The Dog Days
- Triniti Rivera
- Mar 12
- 4 min read
Dog Sitting in London
Along the time warp that is extended travel, I found myself in England very randomly and abruptly. I had debated traveling to the UK for a few days prior to going. My other work opportunity, which would have tied me to France for the remainder of my trip, turned belly-up, after a gal reached out to me detailing how weird the experience had turned out for her.
Though my finances were tight, I decided to travel to London anyway after my stint in The Netherlands, knowing I’d regret not taking another risk. On the same cost-effective train, I decided to house- and dog-sit for a kind British family. I was extremely nervous, as I always am before taking a leap of faith, but met with the family, who essentially took me in before departing for their trip to France (the irony, I know).
For the next week it was just their Golden Retriever and me occupying their large house–that felt even larger and intimidating come nighttime. Murphy had a very relaxed care schedule: take him out for two walks a day (one long walk in the least, time in the yard if you only had one walk, and most importantly, time off the leash), breakfast kibble scoops between 8 and 9 a.m., ensure the water bowl is always filled, impromptu snuggles, play fetch with him and his beloved tennis balls, and the occasional brushing. Murphy was very very intelligent– and stubborn.
There were numerous occasions where he would blatantly give away that I was his sitter. During a run, he’d yank me in the other direction, or randomly decide he was no longer interested and lay down on the sidewalk. As people walked by galavanting their obedient dogs, I tried to motivate Murphy with my enthusiasm which never worked--but Sardine treats did.
Brits love and whole-heartedly trust in dogs, I quickly came to notice. People would observe Murphy’s disinterest and our disagreements as I’d say “Murph, we aren’t going that way. Come on.” To which he’d reply with a strange emotional dog stare. It was as if he was trying to mystically tell me that he knew better–that he was all-knowing–and that the way home was actually through the creepiest side-street alleys, and Apple Maps didn’t know a thing.
Brits would approach me and ask “You aren’t his owner, are you?” or “Where are his parents? You must be some sitter,” Everyone appeared very concerned, as if I’d kidnapped the dog–which was really encouraging. If I were to reply with, “Yeah I’m just the sitter”, they’d say “Well, listen to him. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” about the same dog that dragged me across the street to try to eat regurgitated fries.
Some other strange remarks, were all of the comments about how cute Murphy was, more specifically, it was strange replying to those. On one level, I was just his dog-sitter–I had no real part in the dog behaving or looking cute. On another level, how weird would it be to reply “Thanks”, as if you contributed genetic makeup to the dog like it’s a baby.
Typically, a normal day for me consisted of taking care of Murphy’s needs, ensuring that he had plenty of water and such, and then exploring London and nearby areas afterwards. I tried not to feel too bad about leaving to sight-see, but every time I’d close the door and walk towards the Tube, I’d see Murphy run to the front window and watch me leave his field of vision with his sad old-dog eyes. Therefore I tried to not be out longer than 3 or 4 hours, which made for some interesting short trips.
As time progressed, Murphy started to warm up to my presence by being more mindful on our walks. He slowly became less treat-motivated and actually began to see my guidance as a considerable suggestion rather than disregarding it. He stopped giving me heart attacks during our trips to Hampstead Heath, which is a massive park well-known for dogs being off their “leads”.
Before their vacation, Murphy’s family and I took him on walks at the park, so I could see what they typically did during an outing. They’d let him off his leash, and he’d blissfully gallop through the fields of flowers and swim in ponds all while continuing to follow us. So you could imagine my surprise when he totally did not act like that when it was just us two.
It once took fifteen minutes of me calling out his name, frantically shaking his treat bag, and asking people if they’d seen him, just for me to find that he’d waded his way into a muddy pond. “Murphy, get out,” I said, and he replied with another one of his mystical emotional dog faces that said “Shit, she found me”.
I giggled on the walk back to the house as Murphy and I bore the wrath of vicious Brit stares because the muddy-moving blob that was his body wasn’t at all prim or proper.
After his wash, Murphy and I cuddled up to another rom-com he didn’t ever care to watch with me. One of the sons was coming home tomorrow, and I sat, enjoying the solitude and The Holiday plot, for a second longer. For a moment I felt the strange breeze of a cold environment, grooved cobblestones beneath my feet, and people warmly laughing in scattered groups around me. The ambiance felt inviting, like getting to know a new friend.
Murphy jumped on me and I awoke to realize I was back in the London living room as The Holiday credits rolled through on the TV. With only a couple weeks left before my returning flight, I knew where I was going next.
Next time:
Connect with more pets as you’re traveling, and if you get compensated for it--even better.
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