• "G" is for GMAFB

"Adopt me already! GMAFB!"

GMAFB. It's short for Give Me a F---ing Break. It's pronounced "G' Maf Bee." Sounds a little Australian, you think?

Suitable when you're running late and the car in front of you stops at the beginning of a yellow light.

Suitable when you're planning to sneak out a little early on a Friday afternoon and your boss schedules "a quick meeting" at 4:30.

Suitable when the dog you're pet sitting has diarrhea on a rug. A nice rug. A nice white rug.

I was going to write exclusively about pet sitting topics for the A to Z Challenge. Today I'd scheduled Grief, but it's too sunny and I didn't feel like it. In fact, I said, "GMAFBE, I'll write what I want!"

What's your GMAFB?

• "F" is for Facebook

I post photos of my charges on Facebook

I tell my accountant that 50 percent of my computer time is dedicated to my pet sitting business, but it feels like a lie. The social media I use for Emmy the Pet Sitter, including its Facebook page, is so darn much fun it never feels like business.

My original purpose for creating a Facebook business page was to attract new clients. As the page evolved, I've posted material for existing clients, people with pets, and other pet professionals. Posts include:

• When I'm pet sitting, real-time photos or videos of my charges (the pets) for my clients (the people)

• Local activities for people and pets (pet expos, adoption events, charity events, "yappy hours," doggie ice cream socials, Pups in the Park)

• Holidays (Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Month, Adopt Rescued Guinea Pigs Month)

• Special offers on products or services from local businesses; low-cost spay and neuter clinics

• Pet-related news (warnings about dog food, chicken jerky treats, Lyme disease, rabies shots)

• My favorite, funny stuff! Death star meets cone of shame. The dogs of Mad Men. A hamster dressed like a pirate.

Got great stats on Facebook

I try to foster a spirit of community. Some of the 79 people who subscribe know each other and each other's pets. I hope the "Twitter effect"—of strangers becoming friends—rubs off. When a pet of someone in the community dies, I mention it. When a friend of a friend's Samoyed gave birth, I linked to SamCam, hoping it might lead Samoyed owners to the (Friends of) Potomac Valley Samoyed Club Facebook page.

Is my Facebook page useful? Sometimes. But the March post that had the highest "reach" and "engaged users" was a picture of me kissing a French Bulldog. A picture (not mine) of a guinea pig deep in clover had the most "virality."

Fans are great. Good statistics are great. But the most important thing for me, as a pet sitter, is the pets. So I'd better grab the leash and take Teddy (see "D" is for Dachshund) for a walk.

• "E" is for Emmy the Pet Sitter

Darcy models the Emmy the Pet Sitter T-shirt

"Emmy the Pet Sitter" is the name of my business. I did no market research and, as I recall, asked the opinion of only one or two friends. On good days I like the simplicity. My name is Emmy. I'm a pet sitter. On bad days it brings to mind a certain self-important someone: "I'm Popeye the sailor man!" Thump thump of chest.

I'm a sole proprietor and I plan to stay that way, so the "Emmy" part is applicable. For 32 years I worked in a large organization, and while there were many things I appreciated, it's a relief to be on my own.

When I tell people what I do, nine times out of ten they'll say, "I know someone who's looking for someone to walk their dog," but I'm a live-in pet sitter. You leave your house to go on vacation and I move in to take care of your animal(s).

My friend Brenda sometimes refers to me in the third person. "Look who's here—it's Emmy the Pet Sitter!" she'll say as she opens her door and her dogs, Arlo and Darcy, rush to greet me.

It's giving me a bit of a swelled head, but I guess that's OK as long as I don't start thumping my chest.

• "D" is for Dachshund

Theodore "Teddy" Roosevelt

Can you spell "Dachshund"? I couldn't, until I cared for a sweet girl named Jenny. Jenny has crossed the rainbow bridge, but this very minute I'm caring for Theodore Roosevelt, a.k.a. Teddy, the second Doxie of the family that owned Jenny.

Jenny was an elderly matron when I met her, stiff on her pins, nearly blind, nearly deaf. I have a bad video I took of her as she tentatively circumnavigated the kitchen, a path she took many times during the day for the promise of crumbs. She bumped into cabinets but didn't care. I carried her out into the yard six times a day—she could no longer handle steps—and watched her sniff dandelions and clover. Her family put up an angel fountain and a plaque with Jenny's name in a corner of the yard.

