BRUCE CAMERON - Aug. 13, 2009

House Sitting for a Baron

I went over to my daughter’s place for a visit, so she left town.

I guess that’s not precisely what happened: I was asked to “house sit,” as if her home needed supervision to keep it from jumping on the furniture and staying up past its bedtime. It sounds pretty benign, until you consider that inside the house are two cats and two dogs — one of which is a puppy named Baron.

To be more precise, Baron is a 9-month-old Great Dane, so when I say “puppy,” I mean “mastodon.” This is an animal that with a little training could easily dunk a basketball. He weighs five pounds less than I do, unless he’s just had a bowl of food and then he weighs five pounds more than I do.

The other dog is a small Labrador named Duchess. Baron likes to pick her up and carry her around like a tennis ball. Duchess’s face, when he does this, communicates the message, “You’re the human. Would you please do something?”

“Baron!” I thunder. “Put the dog down!”

The secret to controlling a canine the size of a polar bear is to let him know you’re the boss, which is why, when I issue these stern commands, I prevent him from seeing any fear on my face by hiding in the bathroom.

It’s not that I think Baron would hurt me on purpose, but watching him run at me from across the room, his enormous paws flailing out to the side like kayak paddles, is a bit like watching the opening sequence of a train wreck. He doesn’t seem to understand that once he has built up momentum it is impossible for him to stop, or maybe he does understand and has simply chosen to use me as the brakes. Once I am flat on the ground, Baron stands over me, his expression saying, “Welcome to the NFL.”

At night, Baron is relaxed and passive as long as I don’t try to sleep. He just doesn’t understand why I would lie there with my eyes closed when there are things to chew within reach on top of the refrigerator (and if there are not, he’ll chew the refrigerator).

It can be unnerving to awaken and see a face the size of a Buick peering at you, but it’s worse when Baron decides to give your face a kiss with a couple square yards of tongue. It’s like being licked with a wet shower curtain.

“Baron! Stop! Go pick up Duchess!” I yell. Duchess gives me a look of stunned betrayal, but I figure better her than me.

My first night there, Baron laid his chin on my chest. I awoke sputtering, convinced a paramedic was giving me CPR. Baron thought this meant I wanted to play a game of “The Giant Dog Climbs Into Bed” and leapt on top of me, barking.

Baron’s bark sounds like, oh, artillery. His chest cavity is the size of Carlsbad Caverns, so when he woofs he increases the air pressure in the room by 10,000 millibars. Fortunately, after the first bark, your eardrums are shredded and you can’t hear anything, though you can tell he’s still at it because of how disgusted the cats look. Duchess joins in, barking to let me know Baron is barking.

My daughter leaves her front door unlocked, confident no one will steal anything — in fact, house thieves often leave small gifts outside her home, offerings to appease the beast within.

“Hey mister!” Neighbors call from the safety of their front stoops. “Will that dog grow any bigger?”

“He’s a puppy!” I yell back gaily.

Within hours, the houses have “For Sale” signs in front of them.

And, of course, part of taking care of dogs is walking them, which means carrying a small plastic bag for Duchess’s messes and, for Baron, hauling around a bag the size of an open parachute. While you’re using your hand spade and regretting the lack of a bulldozer, Baron’s tugging on his leash like a team of Clydesdales, scraping you across the pavement so he can sniff a fireplug.

So that’s what I did this weekend: looked after a house, and a dog as big as one.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at http://www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at http://www.creators.com.

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