I am, by choice, petless in my life. That is, without a furry companion to share my domicile. For four weeks, however, this changed, when I was invited to house sit on holiday in WA. Thus, the title of this post – Doggie Dementia: My month of pet poop and piss in Perth. It was a family arrangement with a sibling, she and partner were off to Bali, whilst I would hold down the fort. Water a few sheltered pot plants, turn on the irrigation system, take out the trash, something about feeding worms, and look after Misty – the Shih tzu Maltese Terrier Cross.

https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/sudhapodcast/episodes/2025-09-25T22_42_05-07_00

Dog Minding On The West Coast

Misty was, apparently, 17 years old and had outlived her own offspring. This underwhelming creature, standing well below knee height, had been around the block a few times. An off white coat of hair with a few curls for good measure were her most tangible physical characteristic. I was assured by her carer that not barking was one of her most endearing features. J loved Misty very much and their journey together had endured well into a second decade. Masters and mistresses and their pets are, invariably, relationships founded on bonds of strong affection. J loved that dog.

Dog Gone Details

It is funny, you know, when someone is telling you lots of things. A multiplicity of instructions imparted in the rush of an imminent departure, that you rarely take it all in with the necessary attention to the minutia. P, my sister, was cheerfully sharing with me the information about the dog, the rubbish collection day, when the Korean cleaning girls would arrive, the worms, the swimming pool, and would I mind hanging out that rather large load of washing still in the machine? There was chit chat about me enjoying my stay and that the house was mine for the month. “Invite someone to stay if you like, we don’t mind.” I doubted that this would eventuate, as my lone ranger phase had been in full stride for at least a decade. “Misty and I will be fine,” I replied. The house itself was spacious and attractively furnished. It would make a nice change from my usually, more cramped, existence back home.  All this space, I would not know what to do with it.

Play Misty For Me

Right on the eve of their departure P mentioned that Misty sometimes had a little accident inside and that the best thing to do was to pick it up with some toilet paper and just flush it away. I was, perhaps, by this stage, full to bursting with imparted data about stuff and did not twig to its importance in the greater scheme of things. I dropped the two intrepid travellers at the airport and pulled out onto the freeway with the freedom of another city at my disposal. It had been many years since I had last visited Perth and there had, by the looks of things, been a lot of growth to this coastal metropolis. It stretches some 176 km north to south along the west coast on the Indian Ocean. The excellent roads can get you from one end to the other in not much more than an hour. Mostly, coming from the south, I was able to access the CBD in 30 minutes or less. This was a refreshing change from east coast gridlock on traffic laden highways.

Perth In Green Time

Perth was so green, in winter and now in spring. My memories were of a flat, brown landscape and long hot summers. This green leafy, tree rich place was largely unfamiliar to me. The air was fresh from the sea breezes and the sky incredibly bright. You can be blinded by the light, literally, in the summertime in Perth. P’s vehicle was running well; and the freeway opened up the city to me like veins on a body in the operating theatre. This surgical journeyman would be making incisions from one side to another. 21C city life is very vehicular, especially in WA. Sometimes I would encounter drivers on the freeway heading south weaving through traffic at 150 km in their 4WDs. My brother later told me that Perth was the meth capital of Australia. The inference being that these transgressors of the road rules were high on meth. One mistake at these speeds in this traffic would result in multi-car accidents and probable death for some. Cars and planes can be weapons in the wrong hands.

Misty’s Maladies

Upon my return to the house I enthusiastically organised the feeding of Misty. Now, this is not just opening a can or shaking a few doggie biscuits into a bowl. No, this dog was on a special diet and received pain killing medicines to boot. I should here enlighten you as to Misty’s maladies. Blind, this little dog was without sight. You know those clouded eyes you see in old animals. Deaf, Misty was unable to hear stuff, which would be a big loss in a dog. Wracked with arthritis, so much so, that she would uncontrollably shake in spasms at times. Walking was a challenge, as her gait was uneven and she would lose balance. Dementia, she would suddenly stop, freeze up and you could tell that she had lost the plot momentarily. Breathing was hard when sleeping, as her chest would rattle and a respiratory wheezing could be heard down the hall from her sleeping bed.

In response to the pain side of things Misty had two different types of drops added to her meals to ease her load. I would be required to exactly measure out by means of a syringe a quantity of doggie medicine and inject it into the food, morning and night. Then, wash the equipment and put it away for another day. Breakfast included 3 different types of dog and cat dried food, which was then immersed in warm water to soften, probably for her bad teeth. Dinnertime was cooked soft white chicken meat, strictly no skin or other parts of that bird. I would tear the flesh into morsels suitable for Misty to eat. This would be warmed in the microwave if deemed too chilly. These repasts would be accompanied by bowls of water to keep Misty well hydrated.

Now, you have to remember that a blind dog has some challenges at mealtimes. The dog flap, through which Misty accessed the back area where her bowls were, was located close by to the feeding station. You have to imagine the sense of smell, hopefully, leading the way to the correct bowl. What, often, transpired, however was, due to the spasms of arthritis, the knocking over of water bowls left, right and centre. It was like a strike or spare at a ten pin bowling alley. However, once the violent calamity was over, Misty had a bloody good appetite, perhaps her one remaining sensual joy. I know, myself, as I age, that things drop away from the sensual life. Despite her bad teeth, she chowed down with the best of them and polished off that food bowl each and every time.