Teddy pays no attention to Jenny's monument. He's not keen on being in the yard unless his human mother is around. Teddy is a momma's boy and proud of it. His "mom" apologized that he doesn't like to go for walks with anyone but her. As a "professional" pet sitter, he'll walk with me, my ego said. Ha! For two days I leashed Teddy, who then engaged with me in a gentle tug of war in my attempt to go beyond the boundaries of the property. I think you know who won.

Teddy and Jenny's monument

Yesterday Teddy ventured farther, taking me on the strangest "walk" of my life. He jogged a few steps, sniffed, and looked backward toward the house. "Come on, Teddy!" I said in a voice an octave higher than usual, and pulled lightly on his leash. He came—on his own terms. Walk forward, back toward the house, walk in a circle, stop to sniff the grass or a bush, head back across the street and stand stock still. . . considering his tiny legs, we were about four houses away from where we started.

And for reasons known only to Teddy, he stopped dozens of times. Dozens. I didn't want to be frustrating by our meandering walk. I told myself it was wonderful that Teddy let me walk him at all. It was good he could enjoy sights and smells beyond his yard.

At that moment Teddy lay down in the grass. He may have been tired, but I think it was more that he wanted to sit in the warm sun, as people do. He gazed at the people hitting golf balls in the church yard, at the boys on bicycles, at cars. You might be asking why I didn't sit down and enjoy. I made the mistake of sitting in the yard sans bug spray my first day on the job and scratched for hours afterward. I gave him five minutes, then tugged on the leash. "Come on, Teddy!" Nothing. You have no idea how much force something that weighs 20 pounds can exert. Finally, I picked him up and carried him back to the house. I plunged my face into his soft, cinnamon-colored fur and sniffed deeply.

Teddy is loving boy who doesn't know why the five people who share his house have deserted him. He may be wondering if they'll ever come back. I'm certain that I don't do anything—from serving meals to scratching his tummy—the "right" way.

I've just realized an ugly truth: I want pets to be happy because of me, because I'm such a darn fabulous pet sitter. "Jenny loves you," Teddy's family gushed years ago. I've been hoping to earn the same praise in regards to Teddy. Luckily I have five more days to try to make Teddy as content and comfortable as possible for his sake.

It's almost time for the afternoon walk. I'll take bug spray.

• "C" is for Cat

This is a good cat—not the cat in this post.

I knew something was up when Mary (all names have been changed) offered me $500 to stay with her cat for a week. This was back in the day when I charged $25 a night for pet sitting.

There were good reasons I should have turned down the job. For one, I'm allergic to cats. Yep. But if I have minimal exposure, avoid touching them, and wash my hands afterward, I'm OK. Second, Mary lived in Washington, D.C., and didn't have a parking spot and neither of us knew about getting a temporary permit for my car. So I parked at my office and lugged my suitcase and groceries for a long, sweaty four blocks to Mary's.

But the primary reason I should have turned down the job sat before me, mewing, dark and slender, in Mary's living room. In what I perceived as a sweet welcome, Cat wound himself around my feet. "Hi, sweetie," I said. As I loaded groceries into the refrigerator, Cat hugged my ankles and mewed more pitifully. It was too early for dinner. "What is it, sweetie?"

Ramrod stiff, Cat looked up. "Mrrrowwl," he cried more loudly.

Dinner was served.

I sat on the couch with a frozen dinner in my lap. Cat cuddled up next to me. Gently, I stroked his head with my elbow. The minute I stopped Cat placed a paw firmly on my forearm. Half an hour later he jumped down and looked up at me. "Mrrowwl."

"What? You had dinner." I found Mary's instructions. Ah, he wanted a treat. As he chewed I put away my clothes and set out my toiletries in the bathroom. Per Mary's instructions, Cat required a small bowl of kibble be available at night. I filled the bowl and refreshed Cat's water. He was snoozing in the living room. I walked as quietly as I could from the kitchen into the bedroom, hoping he wouldn't hear me.

"Mrrrowwl." Cat stared at me from the bedroom door.

"Good grief," I muttered. "Sweetie, do you want kibble? It's in the kitchen. Look, here it is."

Cat sniffed at the bowl, then dismissed it. At least he was quiet.

"He'll want to sleep with you in bed," Mary had said. I set up the way I like to sleep: lying on my side with a pillow between my knees, a pillow clutched to my chest, and a pillow under my head. I felt Cat jump up on to the bed. His legs plunged silently into the bed along my legs, then my torso. Suddenly, whiskers and a wet nose poked my face. "Ack!" I wiped my nose and turned over.

If this were the New Yorker and I were a better writer, I'd treat you to every detail, but I'll make it short: Cat had to sleep on my chest. No bedspread, no blanket, no sheets. Just me, my nightgown, and a hot, hairy, saliva-and-dander-generating beast less than a foot away from my face.

