Once we decided to stay in this life, we made a conscious effort to relax our attitudes. We focused more on the joy the dogs and cats brought us and the warmth of our relationships with clients who did appreciate what we were trying to do. We ended up making many friends through Oak Meadows.
We still made sure people who came late or early knew that such behaviour was unacceptable, but we went for more snark and less livid rage.
One year we got an email from a prospective client inquiring about booking her two dogs for about two weeks in May while she got married and went on her honeymoon. The email was received on March 1st. She also wanted to come out for a visit. I replied the same day, explaining at length our conditions for accepting a booking, and the limited times at which we did visits.
She replied, stating that she understood. Which she clearly did not, as she then proposed to visit at a time completely outside the times I had told her we did visits.
I responded as follows:
“Hi Beatrice: I’m sorry, but as I indicated, we only do visits in the morning at 9:15. This has to do with the dogs’ play and walking schedule. Having strangers in the kennel gets the dogs excited and this is okay when they are out and having playtime, but not when they are resting. 9:15 is towards the end of the morning group activity period, and so it works well. In the afternoon, we are walking the dogs, plus manning the office for drop off and pick up hours, and conducting a visit is not really an option for us.
We are not flexible with our hours either for drop off and pick up, or for visits. We do appreciate that this is not something that works for everyone, so if you prefer to choose another kennel with more flexible hours, we certainly understand.
Thank you for your interest.”
Could I just emphasize here that I specifically suggested she go elsewhere?
No, she replied, we came highly recommended, so she would go ahead and make a booking without seeing the kennel. She would try to get out to visit at the day and time I had suggested to her, and if not, would try for a visit on the following weekend.
I made the booking for the dogs’ boarding and confirmed that, as well as the date and time for her scheduled visit. The night before the visit, Beatrice emailed to say she didn’t like the weather forecast and asked if she could change her appointment to visit to the following weekend.
My reply:
“Hi Beatrice: Next Saturday marks the beginning of the March Break rush and we are not scheduling visits that weekend or the next weekend. At this point, the next available weekend visiting day would be Sunday, March 27th, or you could some either Saturday or Sunday morning April 2nd or 3rd.
Please let us know if any of those days suit you, again, at 9:15 in the morning.
Thanks.”
This email was sent on March 11th. No response was received until April 4th, when this communication arrived in our email in basket:
“Hi Heather,
Just checking to make sure it is still ok to come and visit this Sunday April 10th at 9:15am.
Thanks,
Beatrice”
I will just point out that April 10th was never mentioned by me as a possible open visiting appointment time.
I didn’t go there with her. I merely responded that the next available weekend visiting time we had at that point was on May 1st. Her dogs were booked to arrive on May 21st.
She came back to me:
“Heather. Unfortunately this is not acceptable. You told me after march break is done. I’m giving you a weeks notice to drive 2 hrs to visit and it’s 5 mins of your time. There is no way you cannot accommodate next Sunday. You need to understand that I cannot wait 3 wks before my wedding to make sure my dogs have an acceptable place to live for 16 days. This is a lot of money and I’d appreciate a little bit of help in being able to view the facilities for 5 mins.”
She did sign it: “Warm Regards” but I noticed that in fact, there was a noticeable lack of warmth.
I will freely admit that my response was also lacking in actual warmth:
“Beatrice: At no time did I convey that you could visit at any time of your choosing once March Break was done. On March 6th, I told you the specific dates we had available for weekend visits at that time: March 27th, April 2nd or April 3rd. You did not respond, and we have heard nothing from you since then. I am very sorry, but we have very high demand for weekend visiting times, and the dates I have given you are the next available weekend times. If this is indeed unacceptable, then we completely understand if you prefer to make alternative arrangements at another kennel.
Heather”
Again I pause to note that I specifically suggest (for the second time) that she find another kennel.
She might have said, “Yeah, okay, this obviously isn’t going to work.” But she chose another approach. This is, verbatim, her response.
“I find you extremely unprofessional and frankly quite ignorant. If you think that anyone who loves their dogs who is in their right mind would leave them somewhere for 2 wks with the inconsiderate aggravating service that I have received so far would be crazy. You can take my reservation and shuv it up your ass. I will make better and more professional arrangements. I have also advised the 3 other people who have dogs who were going to board with you that are attending our wedding for 2 weeks and my parents who have 3 dogs that were going to book for 3 weeks this summer as well as the other 6 weeks we needed between May and December up shuv that up your unprofessional ass as well. I guess that’s only a few thousand dollars that you obviously don’t seem to care about since you don’t have 5 minutes to spare.
