Hey, Siri!

'King Tut' of Victoria

At one of our home sits on beautiful Vancouver Island, we had the pleasure of caring for a handsome and cooperative cat.

“Tut”, who we affectionally called ‘King Tut’ was allusive at first but soon learned that Frank and I provided his food, water, special treats, and we cleaned his litter box regularly. He became an absolute delight once he got to know us.

The luxurious home also had a built-in computer network which managed the lights, door locks, the televisions and the cat door. 

Our view from Tut's home

King Tut had had an electronic device implanted into his ear and each time he walked near the cat door it presented a hissing sound.

“He hates it,” the homeowners told us. “So, you’ll have to watch for him at the back door.”

“No problem,” we chimed.

Frank at the back door

The networked home operated on automatic timers. At first, when Frank went to drag the garbage bin to the road, he was locked out. We learned to carry the house keys with us at all times.

One night, we chose to stay up late. At 11 p.m. all the indoor lights went off and a series of floor lights like those on an aeroplane lit up. We used that path to guide us down two flights of stairs, along an L-shaped hallway and into our bedroom.

As we passed the laundry room, day or night, the overhead light would flash on. After 5 minutes it turned off. To prevent a strobe-like sequence while the cat prowled at night, we slept with our door closed.

‘Siri’ proved to be an electronic bully. Her primary function was to provide us with music and news broadcasts.

Siri, behind the couch

“To operate Siri,” the homeowner said, “You have to say ‘Hey, Siri’ and then tell her what you want to listen to.”

Three days into the sit, I wanted to hear some familiar music.

“Hey, Siri,” I said, “Play Gordon Lightfoot.”

“Gordon Lightfoot. OK.”

After listening to a great arrangement of his most popular songs Siri opted to play some country music from her playlist.

“Hey, Siri, please turn off the music.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t recognize your voice.”

“Don’t recognize my voice? I turned you on with this voice.”

She continued to play her music.

“Hey, Siri! If you don’t shut off, I’m going to unplug your power cord and throw you over the balcony.”

The house went quiet.

Ready, Set, Go!

Courtesy of gettyimages

On several occasions, including one of our house sits in Surrey, British Columbia, the homeowners abruptly cancelled their vacation plans and returned home earlier than scheduled.

In this business, you sometimes have to make a quick getaway.

 Our notice to vacate came by email. "We'll be home in two days," it read. Our winter nest would have to be evacuated a hefty five weeks before the scheduled end of the sit.

When we have long-term sits which we calculate to be more than three weeks in the same house, we unload a good many of our personal belongings from our home, which is a 23’ RV.

Sensible Seasonal Clothes

I haul in my suitcase filled with seasonally appropriate clothes, my personal products and my hobby things including a puzzle and my embroidery materials. 

Music Makes Our World Go 'Round

Frank hauls in his clothes, his hygiene kit and his music instruments including his violin and piano keyboard.

We stack our groceries on the available kitchen counter space, place our perishables in the refrigerator and set our frozen food in the freezer.

If we’re sitting a dog, we’ll take her/him with us exploring the neighbourhood. It’s a great way to investigate the area. We especially enjoy hiking the back alleys. You can learn a lot about a neighbourhood by what's set out in the lane.

Back Alley Mirror

Back at the house, we set up our computers and hook into the owner’s wifi.

We run our lives seeking other house and pet sits. These days we refer to ourselves as hobby-farm specialists.

We are indifferent to how many pets the owner has, we love them all.

The adventure is to meet new people, care for family pets and enjoy our surroundings.

Life is a Highway ~ Tom Cochrane

Fifty-five Cats and Counting

A clowder of barn cats ~ courtesy of the Internet

For the last five years as a professional house and petsitting couple, we’ve cared for fifty-five felines.

A one-eyed cat, a grieving cat, sun-loving cats, a cat that sleeps in the shower stall, content cats, avoidance cats, dog-friendly cats, playful cats, indoor cats, and a clowder of twenty-four barn cats, five of which were housebound with cancer.

When we pulled into the driveway of the organic farm, the barn door was open. The homeowners were standing nearby. The woman had a kitten in her arms. When I approached her she held up the wee thing and asked if I wanted to kiss it. I didn’t. I gave it a tap on its head.

In the barn, she said there are 23 cats. We’ve learned since then that a group of cats is called a clowder or a glaring.

“Five sick ones are in the house,” she said.

When we entered their home the stench of cat urine cloaked us. The cats riddled with cancer were milling about waiting to be given their daily mediation. You could refer to this group of cats as destruction. The kitchen island was covered with tablet containers.

I glanced at the lower part of the walls which were covered in pee-pads. She noticed my gaze.

“ We’ve put these up to catch the spray from the cats. They can’t seem to control themselves,” she said. “Let me show you what to do if one of the cats dies.”

She opened the freezer compartment of the refrigerator and pushed apart two packages of frozen berries.

“Wrap the cat in a plastic bag and put it here,” she said. “Or, if you prefer, you can bury it in our cat cemetery.” 

The woman and I made our way through the bushes while her husband took Frank to the garage to show him some of the farm equipment.

As it happened, the owners were too sick to go on their vacation. We considered it a blessing.

We love cats.

A dog-loving cat

We love them more if they’re spayed or neutered. Even more, if they’re litter trained. And absolutely love it when their owners have provided a cat door.

A stuffed cat

“One cat just leads to another.” – Ernest Hemingway