I got $500, bronchitis, and a week of sick leave. You know how, at the end of your life, people ask if you have any regrets? Yes, I do.

• And Bingo Was His Name-o

A younger Emmy, Pootie (left) and Bingo

"I have a surprise," said my brother. "I want everyone to come into the living room." He went outside, letting the front door slam.

I sat. No one ordered my mother around, not even her 6-foot-1-inch son, but she sat. My father and sister sat.

My brother opened the screen door. Behind him slunk a big skinny dog, belly touching the floor, eyes darting wildly about.

"Keith!" shrieked my mother.

"Oh my God," said my father.

"Sit still. He's nervous around people," said my brother.

"You didn't," said Mother.

My brother grinned. He held the dog's leash firmly. That dog wanted out of our house in the worst way.

"Can I pet it?" I asked.

"It's 'May I?' and no you may not," said my mother. "It's filthy. Keith, you can not keep that thing. There is no way I'm going to have that dog in my house."

"I can't believe you, Keith," laughed my sister. "It'll eat Pootie alive."

I caught my father's eye and we both smiled. That wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"Down," murmured my brother. Slowly, the dog placed each of its four limbs stiffly on the floor. I could feel the tension in its neck.

"What's her name?" I asked.

"Bingo, and it's a he. See, he's calming down. Nothing to worry about."

"Look at him! He probably has fleas. Get him off my carpet, I just vacuumed."

"He's been hanging around the radio station for a week. We mentioned him a couple of times on air but nobody called. We've been feeding him. He can eat six cans of food a day." My brother chuckled.

"Six cans!" said my sister. "He's going to be as big as a horse."

"Is he hungry now? I'll get him something to eat." I jumped up from my chair. The dog lunged. All I saw was snapping, white teeth. Luckily, my brother had a firm hold on the leash.

"I told you to sit still. He's not mean, just scared. Give him time."

"Bingo. What kind of a name is that? 'And Bingo was his name-o,'" my sister sang off key.

"Keith, this is the last time you pull a stunt like this. I'll tell you this, he gets two cans a day and no more. And you keep him away from Pootie."

In. The dog was in!

I smiled. Sitting very still, I looked into the almond-brown eyes of the scared, lonely dog that would become my best friend.

• "A" is for the A to Z Challenge

"A" is for the A to Z Challenge, one of the never ending ideas for promoting ourselves in social media. I make fun of online self-promotion, but that's part of why I signed up for this challenge. More importantly, I wanted to challenge myself.

As a pet sitter, I follow blogs about dogs, cats, ferrets, hamsters, animal advocacy, pet health, pet training, pet products, pet books, pet photography . . . you get the point. Sometimes I join the Saturday Pet Blogger's Challenge, which always includes more than 100 participants. Bloggers hold contests, raise funds for animal organizations, and passionately speak to controversial issues.

I wrote about my hamster's second-place finish in the Petco hamster ball derby.

The GoPetFriendly blog, Take Paws, does it right. They post on the same three days every week. They ask other bloggers whose posts they like to write guest blogs—including me! They have sponsors and run ads. Every Friday they hold a photo challenge; winners get a GoPetFriendly calendar. In 2012 they're holding a March Madness-style contest for the most pet-friendly city, for which more than 64 readers suggested cities (mine, Prescott, Arizona, lost in the first round). Several hundred people vote, and winners will get GoPetFriendly T-shirts, dog bowls, and a gift certificate. The blog is just one component of the GoPetFriendly site, which is rich with resources for pet parents who travel.

Niche blogging is a very good thing, as is blogging regularly. Because I'm a pet sitter, you'd think most posts would be about pet sitting. Some are. But I've also written about a pet expo, pet photos with Santa, and recipes for rodents.

"Grownup" blogs are dependable, focused, well written, interactive, visually appealing, timely, and interesting. Many bloggers generate income. In terms of my age, I'm definitely a grownup. In terms of this blog, I want to turn it up a notch. Forcing myself to post every day is a start.

Thus, the A to Z Challenge. Tomorrow—yikes!!—is "B."

• 2nd Rodent Recipe Challenge: Broccoli

Midnight at the Oasis. It's a great name for a recipe, don't you think? Unfortunately, the concept scared Maggie, my hamster. I created "Midnight" for the Rodent Recipe Challenge, brainchild of Inky the Hamster Mommy. The ingredient for March was broccoli.