I have never been so irritated and annoyed by someone I’ve never met. You think you are so in control and the reality is that you are a poor people person and a poor business owner. I feel much better after the stress you’ve caused and the bad day at work now. Goodbye and good ridens.
Yours truly
Beatrice
FYI Bite me”
I should perhaps clarify that all of these friends and relatives whose dogs, according to Beatrice, were going to be thronging our halls, had made no approaches to us whatsoever at this point, six weeks before the wedding date. The wedding was the long weekend in May. We filled up for long weekends months in advance. We wouldn’t have had room to accommodate any of these phantom clients even had they suddenly sprung full grown from Beatrice’s imagination like Athena from Zeus’s forehead, and started demanding dozens of bookings.
Here we were, years on, and people were still getting mad when we insisted on applying our rules. People were still taunting us with all those sweet, sweet (though sadly mythical) boardings they had been going to send our way, but which we were now going to lose through our unaccountable refusal to let them make the rules. People were still threatening to ruin our business.
But me? I had evolved. Rather than send hundreds of words pointing out all the very many ways in which she was an idiot and a failure as a human being, I merely said:
“ ‘Bite me’ – really? That’s the best you can come up with? Oh I forgot – “shuv [sic] it up your ass”. Wow. Shakespeare had nothing on you. You’re such a poet. I wish I could be there to hear you recite the eloquent wedding vows you’ve surely written for yourself. Your mother must be so proud.
“You know Sparky, on two occasions I told you, very respectfully, that if our timing for visits, drop off or pick ups did not work for you, we would understand if you made another arrangement. I’d have had more luck trying to reason with your dogs than trying to convey that simple information to you.”
In a similar vein, when dogs did get terminally ill, or even died in the kennel (which did happen on one or two more occasions over the years), we tended to take it less personally, even when the owners rained down craziness on us.
Our clients, who we’ll call Bert and Deb, had two bouviers.
They weren’t exactly puppies. Both were badly overweight and suffered from arthritis. That being the case, they tended to fall on the lackadaisical end of the spectrum when it came to their activity levels. However, one morning when we opened up, Magog showed a marked reluctance to get up from his bed. I coaxed him and he eventually heaved himself to his feet. I figured it was stiffness from not having moved all night, and would get better as his activity level increased through the day.
Magog ambled along willingly enough on his walk, but didn’t show his usual level of interest in his surroundings, and when we returned to the kennel, he immediately flopped down on the floor. At the afternoon meal, he wouldn’t even sniff his raw meat diet. Gog was not a big eater either, but he at least sniffed his chicken legs before tossing them around and making the usual mess on the floor.
I became uneasy. By bedtime, Magog was, if anything, even flatter in affect. I told John I was going to to take him to the after hours clinic. Just in case.
It cost me $500 just to get a vet to look at Magog. I knew his owners would be good for it, as nothing was too much for these dogs. I sat down to wait. Eventually a vet arrived. The good news was, Magog wasn’t bloating. The bad news was, Magog was suffering from some sort of systemic blood disease. Did I want to take him with me, or did I want to pay another $1000 retainer to allow Magog to remain at the clinic and further tests and treatments to be done.
I opted for the latter, relying on my assessment of our clients’ absolute devotion to their dogs to ensure we would be refunded by them.
The next day, I called the clients and explained the situation. They were almost pathetically grateful.
When they came to retrieve Gog, they told me more about the problem that Magog had experienced. They said that if I had not taken him to the vet when I did, there was a good chance he might have died, or at least become so sick that he would never have fully recovered.
I told them I appreciated their concern, but it was our job to look after the dogs, and we didn’t do anything we considered out of the ordinary.
They were having none of it. “Do you honestly think there is another kennel owner in Ottawa who would even have identified a problem, let alone taken Magog to the vet and paid $1500 out of their own pocket to ensure he got medical care?” Deb asked.
I had saved Magog’s life. Hugs, tears and kisses ensued. We were saints and in a class by ourselves when it came to dog care.
