The Jumping Dog and the Room Full of Clowns

I'm pet/housesitting for a few of my cousins while they're in Florida this week. You know what just occured to me? I don't know if I'm getting paid for these gigs. Oh man, I better be.

Alright, so today was the first day of my "checking in" on Mr. Peabody, my cousin's very small, very jumpy dog. I went after work tonight (around 9:30 p.m.) and was greeted by what appeared to be the Olympian high-jumping dog of the century. Right away, I took Peabody out which was kind of a treat because my cousins live in a development with lighted sidewalks and neatly paved streets. This is a stark contrast from my curvy wurvy road that leads to my family's giant hill, complete with barn (thankyouverymuch). Right, so I'm walking. Peabody's walking. We're having a grand ol' time. He does his busin-nasty and I clean it up. Homewards we go.

Clearly, I must feed this dog. I find the note my cousin Christy leaves on the counter for me, detailing the rigorous procedure I must follow in order to adhere to Mr. Peabody's needs. The note says brilliant and enlightened things like "Food in food dish." and "Give him water." Amazed at my cousin's innovative approaches to canine caretaking, I wander around the house to look for the aforementioned food dish. I can't find it. I even call my mother (who literally hasn't been able to walk for weeks due to some horrible knee problems. Needless to say that she hasn't been over their house in quite some time) to see if maybe she has any insight at all as to the location of Mr. Peabody's shite (not literally shite...I saw where that was. Outside, thank Jesus). You can all guess that my mother had no idea. Correct assumption, folks.

I should probably mention this before I go any further...I have a phobia. I have no problems with bugs, snakes, mice, or closed-in spaces. I am afraid of clowns. DEATHLY afraid of them. There is no logic to it, really no reason at all. Bottom line is that even as I typed the "c" word (twice!), my stomach did a dip. Shudder. Okay, on with the story:

At this point, I'm thinking Peabody's food and water could be anywhere. Christy told me that he likes to sleep in her room, so I thought it would make sense if she kept his stuff in there. The room was completely dark and I remembered that Christy told me to turn on her light by the lamp on her dresser (across the room) and not the lightswitch on the wall. Easy enough.

For all of my bright ideas and helpful memories of Christy's room and Peabody's sleeping preferences, I forgot the one thing that I have known about my cousin since childhood. THE WOMAN VOLUNTARILY COLLECTS CLOWN FIGURINES.

I want you all to take a moment and think about my thumb and forefinger clicking on that lamp. Okay, you can now visualize all of the blood draining out of my face and my inability to move my entire body.

They were everywhere!! On her bed, on her dresser, on her television, on her side table, on the clock, knitted on a throw pillow...and God knows where else. Because once my fear subsided enough for me to regain standing consciousness, I got the Unholy Hell out of Dodge.

Here's the best (or most ironic) part: I was supposed to sleep there, you know, as a part of the housesitting perks. Christy told me she put new sheets on her bed for me. Looks like she's going to have fresh sheets when she gets home because I'm safe in my office at home now. She's out of her Goddamn mind if she thinks I'm sleeping within a three-mile radius of that house.

So, where were the dishes for the dog? About three feet away from Christy's note, under the kitchen table. I'm an idiot.