• "J" is for Jacobson's Organ

Let me say straight off that I did not know—before I checked the dictionary—the definition of a Jacobson's organ. But I identified with the TV commercial that mentions it.

Three young women are talking about cats. The first two ooh and coo over how they love cute, cuddly kittens. The third pipes up. "And cats have the Jacobson's organ," she begins, then proceeds to overwhelm her ditsy companions with obscure facts.

I like that woman. She loves animals, I love animals—everything about animals. I want to hang out with her, exchange geeky animal trivia. Rats are revered by Hindus. What are the cats with six toes called? Polydactyl. Hamsters came from Syria. When a farrier trims a horse's hooves, give leftovers to the dogs—it's good for them.

The Jacobson's organ reference isn't the best, as I'm much more interested in dogs and horses than I am in cats. But the sentiment conveys. Animals geeks, who's with me?

• "I" is for Information

Information? Yawn. But as a live-in pet sitter, information is the backbone of my work.

I'd like to link here to an online client form, but I don't have one. My web site—self-created, to save money—is on Blogger, for heaven's sake. So I do things the old fashioned way, with the template of a Word document that I fill in.

I get information at my initial client meeting. About halfway through, the client usually gives me a puzzled look. Why does a pet sitter need to know the location of the main water cutoff? That's because I want to be sure I can take care of anything when I stay at the house, despite the fact that the thought of a major water leak makes me a nervous wreck.

About the House: Questions I Ask

• May I have names and phone numbers of neighbors? Is there anyone I can call if something breaks?

• Is there a spare key? Do any neighbors have a key?

• Where is the fuse box? Main water cutoff? Spare light bulbs, flashlight, batteries, toilet paper, etc.?

• How do I operate the heat? Air conditioning? Alarm system? Oven? Dishwasher? Washer/dryer? Phone? TV? (Very important!!)

• What day is trash day? What do you recycle?

• Do plants need water? How about the yard?

• Do you have Wifi? What's the name of your network? Your password?

• Should I answer your phone or let it go to voice mail?

• Do you want updates on your pets when you're away? How often? Via phone, email, Facebook, Twitter?

At that meeting I make sure I know how to work the key and TV, and can get online with my laptop.

About the Pets: Questions I Ask

• What is their schedule? (Potty breaks, walks, meals, treats, cleaning litter box)

• What do they eat? How much? Do they get treats?

• Do they take medications? Have medical issues? Do you give them dental care?

• Where do you keep their leashes? Grooming brush and comb? Extra poop bags? Towels for when it rains?

• How do the pets get along with each other? How do they react to other dogs? To people? Is there anything they're afraid of? (Thunder, vacuum, being touched on the neck)

• May they get on the furniture? Where do they sleep at night?

• What commands do they know? What should I say or do if they misbehave?

• Are they microchipped? Where is that information? Do they wear their tags all the time?

• Who is their vet? Emergency vet?

I ask homeowners to fill out a veterinary release form. I also use MapQuest to map the route from the homeowner's to their vet and emergency vet, and print it out. In the event that a pet goes missing under my care, I bookmark the Web sites of the nearest animal shelters.

I put all of this information in my Pink Notebook, which will probably be its own A to Z Challenge post.

• "H" is for Horse

When I was a little girl I wanted a horse. People would chuckle and nod when I said I wanted a horse, but it demeaned my dream when they said, “Every little girl wants a horse.” It made me angry. I wasn’t “every little girl”: I was me, the most important little girl in the world, and I wanted a horse.

I knew nothing about the practicalities of owning a horse. I didn’t care. I wanted a horse.

To scratch the itch, my father took me horseback riding once when I was nine or ten. The owner leaned against the corral fence and my father stood next to him with his hands in his pockets. My father was not a man who leaned. They talked easily. My father grew up on a farm and loved the land.