Fast forward four years. The owners of Gog and Magog called and made a booking. In the course of the conversation, Deb let slip that the reason we hadn’t seen them for four years was not because they hadn’t been traveling. No. Even though we personally saved her dog’s life, she had been having someone come in to housesit and look after the dogs, rather than bringing them back to Oak Meadows. The only reason we were getting the dogs now was because her housesitter had let her down.
In accordance with my new and improved laid back attitude, I didn’t tell her that if we weren’t good enough to look after her dogs during the previous four years, she could bloody well take her chances elsewhere. No, I pasted a big shit-eating smile on my face and say we would be delighted to have Gog and Magog back.
The morning they arrived, I was out in the play yard with the dogs. John opened the door and yelled at me to come in. When I got there, steam was coming from his ears. He was almost incoherent with rage. He obviously had not evolved as far as I.
“She let her damn dogs in just as I was letting my dogs in!”
I didn’t fully understand anything from this other than that I needed to get to the front of the kennel before he did violence. I opened the door to the playroom, and all became clear.
The playroom was chaos.
A group of about ten dogs (clearly the ones John had released into the room) were jumping on Gog and Magog and on Deb, who, contrary to our rules, had obviously let herself and her dogs into the playroom. And for good measure, she had left the playroom door open behind her, giving access to the front foyer to any dog interested enough to check it out. As I opened the door from the kitchen, a large German shepherd was knocking Gog on his ass, and he yelped in pain.
John meanwhile had raced around to the front foyer where three or four other dogs were leaping about, having escaped to that area when the client opened the playroom door. The gods help all of us if someone had opened the front door to the outside at that moment, because we’d have had a mass escape on our hands.
The golden turd on this shitstorm was a literal pile of stinking poop on the floor being deposited by Magog, even as I entered.
I grabbed Gog and Magog and manhandled them back out to the kitchen area, yelling over my shoulder that I was going to get Ashley (who was working that morning) to take them for a walk. Deb pushed through the door from the playroom to the kitchen (leaving that door open too), wringing her hands and telling me that she didn’t think Magog could walk very far.
I took a better look at both dogs and was shocked at their condition. Both of them stank to high heaven – cigarette smoke and who knows what else. Gog was limping from where he got bowled over in the melee. Magog was having trouble even standing. Nevertheless, my first priority was to get the dogs out of the kennel, followed in short order by seeing our client’s taillights heading down the driveway. Accordingly, I handed the leads to Ashley and asked her to do her best, but if they couldn’t or wouldn’t walk, just place them in a yard by themselves for now.
I finished up the intake with the client while a strong suspicion formed in my mind that the reason no one would housesit these dogs anymore was because of the shape they were in. We’d gotten them back because they were probably incontinent, and/or next thing to immobile, and who knew what else. They both looked like they were in need of directions to the rainbow bridge.
Calm was eventually restored. We discovered that the bouviers were indeed incontinent, and also prone to lying in their mess, because their legs were barely working. This partially explained the eye watering smell that hovered around them like a cloud of noxious gas. Nevertheless, we coped with all these difficulties, although it took two people to help them to their feet from a prone position.
Then, ten days into the two week booking, all of our combined efforts were not sufficient to get Magog to stay on his feet. We would heave him up and he would collapse back into a heap.
My grandfather bred Clydesdale horses. When an animal of a certain size and weight lies down and refuses to get up, having lost the use of his legs, you know it is all over. The kindest thing you can do is give him a painless and non-traumatic end.
I called Deb, explained the situation and told her that we were simply not equipped to handle an immobile 150 pound dog. I refrained from suggesting that they should prepare themselves; that it was clearly only a matter of time for Magog. I did tell her that we would be willing to wait for 24 hours, but if he was no better by the next day, either someone would have to come and collect him, or we would take him to the vet to be made as comfortable as possible until they could get home and decide what to do. She said she would discuss it with Bert and get back to us.
We got through the rest of the day, taking Magog out for air at intervals by means of a system of slings fashioned from towels and manned by all three of us. By bedtime, he was giving us no help at all, just flopping down wherever we placed him. There was no further word from the clients by the time we went to bed that night.
The next morning we arrived to find that Magog had died in the night.
John and I did ask ourselves whether we should have simply taken him the vet and left him there the day before. But what could the vet have done for him? Miraculously restored the use of his hind legs? Turned the clock back and make him seven or eight years old instead of thirteen? Raised him from the dead, like Lazarus?
