My happy holidays with Rico the dog

When I was hired to care for Rico, a chihuahua-terrier mix, he had just been adopted two weeks earlier.

His humans hadn’t planned on getting a new dog so soon before their planned vacation. But if they had waited until they returned, the sweet, docile little dog who seemed destined to join their family would have gone to another. So they called their cat-sitter — me — and I happily added Rico to their booking.

I’ve been pet-sitting through private referral since October 2006. I’ll politely insist that I am not willing or able to respond if readers should request my services — my ethical obligations as a journalist prohibit that, as does my schedule. Until now, I haven’t even mentioned this little side gig.

But it’s the holidays. And I want to tell you about my wonderful holiday companion.

My first evening caring for Rico was a disaster. I had accidentally dropped the heavy plastic handle of his retractable leash and it had frightened him so badly that I spent two hours locating and treating all the spots on the carpet where he dribbled pee while running for cover.

A few gentle scratches on the head was all it took for him to come out of his shell. He slept that night the same way he slept every night while in my care for the next 10 years: curled up and nestled in the crook of my knees.

I’ve bonded with every pet I’ve ever cared for over the last 18 years. It never gets old, hearing their excited whimpers and seeing their eagerly wagging tails as I arrive at the beginning of each visit.

But I know my place. I am a rental, a spare human to keep them safe and happy until their real humans return. (Others call them “owners,” but most pet owners know who actually owns whom.)

Rico was unique. By the time his humans returned from their first trip, he had been in my care for three weeks — longer than the time between his adoption and their departure. He happily settled back in with his forever family, of course. But though I was just the rental human, this happy little creature had made clear to me the fact that I, too, belonged to him.

And while under my care, he belonged to me. Rico and I spent Memorial Day bonfires at my aunt and uncle’s cabin. He pranced around the family farm on the Fourth of July. We rode a float in the Freedom Festival parade while he sported a tacky stars and stripes-print bow tie. Ever gentle, he would let the grabbiest of little toddlers pet him. At family Christmas at my parents’ house, he would take turns sitting in people’s laps. There was never too much attention for this charming little creature to absorb.

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As he aged, his fur having noticeably grayed, my buddy remained happy and playful, and always eager for a trip to Culver’s for a “pup cup.” Even amid a pandemic disruption, our years together were wonderful. But there’s no such thing as enough time with the creatures who bring us such joy.

Rico’s time with his loving humans came to an end in July. When I got the news, I realized that a number of my own friends and family would also be sad to hear it. He was a part of their holidays and festivals and parties, too.

Those holidays won’t be the same without him around. But are we ever blessed for a dog like Rico to have existed in our lives.

Comments: 319-398-8266; althea.cole@thegazette.com