snacks, and naps. Perfect for a late-stage relationship, but perhaps not a great way to begin one. Also, Betty slept in my bed with me the very first night we met, the slut.
This past week I’ve been watching Bella, a little corgi, and I think I’m finally in love. When we go on walks, Bella’s nails scratch along the sidewalk in rhythm, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. Her legs are four inches long, and so while I might get 5,000 steps on a walk, she takes 25,000. She loves to stop and pee everywhere, claiming territory like some kind of canine Lewis and Clark. She pees a tiny bit no fewer than a dozen times each walk, demanding land from here to the coast of a nearby neighborhood lake.
After two days with Bella, her personality came out. Somewhere in her is a fierce ancestral memory: I throw her favorite little lamb chew toy, and she chases it down with hovercraft-like speed, her little legs nearly invisible, and she gives that lamb no quarter. Once she has a hold of it, she often takes it behind a reclining chair as if to hide her kill from the others in the pack (currently me, who has no interest), where she makes it squeak its death squeak. Once she is satisfied, she brings it back to me to resurrect and throw again, or she demands a game of chase around the living room before settling in next to me for our evening Netflix. This, I think, is the perfect relationship—not too active; playful; is into moderate walks; and is totally down for snuggling and couch time. I think she’s my perfect shorty, and if her owners never come to claim her, I won’t be mad.
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