We were satisfied with our actions. At least he had died on his bed, with his brother nearby, and not in a cold aluminum cage at the vet’s surrounded by the smells of chemicals and the distress of other patients.
It had been six years at this point since we had had a death in the kennel. I don’t remember the aftermath of any of them being as difficult as this one. Not even Gabrielle the poodle.
To begin with, we had a terrible time getting Magog’s body out to the car. He was so heavy he had been almost beyond our ability to manage when he was alive. Now he was literally a dead weight. We started by rolling him onto a blanket and used that as a sort of travois to slide him far as the front door. Then we bumped his body down the small step to the parking lot. Trying to lift the body into the car defeated us though. We heaved and we jerked, but couldn’t quite make the distance. There was too much weight in the centre. We’d get his head and hips in, but couldn’t manage the rest of him. Then I had the bright idea of flipping one of our rigid framed dog beds over to use as a kind of stretcher. That worked, barely.
As it happened, this was the Monday of a holiday long weekend, so our vet’s office was closed. Well, of course it was, because why would anything ever be easy? I called their emergency number and someone called back, agreeing to open up to receive the remains. The vet agreed to keep the body on ice until the owners could be contacted for instructions.
John volunteered for this unhappy errand. Someone had to help the vet get the body into the freezer and John seemed like a better candidate than me for that job. When he returned, I was in the process of getting the dogs outside. When the phone rang, I left John to answer it as he was on his way in. I continued to herd dogs.
He quickly returned for me, and told me it was Magog’s owner and I should take it.
What was that again about women being the weaker sex?
I sighed and asked him what he’d told the owner. He replied that he’d said nothing, other than that Magog was dead.
I picked up the phone. “Hi, Deb?”
“No, it’s Bert.”
“I gather John has told you the sad news. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“What?” Bert asked. “What are you talking about?”
“I just wanted to give you my condolences on Magog’s death,” I replied, rather confused.
“Condolences! You mean he’s dead?!?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. John told me he had already given you the news.”
“All John said was that he was sorry tell me that Magog was no longer with us. I thought he meant you had taken him to the vet! I was calling you to say that I was on my way to the airport to come back and pick Magog up!”
Mentally vowing to have a word with my beloved husband about the importance of clarity in communication, I then told Bert the entire story, ending with Magog residing at our vet’s until they had a chance to decide what they want done with Magog’s remains.
Bert asked me what the choices were. I explained that they could wait until they returned to make any decision. But if they preferred that we take on the task of making the final arrangements, their choice would be to have Magog cremated and ask for the ashes back, or not, just as they wished. Alternatively, I could possibly look for a pet cemetery where his body could be buried.
Or they could receive the body back when they arrived home.
Some people who live in the country or have cottages bury their pets themselves on their property. We ourselves had quite a little pet cemetery for our own pets going on under one of the ancient apple trees opposite our house. One of our other clients had asked if we would let her sprinkle her dog’s ashes on our property, as Neiko had so loved it there.
Bert had a side conversation with Deb, and then came back to ask me if I could arrange to have Magog cremated. They didn’t want the ashes back, but could I make sure that Magog’s collar was taken off and preserved for them.
Oh, and when I got the collar, could I take it back to Gog and let him sniff it, as this would provide closure to him.
The thought crossed my mind that Gog had shared a room all night with Magog’s corpse, so I was pretty sure he’d had all the opportunity that he could possibly want to sniff the body – or collar – or sit shiva, order his mourning outfit or otherwise deal with Magog dying.
In light of the fact that Bert sounded pretty close to hysterical at this point, I opted not to share this observation, and just answered with a simple affirmative.
When I hung up, I called the vet and left a message (they were still closed for the holiday) asking them to take off the collar.
An hour or so later, Deb called back to ask about the collar. I assured her that I had left a message at the vet’s office, but would confirm in the morning. Then she asked if we could also get the vet to cut off some hair from Magog and keep it for them. I said yes. Then I called the vet and left yet another message, conveying the new request.
Later, Deb called yet again, this time with a request to be told how much all these arrangements were going to cost. Another message for the vet.
When the vet’s office reopened on Tuesday, we went up to pay them and to retrieve Magog’s possessions. They handed us a bag. We checked that the collar and hair were inside, then placed it by the bill for when the owners returned.
