They called me three days before the sit with the kind of breathless, apologetic excitement that only comes from people who’ve just adopted a small domestic disaster.
“Can you still come to Todos Santos?” the woman asked. “Also… we found a puppy in a dumpster.”
This is the part of pet-sitting life where the universe reminds you, you didn’t sign up for predictable. I pictured a skinny, trembling ball of fur and said yes without hesitation. They told me the rest in a rush: there was already an older dog, a dignified, mellow rescue named Kiki, and a cat named Luna who tolerated everyone on her own terms. The puppy had enormous, bat-like ears that refused to be ignored, so they’d named him Yoda. I packed my bag, grabbed extra patience, and braced myself for ears that could be used as satellite dishes.
The house was a whitewashed beauty on the edge of Todos Santos, sun-bleached wood, breeze through the courtyard, the smell of sea and lime in the air. The family left me with a list: feed Kiki, feed Luna, watch Yoda, leash-train Yoda, potty-train Yoda, and, perhaps most importantly, make sure Kiki sees himself as the wise old uncle rather than a second breakfast. They warned me that Yoda was “very food motivated.” Understatement of the year.
Yoda turned out to be a tiny, hopeful vacuum with a floppy head and ears that could pick up satellite radio. He had the intensity of a seasoned artisan when it came to stuffing anything into his mouth: kibble, socks, sand, a suspiciously crumbly piece of driftwood, if it existed, he wanted it. You could practically hear the gears grinding in his little head: Is this edible? If ambiguous, ingest.
We started the first day with leash practice. Kiki took an indulgent, slightly snobby interest, trotting like a dog who’d tasted many sunsets and minimal drama. Luna watched from a high ledge, eyelids heavy, plotting nothing and judging everything. Yoda treated the leash like an invitation to audition for a role in an action movie. He lunged at the breeze, pulled toward every seagull, and investigated a cactus with the concentrated curiosity of someone who’d once foraged through taped-together pizza boxes in a dumpster and had decided yet again that the world was full of mysteries.
Potty training was more… eventful. Yoda’s method was “optimistic exploration.” The courtyard became an obstacle course of tiny puddles, sandy footprints, and my best attempts at breakfast-fed bribery. Kiki, being the noble elder, performed occasional tutting noises and then would take Yoda under his wing, figuratively, since Yoda kept trying to chew the wing area.
But then came the chewing. Yoda would eat anything. I mean anything. Rocks became toys, plastic became snacks, sand was a condiment. I started to suspect a past life as a raccoon. I found myself performing a new choreography: guide puppy, inspect mouth, remove foreign object, repeat. The entire neighborhood got to know the polite, slightly frantic voice I used for Yoda, equal parts coaxing and mild scolding. “No, Yoda. Rocks are not cookies.” He looked at me like I’d just lied about magic.
And then the owners returned. Days of mewling, tugging, training, and general chaos later, they walked in with suitcases and stories and that relieved glow of people home from a trip. They thanked me, hugged me, and took Yoda into their arms. For the first few days everything seemed golden, Yoda leaping with the kind of exuberance only a dumpster survivor could muster, Kiki sharing the couch like a wise old neighbor, Luna glowering in the safety of the curtains.
Then, three days after they were back, I got a text at dawn.
“Do you know if something’s wrong with Yoda? He won’t eat.”
This is the sort of message that makes a sitter’s stomach flip. The dog who would eat stones had now stopped eating. “That’s unusual,” I replied. “He eats everything. Keep me posted.” I paced imaginary vet waiting rooms, replayed the last week like a movie where every close-up was an ingestion hazard.
A few days later, the answer arrived in the form of another text: they’d discovered the problem. The husband, an indigenous man who tended the garden and spoke of plants with the reverence of someone who’d grown up listening to herbs tell stories, had a patch of traditional plant medicine growing among the succulents. It was a plant he used in ceremonies, a cactus-type thing with a strong, bitter scent and a reputation for making one see more than what’s strictly in front of you. In the night, it seemed, Yoda had taken a bite.
The photo attached to the text was almost cinematic: a small half-moon chunk missing from a squat cactus plant, the soil around it dimpled like it had been explored by tiny, hungry hands. And Yoda, suitably sheepish, was curled at the foot of a low-cushioned chair, eyes a little glazed, nose twitching from some internal cinematic trip.
They told me that for a few days he was “exploring the universe,” which is a very elegant way to describe a puppy trying to stare into the great beyond because the backyard turned into a temporary metaphysical seminar. He wasn’t eating because his mouth and possibly his existential appetite were occupied somewhere else entirely. The husband, very chill about his plant and its curious visitor, monitored Yoda while the rest of the family rode out a small spiritual plane of canine-induced introspection.
Yoda recovered. Slowly, like a philosopher descending from a higher plane to accept a bowl of kibble. The first nibble back was dramatic, actually dramatic, with an audience. Kiki approved with a slow, solemn wag, Luna opened one eye in quiet condescension, and Yoda, with all the dignity a puppy can muster after a cosmic field trip, ate like a dog who had learned the value of earthly things. The family assured me he was fine, skinny, yes, but bright-eyed and, crucially, thoroughly uninterested in plants with medicinal reputations from then on.
Pet sitting in Todos Santos had been a lesson in adaptability, humility, and the literal solidity of a puppy’s appetite. I’d come for a couple of months of leash training and left with a story about a dumpster dog turned Buddhist acolyte, a patient elder dog, and a cat who had no time for any of it. Yoda found a family who loves him, Kiki found a mentee, Luna kept the respect hierarchy in order, and I, for my part, learned to carry spare pliers and an extra sense of wonder.
If you ever find yourself watching a dog with ears like satellite dishes by the sea, remember: always check the garden, always assume souvenirs are edible, and never underestimate a puppy’s ability to teach you how oddly poetic a life by the beach can be.