The Life of a Trusted Housesitter When the Dogs Aren’t So Good
Dawn Reno Langley is an internationally known writer with more than thirty books and hundreds of short pieces to her credit. Her latest books, a novel entitled The Sunflower: Book Two of The Art of Rivers and a memoir, Love, Leashes & Letting Go, were both published in the summer of 2026. She is a digital nomad.
I’ve had dogs throughout my whole life. Most of them were soul dogs, but every once in a while, there was one who just wouldn’t learn, like Danny, who continued to pee and poop in the house no matter how many times I took him out, and Smokey, who absolutely hated the leash and ran away more times than I could count.
Most of the time, I could train the dogs to follow my commands and had some fantastic successes, like Jessie, the German shepherd who came to us as a pup with floppy ears and quickly proved that she was an escape artist, as well as the most intelligent dog I’ve ever known. When she was seven months old, I took her to obedience classes run by a police officer because she wouldn’t stop jumping on people. Not only did she learn to stop jumping, but she’d stay in a sitting position for hours outside the grocery store where we lived in Vermont. When she was an adult and we brought a mastiff puppy into the household, she taught him everything she knew. She lasted nineteen years with us, and when she died, my husband, daughter, and I grieved for months.
When we moved to Florida, I sat for our neighbor’s dogs: an adult chow and a chow who was four months old. That experience resulted in one of the most horrific events of my life. The adult chow, Leo, attacked me one morning, ripping up my arms and hands. The attack resulted in years of physical and psychological therapy and left me with complex posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) that can still be triggered by any kind of stressful event.
Throughout the years I’ve been a trusted house-sitter, I’ve known many different types of dogs: the little ones who bark at everything, the big ones who couldn’t care less if you took them for a walk, and the dogs who are so afraid of the world around them that they react defensively, often endangering themselves, me, and the people or animals they are afraid of.
Lester is one of those fearful dogs. He’s a big, glossy black German shepherd who’s always by my side in the house, wagging his tail when I speak, cocking his head when he recognizes words that I say, and generally being a big love. But the minute I put a leash on him, he goes into a state of heightened alertness. He pulls on the leash, head swiveling in every direction. If he sees a cat, no matter how far away it might be, he wants to eat it. If he sees a human being, he treats them as a threat. Forget about little kids. They terrify him so much that he practically turns himself inside out to get away from them. It’s both scary and heartbreaking to take him for a walk.
Last night, during our penultimate walk around the neighborhood at 7 p.m., his senses were heightened by the abnormal number of people on the sidewalks. I led him from one side of the street to the other to avoid the people, other animals, kids, and bikes coming toward us. He sat obediently when I told him to, and as soon as we began to cross the street, he pulled hard to get to the other side. We avoided bikes, guys on their cell phones, and a kid on a scooter, but then came the moment I’d feared.
On one side of the street, a woman carrying bags came toward us. I crossed the road, and suddenly, there was a couple in front of us, talking animatedly to each other. They were obviously returning home from the grocery store and laden with bags. I put Lester into a sit and prepared to grab his harness because the couple wasn’t paying attention to us. I wasn’t fast enough.
Lester barked and lunged, mouth open, teeth showing, and he bit. I caught him at the last second, yanking him back and commanding him to sit once again, which he did. Then I stood in front of him for a second, looked over my shoulder at the now frightened couple, and called out, “You okay?”
“He caught my bag,” the guy replied. Thank God, I thought. Lester was intent on protecting himself, and if he’d sunk his teeth into the man’s hindquarters or leg, he would have done damage.
I tightened my hold on the dog’s leashes and kept moving. All the way home, I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself so that my emotions would travel down the leash to the highly anxious dog at the other end. We were close to home, thankfully, so I ended the walk and brought them back to the house. Once inside, I took Lester to the tiny yard and tossed his tennis balls for him until he worked out some of his heightened emotions. He wagged his tail as he chased the ball, and it dawned on me that the only place he feels safe is at home. (That’s Lester in the pic.)
Throughout the rest of the evening, I was on edge, replaying the event over and over in my mind, wondering what I could have done differently. Finally, this morning, I realized that there are times when all of my training is for naught because I simply don’t have enough time with these animals to retrain them. I’ve also realized that even though my PTSD still lingers under the surface, I’ve recovered enough during the past couple of years to have confidence in my ability to take care of myself, as well as the animals I care for, and that’s huge.
All the same, I’m glad that today is the last day I’ll be caring for someone else’s animals for a while. Tomorrow, I’ll be in Portugal, and for the next three months, the only being I need to take care of is me.
Read more from Dawn Reno Langley
Dawn Reno Langley, Author, Writing Coach, & Yoga Instructor
Dawn Reno Langley is an award-winning author whose recent novels, The Mystic, The Sunflower, and Analyzing the Prescotts, showcase her fierce command of character and emotional truth. A born writer, she published her first piece at the age of nine and has spent her career turning lived experiences into unforgettable narratives. Her work blends social justice, identity, and the revolutions of everyday life. As a Fulbright scholar and TEDx speaker, she brings her belief in art's power to audiences worldwide. Her memoir, Love, Leashes & Letting Go, is her most intimate work yet. Her voice remains unmistakably her own: precise, compassionate, and unafraid to tell the truth.