As it happened, John was at the front of the kennel when the clients returned. I only discovered this when he came back into the kitchen, scowling.
“They’re out there, and they’re obviously not happy with our performance. I handed them the bill and they just stood there, exchanging significant looks. I guess they thought we should swallow the $700 fee for three weeks of boarding Gog and all the charges for the cremation.”
“Did they complain?” I asked, taken aback. These were the people after all, who had hailed us as their dog’s saviour last time we boarded their pets.
“Well, they examined the bill at great length, but they did pay it,” he responded. “But when I asked her how she was doing, she gave me a dirty look and said, ‘As well as can be expected under the circumstances.’ I’m all done with this drama. You can try if you like.”
I went out to the foyer while John went to retrieve Gog. I immediately put my arms around Deb and hugged her, telling her how very sorry I was. She did not respond. I turned to Bert, who refused to meet my eye. I repeated my condolences and was met with deafening silence.
John arrived with the surviving dog and handed the bag with Magog’s possessions in it to Deb. They turned on their heels and left.
That evening, we got another call. I let it go to voicemail.
“It’s Bert. Magog’s collar was in the bag you gave us, but not the tag with his name on it. Where is it? We want it back. Call me.”
I called back right away and said that while I had no knowledge of the tag, I would call the vet the next day to see if it could be found. We would also have a look round the kennel.
“We’ll do out best, but it’s possible the name tag was lost during a walk, or in the yard. It was quite the epic struggle three or four times a day to get Magog up off the floor and outside and then up from the grass and back inside again. It may well have been loosened during one of those times. I can’t even say whether the tag was on the collar when the collar was taken off.”
“It didn’t come off on the walking path or anywhere else! That tag was secured with rivets!”
He was radiating hostility. I told him calmly that all we could do was to make the appropriate investigations. We’d call him back when we had done so.
The next day, before I even had a chance to call the vet, Bert was on the phone again demanding his tag. I explained that I had not finished the inquiry but would get back to him as soon as I had. I then called the vet. I apologized for causing so much trouble and work, (which was more than either Bert or Deb had done for us). I explained the situation and asked them to have a look. They went off to search and reported no tags in any of the places the body had been.
We conducted a search as best we could over the kennel and a big grassy area outside. No tags.
I called Bernie back and told him that we had all looked, to no avail and suggested again that the tag had come loose and been lost. I apologized for this, but told him we could do nothing further.
He heaped absolute abuse on my head.
“It isn’t possible for that name tag to have come off! It was riveted!!”
“I’m sure it was. But rivets have been known to come loose.”
“You’re just making excuses! Rivets don’t come loose! Someone has deliberately removed it!”
Yeah, because there are all sorts of thieves with dogs named ‘Magog’ who lurk around the veterinarian clinics in small towns on the off chance that someone will bring in a dead dog with a name tag on its collar that they can somehow appropriate.
Or – I know. He thought we were serial dog killers who collect trophies from our victims.
I reminded myself that I had evolved beyond sarcasm, especially to the recently bereaved. I simply repeated that I was sorry that the tag couldn’t be found, and said good bye. I breathed a sigh of relief that at least this was over.
Nope. The next day Deb called.
She got about one sentence out. I heard the words “name tag” and decided I was all done with this shit.
“Deb, stop right there. I told Bert everything there was to be said about the name tag. It’s gone. If it was ever there.” (I was feeling kind of mean.)
She started to speak and again I cut her off.
“John and I both feel terrible that you lost your dog. But you know what? It wasn’t exactly a picnic for us either. Magog was a very large dog who we gave exemplary care to for ten days and on previous occasions. He was in terrible shape when he arrived. We almost literally carried him in and out of the kennel several times a day, every day for ten days. When he died, we did our absolute best to answer all your questions and fulfill all your demands.
“I’m not exactly sure what you think we have done wrong, but let me assure you that neither we nor the vet stole your dog’s name tag. And frankly, given the extraordinary lengths we’ve gone to for you and your dogs both now and in the past, I’m not listening to anything more from you.
“We don’t expect thanks, but neither do we expect frankly ridiculous accusations about our integrity – over a lost name tag.”
She hastily apologised and put it all on her husband.
I considered it a personal triumph that I didn’t say one sarcastic or scurrilous remark through the whole episode. We were clearly maturing as kennel operators and as human beings.
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