Adventures in Pet-Sitting

By Robin Roberts

Updated and expanded third edition!
Grab your sombrero and follow along on this wild ride through Mexico as the author pet-sits for four different homeowners in four small villages over five months. From the cool, misty mountains of Central Mexico to the hot, humid beaches of the Mexican Riviera, get an inside look at the truth about cats and dogs, and the day-to-day fun and fuss of caring for them.
Read about the dogs that cornered the possum on the porch; the cat that came face-to-face with a boa constrictor; the dog whose tail needed to be ritually bound each morning, otherwise he'd chew it off; cats who dragged in all manner of dead things from the jungle; a wild cat who thought he was domestic; a deaf cat who thought he was wild; and an abandoned dog who had an autoerotic fixation that could never be satisfied. Then there's life in small Mexican villages...
If, at the end, you think this is the life for you, there's a chapter on how you, too, can discover the joy of pet-sitting. The author stayed in upscale homes (some valued at well over $1 million), some overlooking the ocean, some with pools, all with domestic help, all for free. All you do is walk Fido or offer your lap to Fluffy. It's a new way to see the world — if you're brave enough to get between a dog and a possum, or a cat and a boa!
Plus, find out how you, too, can be a pet-sitter, with the handy how-to steps included in the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin Roberts
• Release date: Mar 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458111814

Robin Roberts

Robin Roberts is professor emeritus of English and gender studies at the University of Arkansas. She is author of several books on gender and popular culture, including Subversive Spirits: The Female Ghost in British and American Popular Culture, Anne McCaffrey: A Life with Dragons, and Ladies First: Women in Music Videos and coauthor (with Leslie A. Wade and Frank de Caro) of Downtown Mardi Gras: New Carnival Practices in Post-Katrina New Orleans, all published by University Press of Mississippi.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Into Mexico

On a warm morning in May, just as the trees were greening and the flowers were blooming, when spring was still fresh enough that neighbours were mowing their lawns with a smile rather than a groan, we left town. As they watched us drive away, they scratched their heads and wondered, why on earth would you want to head south just as the weather is heating up here? Well, because that’s when — and where — the need is. Ex-pats stake out their piece of paradise in Mexico to escape the winter weather in el norte, then dash back to escape the blistering summer in el sur. That’s what we were for. But you’ll fry down there, people warned us. We knew it, and we expected it. What we hadn’t expected was a snowstorm in Yellowstone National Park. In Montana. In May.

That was shortly after we crossed the border from Canada into the U.S. at Idaho. There wasn’t much of a border town to speak of; just a station plunked down in the middle of rolling farmland. While lovely to look at, as a workplace it was bound to put the bored in boarder guard. So we knew we’d be catnip to agents who passed the time picking off prairie dogs as target practice for action they’d never see. They didn’t really do that, but I bet they wanted to. The first guard spent 10 minutes shooting the breeze about nothing in particular, clearly happy to have someone to chat with. When we told her we were driving to Mexico, her eyebrows shot up and her jaw dropped down. This she had to share. She called out to a colleague. Hey, Leroy, she said, cocking her head at us. These folks are headed to Mexico. Leroy shuffled over, leaned down, poked his head in the window and said, Mexico, huh? You could get hurt in Mexico. As they pawed through our trunk, looking for something, anything, that would contradict our explanation for our trip, they tried to spook us. They informed us that they were privy to a lot of intel that didn’t make the news, stories that would surely make us think twice about our hair-brained scheme to venture into that lawless land south of the border. After we assured them we had done our research, that we would be careful, they shook their heads sadly and watched us drive away like worried parents sending their only child off to war.

That night we set a spell in Kalispell, Montana, and from there we pretty much cruised in a straight line through Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico and Texas. After the freak blizzard in Yellowstone, the weather got increasingly warmer the farther south we went. At Sonora, the car’s temperature gauge read 45° C. The last time we’d felt it that hot was in Egypt, when I nearly melted on top of a sarcophagus in the Valley of the Kings.