I had ridden at camp in groups with a leader, but I’d never ridden alone. Head down, the horse wearily followed the path through the woods. I bumped along, holding the saddle horn when I was out of sight of the adults. I was supposed to be enjoying the ride but I was scared. But I couldn’t tell anyone I was afraid to get on a horse. I would have lost face.

As we exited the woods the horse caught sight of the barn, in the distance. Its pace increased. I was used to the horse by then and I smiled, ready to practice posting if he trotted. Throughout the woods I had kicked the horse to no avail. I kicked the horse now, on the open trail, and it broke into a gallop toward the barn

My heart leapt into my throat. I clutched the saddle horn and tried to hang onto my reins. The stirrups bounced against the horse’s side and my small sneakered feet flew free. I held on, as they say, for dear life, but it was not to be.

Before we reached the barn I landed with an Oof on the hard, dirt-packed ground. I could see my father and the horse’s owner laughing heartily. My feelings were hurt. How dare my father laugh at me? He never did that. And my backside hurt. I stood up. My legs quivered, as they always did when I dismounted. In addition, I was shaking “from stem to stern,” as my father would say.

“I’ve got him,” said the owner. “He loves to run to the barn. I thought your daddy said you rode before.”

I hung my head and didn’t answer.

“Well, here he is. I’ll hold him while you get on up.”

I shook my head.

“You know what they say: fall off a horse, get back on.”

“Don’t you want to get on again? The hour’s not up,” said my father. I was close enough to him now that I could see his eyes were kind, concerned. He wanted me to have a good time.

I would not ride that horse again.

I didn’t ride for another ten years, at least. Then, occasionally, I would go to on a trail ride, which many dismissively call “nose-to-tail” riding. I was driving across country with a man I didn’t know very well. In a campground outside Amarillo, Texas, we met another couple that wanted to go horseback riding. The next day the four of us rented horses in a place where we had a thousand acres in which to ride. A thousand acres! I grew up in Virginia, where no one had that kind of land. I was giddy with the possibilities.

The man I was with the woman in the other couple wanted to keep a walking pace. Her boyfriend wanted to canter. I want to canter, too! I claimed, citing the wide-open landscape spreading out impossibly around us. He kicked his horse and I kicked my horse and we began to canter through land that, to me, epitomized the Wild West. A few second in, however, I began to bounce crazily on the beast’s back. All thoughts of enjoying myself ended. I grabbed the saddle horn and held on for life. A horse is a pack animal and it will follow its pack; I knew that. I knew that the horses of my friend and the other woman, who had the courage to admit they didn’t want to go fast, would run. By that stage of our cross-country trip I disliked the man I was with. When we stopped I didn’t admit I was afraid and I didn’t admit I was happy to see my friend suffer. He and the woman were angry, rightly so. I didn’t care, and I didn’t admit I was afraid.

When I was 50 I decided I was ready to retire. Since I was several years away from being able to do so I had time to hone my plan. I knew I wanted to live in the Southwest. I loved the sand and sage colors of the land, the sunset skies shot with orange and cerise. As the dream gradually took shape, I gradually realized that I wanted a horse.

I want a horse.

I am 58, I am overweight, I don’t exercise, and I have a host of minor physical problems that flare up when I exert myself. I can’t run, I can barely bend over, I can’t climb stairs without pain, and I can’t lift a bale of hay. People more practical than I have suggested ways I can get my “horse fix” without the effort and expense—which I have learned are considerable. Volunteer at a therapeutic riding center. Lease a horse. Work part-time at a stable. And so on.

I listen to them but I haven’t lost the dream. I want a horse. I’ve taken grownup steps to get there. I took an intensive riding workshop and admitted I was afraid. My goal was not to fall off. I didn’t. A woman said I could visit her Arabian farm and I learned to take care of her horses. I ride occasionally with—as they call it in yoga—beginner’s mind. I am learning, gradually, to “speak horse,” to read their ears and eyes, to follow the shift of their barrel and the direction of footfall.

I want a horse.

• "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."