Free The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives by Blaize Clement Page B

Staffordshire terriers are exactly the same thing. Either that or they’re two totally different, totally unrelated breeds. I still don’t know which is which. All I know is that Zoë is about the sweetest dog I’ve ever laid eyes on.
    She swung the pull-toy around seductively and then looked up at me with big brown expectant eyes.
    I said, “Oh my goodness, what a big scary pit bull!”
    She flicked the pull-toy on the floor in front of me, her wagging tail beating like a metronome on the tile, and nosed it up onto my feet.
    “I know, honey,” I said, “but we just have to wait a little while longer.”
    About five months earlier, Zoë had torn a ligament in her left hind leg. Surgery was the only solution, after which she was on strict orders from the vet to stay off her paws as much as possible. That meant no walks, no running, no playing, no jumping—basically no fun—for eight long, miserable weeks. For a dog like Zoë, it must have felt like she’d gone to prison, but she soldiered through it like the good little trouper she’s always been. Now that her leg was healing up, she was allowed a little more activity and longer walks, but tug-of-war was definitely not on the menu.
    I knelt down and gave her a big hug, and she returned the favor by licking my neck.
    I said, “We’re gonna have a good time anyway, don’t you worry.”
    She grabbed her pull-toy and trotted along beside me through the apartment to the back door, which leads out to a small pool inside a screened lanai. I grabbed her leash, and we went through the lanai to the running trail that runs along behind the apartments. After a good long walk, we headed back to the pool for our favorite part of the day.
    Pit bulls, at least the ones I’ve known, are not exactly champion swimmers. In fact, the first time I met Zoë, she got so excited that she jumped in the pool and promptly sank like a rock. Timmy had to jump in fully clothed and fish her out. As he made his way to the steps with Zoë cradled in his arms like a baby, he said, “Zoë, you can’t swim!” She had given him an exasperated look and sighed, like a kid whose dad won’t let her have any fun.
    After Zoë’s surgery, the muscles in her hind legs began to wither away from inactivity, and I was worried she’d never get back to normal if she didn’t get some kind of exercise in. So Timmy and I put our heads together and came up with the perfect solution. It took some time and patience, as well as a floaty vest, but eventually I had Zoë doing laps in the pool. At first she’d just thrash around like a maniac, but once she realized the vest kept her afloat when I let go of her, she would happily motor around the pool like a brindle-butted tugboat.
    I sat down on a chaise lounge at the edge of the pool, and as soon as Zoë saw me slide my bag over she started barking excitedly and swimming in circles. I pulled a couple of tennis balls out and tossed them in the pool. She immediately paddled after them, letting out an excited yip to let me know she’d take it from there.
    Her goal is to get ahold of both balls at the same time, which even for her big maw is a tall order, so she’s busy for at least twenty minutes, sometimes longer. Eventually she’ll climb out of the pool, thoroughly spent, and loll around in the sun panting happily. It’s a good solid workout.
    I stretched out on the chaise. When a dog’s happy and well exercised, there’s not much more to do than check the water bowl. Cats, however, are a whole different story. They have a flair for mischief rarely matched in the canine world. A cat can have all sorts of side projects in progress—toilet paper sculptures, potted plant demolition, trash can spelunking—so I consider it part of my job to do a thorough check of the house and right any feline wrongs I find, but with Zoë splashing around in the pool, I figured I could afford to take a break.
    I pulled my new book out of my backpack and slipped it out of its