As we prepared to leave behind the clean, orderly, convenient world of the US of A and enter the dusty, chaotic, confounding world of Mexico, the ominous words of the border guards echoed in my head: You could get hurt in Mexico. We had traveled to the country many times and driven rental cars many kilometers, from top to bottom, side to side with never so much as a parking ticket, let alone a cop’s demand for mordida (bribe). The only time we’d ever driven across the border, however, was at Tijuana, straight down the Baja, and, apart from the hair-raising highway, that was pretty tame. This time, however, our heads were filled with horror stories about drug thugs patrolling the border towns, opening fire on anyone who threatened their turf, how innocent people were getting caught in the crossfire, how tourists were being kidnapped and held for ransom, blah, blah, blah. We didn’t discount the reports (the border town of Ciudad Juarez is one of the most violent cities in the world, with a murder rate nearly four times that of Baghdad, according to at least one study), but we reminded ourselves that if we steered away from the trouble spots, kept our wits about us, used common sense, just as we would in any dodgy neighbourhood anywhere in the world, including in our own home town, the likelihood of us being gunned down was slim.

With that pep talk drilled into our beans, we approached Eagle Pass not really fearing anything but a convoluted immigration process. The closer we got to the border, the more it started to look like Mexico — litter, street hawkers, signs in Spanish, dilapidated homes. At the bridge over the Rio Grande, we gathered our documents and handed over our passports. The official made no move to take them, and replied only: "30 pesos, por favor. Huh? Don’t you want to see our passports? 30 pesos, or $3 dollars, por favor." Alrighty, then. We weren’t quite sure what we were paying for, but we gave her the 3 bucks anyway (mindful that, technically, with the Canadian dollar buying 12 pesos and the greenback slightly more, her math was a little off, but whatever) and drove away. Wow, that was easy.

But hold on un momento here. We remembered that we needed to get tourist cards and our car permit. Since that particular border official didn’t mention either one, we figured there had to be another border station farther in. So on we drove into the state of Coahuila and, just like that, we were siphoned into the back roads of a border town, the one stupid manoeuvre we vowed to avoid. As we navigated around the pot holes and stray dogs of Piedras Negras, we carefully avoided eye contact with the muscle-shirted, tattooed hombres who peered in at us. This was no big deal, we told ourselves. We had simply gotten temporarily side-tracked; we’d just get back on the main road and find our way from there. With each dead end our pulse rate climbed. Finally, after turning around in the fifth driveway, smiling sheepishly at yet another frowning family and their slathering dogs, we found our way out and back to the bridge. We spotted what appeared to be a border station and exhaled. How could we have missed it? We laughed at our stupidity, parked, gathered our papers once more, and went inside. On our way in, we stopped a uniformed official to double-check that we were in the right place. "Si," she said, glancing at our passports and pointing toward the building. Unfortunately, the hombre behind the desk begged to differ. He told us we’d have to go to a town called Allende . . . 54 km down the highway! What? You’re kidding me, right? The man just looked at us, expressionless. Bienvenidos a Mexico.

(We wouldn’t find out until weeks later that, the very next day in Piedras Negras, three Mexican marines were gunned down by narcos in the bloody cartel crackdown initiated by President Calderon in 2006. Now that was too close for comfort . . . )

Back on the highway, we continued on for about an hour to the town of Allende. We drove around in circles through the narrow streets searching for the immigration office — or any kind of official-looking office at all. But there were no signs, no indication whatsoever that this place would be your entry point into the country. Finally, we pulled into a gas station to ask. The attendant looked at us blankly, either because he didn’t understand what we were asking, or because he had no idea there was an immigration office in his own town. Ay-yi-yi . . .

Back on the blacktop, we drove on, getting increasingly agitated with each kilometer, until . . . eureka! We spotted a square, cement building at the side of the highway. It had no identifying signage but we figured this had to be it, we willed it to be it. And it was so. We went inside and started the mind-numbing process of acquiring permission to be in Mexico — after we’d been driving around Mexico for nearly two hours. No wonder drug-runners and gun-toters moved freely about. Anyway, we lined up first at one window to fill out a series of papers, then were directed to another window to collect more papers, then to another window to have copies made, then back to the first window for a drum beat of stamps on them all. We figured it was payback for Canada’s recent requirement that Mexicans obtain a visa in order to visit our country. Touche, mi amigos. A half-hour later, we were legal.

On the road again, we drove for what felt like forever, while the sun seared us like ants under a magnifying glass, and our A/C struggled to puff out a breath of cool air. It was so hot the tires seemed to drag on the pavement, like we were riding on four large wads of gum. By dusk we pulled into the fairly sophisticated city of Saltillo, reportedly the oldest post-conquest settlement in northern Mexico. Most of the buildings in the historical centre are made of pink marble, and there are two world-class museums here. It would all be so lovely if we didn’t just want out and on to somewhere else. But, once again, we got sucked into a labyrinth. The signs, when they existed, were aggressively vague. We surrendered and grabbed the first decent hotel we saw.

