How Petsitting My Sister’s Dog Helped Me Pull

Email this to a friend

Nice Move

Petsitting Helped Me Score

Being a sibling has it’s unavoidable disadvantages. Every once in a while, my sister asks me to do something I wouldn’t even do for myself. Our similar genetic makeup, however, compels a hallowly offered “sure, no problem.” The girl has had me do some annoyingly inane shit over the years, from having me meet her assorted boyfriends (the woman’s vagina is like a hotel that charges by the hour), to making me hang out with our less than palatable relatives, to helping her move from college to college as she soils our family pedigree and father’s checking account, and, now, taking care of her fucking dog.

Two weeks ago, in the midst of one of her recurring bouts of unexplainable depression (it’s a sort of love-hate relationship, as you can see by now), she impulse purchased a puppy. It was a sign of our relatedness, as, when I’m down, I like to irresponsibly spend money as well, though I prefer a slightly less family friendly usage of my funds. Anyway, in what is an undying trend in my sister’s life, she bought this little guy a week before another dad-sponsored trip to Europe, leaving the idiotically named “Snickers” on my doorstep like a discarded child. While I contemplated going the Moses route and tossing him in a downriver basket, the fear of repercussions from mom and dad had me welcoming a new houseguest for the weekend. In fairness to Snickers, he’s a hell of a nice dog. He doesn’t whine too much, hasn’t yet pissed on my floor, and has cost essentially no money as of now. Fuck, if only I could find a girlfriend like him.

Yesterday was a nice day and the little man had been a trooper through the weekend, so I took the advice of a sex-obsessed cousin who swore “that dog is a pussy magnet, use it” and took him to a local dog park. What started as me innocently wandering about with my foster animal quickly morphed into a shocking affirmation of my degenerate cousin’s claim: women love a man with a puppy. Throw in my actual job (didn’t list Grandex as my occupation, as tempting as that is) and I was knee-deep in options.

In a stroke of positive karma that would make even Earl proud, Snickers stumbled upon a similar looking pup, who happened to have the sort of owner whose ass I wouldn’t mind sniffing.

“You have great taste in pups.”

She looked up from her phone to see Snickers.

“Great minds think alike.”

She might as well have invited me into the woods for a twelve pumper.

“How old is he?” I feigned sincere interest.

“She’s actually just about 12 weeks. And yours?”

Snickers, now in his role as four-legged wingman, took the reins of my questionable game, nuzzling her puppy as if he could channel my mental commands.

“He’s about the same age. I think Snickers has a crush.”

“Snickers?” She’s smiling like a woman around a newborn baby they didn’t push out of themselves.

“Such an adorable name. They get along so well!”

I took this as my chance.

“Maybe we should get them together sometime soon.”

She smiles and, through no fault of my own, Snickers scores me her number and what turned out to be one hell of a playdate for both of us, with me and my fellow dog enthusiast channeling our inner K-9s after a bottle of merlot. Sometimes doing nice things for moronic family members pays off for both parties; especially when my new wingman needs a trip to the park.

Dogsitting is like the adult version of the frat hound. Surefire panty dropper without the immense expenses and responsibility of individual ownership. TFM.

Comments

You must be logged in to comment. Log in or create an account.

Click to Read Comments (16)