In which I pick a lock in a snowstorm

As a twelve year old entrepreneur, I had the grand ambition of pet sitting for some spare cash. I made some fliers, walked around our neighborhood and that next to us, and found myself with three whole customers. That was ok as being a twelve year old didn’t lend itself to a busy work schedule that is real life.

The occasional other job would trickle in as a one-of, and that was usually welcome.

One snowy December, the family across the street and down one house decided to hire me for the holiday week as they traveled. I got to take care of Molly, their faithful hound. This was generally fun in that I could also take Molly on runs and she would gracefully bound around the snow in giant laps around me as I ran a healthy 7 minute mile.

About half way through the time however, she developed some rather intense gastro-intestinal distress, and things quickly went south from there.

She was to be locked up in her crate for the evenings so that she wouldn’t destroy the house. She also covered this crate in the mess, and I couldn’t really take her to my house or even let her out in her own. She could be outside, or she could be in her crate. Poor soul.