Chapter 2

Saltillo To Aguascalientes

That first decent hotel we saw in Saltillo happened to sit right next door to a French bistro, of all things, which suited us just fine — no more driving! We got settled, put the car to bed and ambled on over for a dish of fusilli with a mushroom cream sauce and quesadillas. Surprisingly muy/tres bien. It was all so sophisticated and refined you could almost overlook this city’s rep for kidnappings. In fact, it was only after our trip that we discovered Hwy 57, the route we’d followed in, is one of the most notorious corridors for abductions. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people have disappeared without a trace along this route. In one of the more horrific, yet ironic, recent cases, an American hostage negotiator and consultant who offered seminars on how to avoid being kidnapped, was kidnapped. While in Saltillo. From a restaurant. We declined dessert and crept back to our hotel under the cover of darkness . . .

The next day we traded Hwy 57, which we’d followed from Piedras Negras, for Hwy 54 to Zacatecas in the state of, well, Zacatecas. This was the beginning of our crash course in Mexican driving. We had noted the day before that the two-lane highways were designed with wide shoulders, which we’d assumed were for the purpose of pulling over should a driver encounter car trouble. But oh no. We quickly discovered this extra space was used to convert the road into a three-lane highway when necessary, which we also quickly discovered was every few minutes. The deal was this: when you approached a slower-moving vehicle, he would dutifully move onto the shoulder. When he deemed it safe for you to pass (which was subjective), he would flash his left signal light. You would then pass him, after which he would drift back into the lane behind you. If a vehicle should approach from the opposite direction just as you were overtaking the first vehicle, in any other country, you would of course panic and die. In Mexico, however, it was common for the approaching vehicle to move onto his shoulder, so you could pass in what, essentially, became a third lane. In the middle. As reckless as this practice was, we soon found ourselves following suit. It was impossible not to, since every other driver in Mexico appeared to be either qualifying for the Indy 500 or chugging along in a rattle-trap at a top speed of 20 km/h. It goes without saying then, that, should we have wished to turn left, activating our left signal light would most likely be misinterpreted, with potentially fatal consequences. Unless, of course, we were turning left from the far right-hand lane, but that’s another story . . .

How well did this rewriting of the rules of the road work? Judging by the numerous crosses and shrines — not to mention all manner of dead things (vermin, dogs, two cows and a horse) on the side of the road — not well. Sure, there were signs that warned no rebase (no passing), but those were interpreted as a suggestion, and one rarely heeded. Mexicans seemed to be in a mad rush to see what it’s like to die in a fiery car crash, so you might as well get out of their way and let them get on with it.

Further adding to this obstacle course called highways were the occasional herds of goats or stray horse or burro waiting for us around a curve. Villagers seemed to put an enormous amount of trust in their ungulates, under the misguided belief that the beasts did not subscribe to the grass is greener credo, so therefore they needn’t be tethered. Then there was the mystery of the signage. Often, just after we’d left a town, we’d see a sign that read Retorno. We surmised they were for the benefit of those who had taken a wrong turn, forgotten something at home, or simply changed their minds about their trip. The signs gave them permission to go back. After hours of negotiating dangerously winding roads above sheer cliffs easily glimpsed thanks to the lack of guardrails or shoulders, we would come upon a sign that read Curva Peligroso. Gee, thanks for the warning. Then there were the signs that told us our destination was ahead 20 kilometres, and 10 minutes later it would be 30. We became convinced Mexican road workers had a macabre sense of humour.

After a few hours driving through terrain that alternated between brown scrub to lush green to cactus forests, we arrived at Zacatecas, the capital city that shares its name with the state. A trail of trash led us along the outskirts, and a trail of trash guided us out. It wasn’t the first time we wondered about the disregard so many Mexicans had for their environment and it wouldn’t be the last. As we crawled along behind a dump truck, spewing plumes of black smoke onto our windshield, I pulled out the guide book. I learned Zacatecas was a big silver mining region in the 16th century — much of its riches went, of course, to the monarchy of New Spain — with lovely colonial and Baroque architecture in its city centre, which, in fact, has been designated a World Heritage Site. All we saw, aside from the garbage, were slums piled on top of slums, albeit colourful slums. We wondered if the government had given all the citizens free buckets of red, green, blue and yellow paint in an effort to disguise the ugliness of the place. In fairness, if we’d managed to find the historical district, we’re sure it would have been lovely. The truck pulled off and we drove on.

