RESOLVING THE LEDGER
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0 Share Newsweek is a Trust Project member See more of our trusted coverage when you search. Prefer Newsweek on Google to see more of our trusted coverage when you search. When I started pet-sitting five years ago, I had two non-negotiables: no puppies and no aggressive breeds. It never occurred to me I’d need a third: Don’t surprise me with a critically ill pet after you’ve already packed your suitcase.
My first experience with an unwell pet was a weekend sit for a woman and her son who were leaving for the weekend. They hadn’t mentioned any illness in our initial call. When I arrived at the house, the woman scooped up an emaciated cat and plopped him onto the counter, then grabbed a syringe.
“This is all you do,” she said, nudging his mouth open and shooting a liquid deep inside his cheeks. Twenty minutes later, they left, and I barely saw the cat again. He hid, he scratched me, he hissed. When I found out later that they’d put him down the following week, my heart sank.
Up until then, my experience with pet-sitting had been idyllic: afternoon walks, throwing balls and nighttime snuggles. I loved caring for animals of all shapes and sizes—from 150-pound Leonbergers to teacup chihuahuas, feral cats, free-range chickens, even farm animals like pigs and goats.
But I soon learned that unexpected health needs weren’t unusual.
Not long afterward, I was excited to accept my first farm stay, expecting the goats to be the challenge. Instead, it was an elderly, blind pug that was the surprise. She bumped into walls and couldn’t find her food, so I finally sat on the kitchen floor and hand-fed her.
With each bite, she snapped at me—not out of aggression, but because it startled her to have a shadowy object right in front of her face. I didn’t mind looking after her, but knowing what to expect—and how to do it—would have been helpful for us both.
Then came a situation that changed pet-sitting for me.
Earlier this year I was asked back to the home of a regular client who I’d sat for numerous times. Before I arrived, the owner called to tell me that one of her pets had a medical issue. There was a feeding tube in her cat’s neck, she said, held in place by a padded collar, but administering food was a simple procedure and she’d show me how to do it.
I felt apprehensive. I’d never even given my own dog a pill. Anything medical made me squeamish.
The family was leaving the country for two weeks but the owner assured me everything would be fine as long as I followed the detailed instructions, which I saw upon arrival—too late to back out—were several typed pages long.
I watched and video’ed them do a run-through of it all, then they were gone.
The instructions looked Greek to me. There were several medications, some of which were holistic, and a complicated diagram showing when and how much to administer of each. Also, warnings like the Essiac tea could only be given on an empty stomach, and to always feed slowly or she would throw up. I made notes, I highlighted, I grabbed my phone and set multiple alarms so no dosages would be missed.
Everything had to be administered through a tiny tube in her neck, including the cat food, which first had to be liquified in a blender. My discomfort was at an all-time high, and the smell was the least of it.
Loading it into a large 60-milliliter syringe— which screwed into her feeding tube—was harder. The wide barrel created a massive vacuum, which is to say, more than once I accidentally shot liquid cat food all over their ceiling, chairs and rugs in an attempt to get the air bubbles out.
I had to do this three times a day, every eight hours, and the poor cat had to be completely still for me to do it.
At one point in my stay, I knew something was wrong. She was scratching her collar and I was concerned that her neck had become infected. Worse, the tube seemed to slowly be sliding out.
I called the owner in tears, told her we needed to go to the emergency vet clinic, then had to quickly YouTube how to get a cat into a carrier, because I’d never done that before either.
Once a professional was involved, I felt much better.
My suspicion was confirmed: The tubal entry point was infected. The vet told me to come back each day and they’d clean it and change the bandage. Not only that, but the doctor said that what I’d been doing was considered specialized care, normally performed by a licensed vet tech with certification. I was just relieved to have kept the sweet kitty alive.
I know that the owners I sit for care deeply about their pets. Many are juggling work and family obligations, or trips they can’t easily cancel. And yet, I’ve still been caught off guard by the extent of serious medical needs I didn’t know about until I arrived. Now I know to ask more questions if illness comes up.
While I love all the animals in my orbit, these experiences changed how I think about pet-sitting. It’s a big responsibility to make the right decisions for someone else’s beloved companion in a critical moment. No one else is there to weigh in.
The cat survived her family being gone, and the infection cleared up. She even gained a pound while I was there. When the owners returned, I let them know that care of this level was outside my comfort zone. They understood—we’d had a long history together and I always like to leave on good terms.
I still pet-sit , and still enjoy it. But now before accepting a booking, I ask a new question: “Is anyone sick?”
Courtenay Rudzinski is a writer in Houston whose work has appeared in the Washington Post, WIRED, HuffPost and Business Insider.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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