My original plan was to julienne a colorful medley of vegetables—broccoli, carrots, red and yellow peppers—and drizzle something on top, perhaps baby food. Hamsters like baby food, probably because of all the sugar in it. But that seemed like a lot of work.

I got Plan B when I looked at Onion's march entry. Halves of hard-boiled eggs were the oases. Broccoli, the palms. Voila. Maggie was fond of both ingredients. I placed the plate in his (yes, Maggie's a boy) play area, knowing he could smell it. Was it the plate that disturbed him? The bulbous green protuberances? Or was it his human mom, kneeling in the midst of everything with camera in hand, tensely waiting for the perfect shot? And yes, I was humming Maria Muldaur.

My baby huddled in a corner, scratching his back on magazine spines. Feeling guilty, I turned off the camera. The point was for Maggie to enjoy the food; I needed to leave him in peace. As we do every night, he ran about as I scooped out dirty bedding from his cage and refreshed his water.

When I came back, Maggie was nibbling on the "oasis" I'd placed in the section of his area that's most private. I took one quick shot and turned off the camera for good. A little egg and broccoli—deconstructed—went in his food bowl for later.

Maggie requested something less structured for April.

• One Year Later . . .

@MerleChloe - @EmmySits

On March 11, 2011, an earthquake off the coast of Japan sparked a massive tsunami. That day I signed up for Twitter.

My eyes were glued in horror to my television. Wanting to know more, I checked my friend Brenda's Twitter feed, then that of her friend Merle, who lives on the island of Hawaii. Merle posted every five minutes on conditions in Japan, as well as a situation in which she had a vested interest: the impending impact on Hawaii.

@BrendaMantz @DarcyMantz

Between the images on my TV screen and the rat-a-tat-tat tweets from Merle, I was mesmerized. I'd heard about Twitter for years but it sounded superfluous, a bunch of dithering people sending choppy half-thoughts to strangers. But suddenly I saw the meaning and power of connection. I wanted to understand what was happening in Japan. Tweets helped. How big was the wave? How many towns were affected? Did people have warning? I wanted hope.

So I entered Twitter as EmmySits, a reference to my pet sitting business. I had little to offer. Twitter was confusing: symbols, weird names, and gobbledygook in blue letters. But I learned a lot. Tsunami videos appeared on Twitter before they aired on the news. Through Merle I followed the earthquake's force as it snaked across the Pacific. The news told me it was raining in Hawaii. Twitter told me the streets in Hilo that were flooded; people posted cell phone photos of flattened foliage and iron-gray skies and I felt as though I were standing next to them.

@ArloMantz

I followed Brenda, her dogs (@ArloMantz and @DarcyMantz), and Merle; they followed me. I found @BlogPaws, of community of people who write about animals, and went to one of their conferences. You know what people say about a conference: "I met so many great people, blah blah blah." But really, I met great people, some of whom have become friends. Through Twitter, I joke with a policewoman-author in Arizona. More often than is polite, I solicit advice from a veterinarian in Rhode Island.

Remembrances of the tsunami are being held today. The mood is somber. The loss is staggering, too much to comprehend. In this context, it feels sacrilegious to talk about the disaster and Twitter side by side. But those are the facts. God bless.

• The Rodent Recipe Challenge

I've owned hamsters for more than seven years. I love the little guys. So when Inky the Hamster Mommy announced the Rodent Recipe Challenge, I was game. Pasta was the ingredient for February.

I found medium shells in the cupboard. For myself, macaroni and cheese. For my hamster, Maggie, I decided to stuff a shell with walnut and melted Parmesan cheese. How hard could that be?

As I discovered, it was a bit tricky.

I thought of pasta as being warm, but a single piece cools and dries quickly. When I microwaved the shell so it would melt the cheese, the heat turned it the color of creme bruleé—not a good hue. I laid pieces of walnut in the middle of the shell, then covered them with strips of Parmesan. The cheese drooped but didn't melt. I squeezed the crusty, mushy mound with a toothpick, put it in the refrigerator, and silently thanked the universe I wasn't competing on Top Chef.

At 11:00 p.m., when Maggie usually awakes, I took the dried brownish shell out of the fridge to bring it to room temperature. Would he eat it? (Yes, despite his name, Maggie is a boy.) He ignored the concoction for several minutes, and then . . . he picked it up and began to nibble.

Success! I knew Maggie liked walnuts and cheese, but feared the pasta, which I suspect had the texture and taste of cardboard, would repel him. Leftovers don't lie. When he stepped away and commenced his after-dinner grooming, a ragged, brown form remained. The walnuts and cheese were history, but he rejected most of the pasta.

And did you know that a pasta box makes a great hamster toy?