We had planned to bed down farther south in the city of Aguascalientes, another capital of a state with the same name. A place that translates to hot waters must be verdant and peaceful with soothing warm springs all a-bubble, right? Nope. Another big, crowded, noisy city. Pity. Like Zacatecas, it, too, was once a large mining centre, but also an important railroad transportation district, due to its location midway between the country’s most populous cities, Mexico City, Guadalajara and Monterrey. It was also a fairly productive grape-growing region, which produced some pretty good wines (until Spanish royalty decided it wanted to restrict grape-growing to the mother country). These days, it struggled with its own rising crime rate, perhaps due to that strategic locale which once nurtured industrious pursuits of a legal nature.

Tired of white-knuckling it for 10 hours along winding roads and through rocky plateaus, we took an over-priced hotel room next door to a mall. We dumped our stuff and headed out on a food and beverage hunt. Since there were no restaurants within walking distance, and with an eerie dust storm suddenly sweeping the town, we ended up at the mall. At the food court (every mall has one!), we picked up take-away pizza and a half-sack of Negra Modelo. Shielding our eyes, we pushed through the hot wind back to our hotel. We took our picnic out into the walled courtyard, a calm oasis from the storm outside, and pulled up a couple of lounge chairs around the pool. It was heated, so, as a dusty twilight settled around us, we toasted our aguas calientes with beer and pepperoni.

Chapter 3

Aguascalientes To San Miguel De Allende

We manoeuvred our way out of town with minimal stress and hit the highway, crossing into the state of Guanajuato, to the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende. We stuck to secondary highways, which were pretty smooth sailing most of the way (and avoided the pricey tolls of the cuotas). We eased through the famous town of Dolores Hidalgo, known as the cradle of independence. Just over 200 years ago, in 1810, the town’s parish priest, Miguel Hidalgo, and General Ignacio Allende, rebelling against the harsh rule of the Spanish, rallied their compatriotas to rise up. As they marched first to San Miguel then on to the city of Guanajuato, their ranks grew to nearly 100,000. Many died for the cause, including its leaders Hidalgo and Allende, who were executed in 1811, their heads hung from the corners of an old granary building in Guanajuato as a warning to other revolutionaries. But the rebels raged on, until Mexico finally won its independence in 1821. San Miguel, in fact, was originally called San Miguel el Grande, and was later changed to San Miguel de Allende to honour Ignacio Allende, considered a hero by Mexicans.

Despite its storied history, like so many places we’d visited in the past, Dolores simply did not match our memories. I recalled strolling through a quaint little town, browsing a colourful collection of ceramics and pottery spilling out of tiny storefronts. I had kicked myself back then for not buying a few pieces to bring home, so had hoped to remedy that this time. Well, my, how Dolores has grown. The streets are much more crowded and congested; the quaint little shops that once sold pottery for pennies have now mostly been swallowed up by larger businesses and factories charging higher prices. We took the chance we’d kick ourselves again.

When we pulled in to San Miguel a couple hours later, we were lucky enough to snag a parking space close to the zocalo (the plaza, known as El Jardin). In high season, this alone would be cause for celebration. The population of roughly 150,000 surges in the winter with tourists and many ex-pats returning to their second homes, but it still manages to retain a sophisticated charm, and remains one of my favourite Mexican cities. Some purists would sneer at that: about 12 per cent of the population is made up of Americans and Canadians, many of whom have built lavish retreats high on the hills. They’ve been criticized for diluting the authentic character of the town, but in the two days we were there, we counted on one hand how many gringos we saw. The place still seemed pretty Mexican to us, even though it was guilty of all the things I lamented about other towns: congestion, crowds and modernization.

Still, we remained under the spell of San Miguel. We wandered its narrow cobble-stoned streets, past high, intricately carved double doors that opened up into shaded gardens and lavish homes beyond (these unique entryways actually spawned a book, The Doors of San Miguel De Allende, by Robert de Gast). After an hour or so of the afternoon sun hammering our heads, we took refuge inside a cool, leafy courtyard restaurant to rest and souse back an icy cold cerveza. Refreshed and fortified, we strolled through the hushed interior of the Parroquia (pictured), the towering pink granite church