On a daily basis, Misty would walk or slightly stagger in treks around the house. Coming from a family of Alzheimer disease victims, I know the allure of walking for those with dementia; and this dog was no exception. When I looked at Misty closely, she resembled a feisty little old lady determinedly making her way on the last legs of her life. Jutting jaw, sores on skin, spots and stains of age marking her time on planet earth in plain sight. And every now and then, a spurt of enthusiastic energy would manifest and she would literally skip about the place. It was like, for a few brief seconds, a puppy would emerge from out of the decay and degeneration. Such is the nature of doggie dementia. Most often, these, seemingly, time reversing moments would happen after dinner or breakfast. If we could only turn back time, hey folks!

Doggie Dementia: My month of pet poop and piss in Perth. It must have been on that first night alone with Misty that I discovered, the next morning, her little accidents. Stepping into dog piss can be a cold and unwelcome awakening. A generous puddle on the polished wooden floor. Followed closely by a few dark brown turds scattered about like Easter eggs on a hunt. Excrement, when you are unaccustomed to it outside of your own private toilet bowl, can instinctively generate a reaction in you. Intellectually, you can rationalise it on compassionate grounds, but that comes later. In the immediate aftermath it is distasteful and alarming. “You filthy animal!” I exclaimed. Not being used to the caring role and being more in the intellectual mould I probably reacted badly. It was but a moment, however, and I moved on. Alas, I would go through a lot of toilet paper as the days wore on.

The spread of dog shit and piss was surprising also. Misty, obviously, did not deign to limit her bowel and bladder movements to any special places throughout the house. She would crap in the living room, hallways, bedrooms, studies, dining room, and in-between these locales on a regular basis. Indeed, it was only outside, where she should have been defecating that seemed to be missing out. Not being a pet owner or a dog owner, more specifically, I may have lacked recent knowledge and experience about pets’ pooping and pissing in the home. I became a dab hand with the mop and with a spray bottle of carpet cleaner with attached brush. This soon emptied and the endless excrement just kept on coming. The nasty surprise factor played an alarming role in the negative experience for me. Where would one find the little accidents, morning and night? Treading on dog shit was not going to be in my playbook, if I could, at all, help it.

OK, enough, already, this whole trip to Perth was not going to be about my battles with dog shit and piss. I caught up with family and it was great to see my siblings after a long hiatus in this regard. I am lucky that, as we have all gotten older, the love we share has become front and centre. I suppose, as you get nearer the end, you realise that life is too short for irritants and minor infractions to dominate the score in these relationships. Nice meals were shared in homes and out in cafes. My brother and I even played a little golf amid the tree lined fairways of a course on the Swan River. Lively discussions, about the terrible Trump and the plight of the world whilst he is in it, were features of our engagements. Walks around Fremantle and old memories like ghosts danced in the streets before my mind’s eye. A visit to the Terracotta Warriors at the Perth Museum had us staring into the ancient past, amid a laser light show playing upon the walls. History can only shine its illumination upon those prepared to seek it out. Dementia strips away memories and those who live life without acknowledgement of history are, often, lost.

At one afternoon tea with a friend and family member we talked about death. Our own impending deaths and those nearest and dearest who had already departed this mortal coil. It was not depressing, rather it was liberating to speak openly and honestly of such things. The Earl Grey tea was refreshing too. Out on the public reserve across the road from where we were sitting I could see through the window a man walking multiple canines. I wondered if he did this for a living? Surely, he could not own so many dogs, there must have been 6 or 7. Later, another dog walker hit golf balls there, despite the prominent sign clearly depicting the illegality of this practice. Was this an act of public defiance in the suburbs? I did, some days later, discover that the public driving ranges at Wembley and Collier Park were both closed for renovations over many weeks. I took photos of what is now in the place of what was once our old family home. A Mcmansion filling the entire space of what was home and garden. Memories and time moving on in a discordant arrangement.

Not Taking The Shitting Lying Down

I did not take the dog shitting lying down. I did not, only, bitch and whinge about it to my family and friends. I took action too. I barricaded the living room, where I spent most of my time in the house, from access to the dog. It seemed cruel at first but necessity is the mother of invention. I tired of scrubbing carpets and cleaning up dog poop from where I ate my meals and watched TV. Misty still did her walking loops of the house but was deterred from entering the living room. She formulated new routes for her constant constitutionals. This small victory for me and my new micro-environment did not free me from the greater excremental shower, however. Indeed, I later surmised that we may have begun a territorial war for this home.

Misty, quite likely, and despite her many afflictions, may have seen me (well not actually seen me) as an interloper in her home. Dogs, like many animals, are territorial and their pissing and shitting are directly related to that. Misty upped the ante and the rate and volume of dog shit increased markedly. One morning I came upon piles of excrement that had been subsequently trodden into carpets and floorboards. You see, being blind she trod over her own crap and imprints of faeces would leave smelly tracks all over the house. It was like a mad pigmy sized artist working in the medium of excrement creating brown maps. Little footprints in shit dotted everywhere. My compassion was being sorely tested and not being a natural carer it was new territory for me. I did begin to feel somewhat depressed. You know, what you see around you, can affect you. An old demented dog shitting everywhere  can get you down at times. Was this an augury of my own future? A glimpse of where we are all heading in the end?

I would not go down without a fight, however. Misty had ramped it up and I was forced to meet the challenge head on. I counted the days I had already seen off and notated the number of poops and pisses within that framework. It equated to more than a dozen and a half of dog shit incidents and double that of pissing puddles and wet patches on the carpets. I did what I could in the circumstances. I extended the barricading and shut off more rooms throughout the house. This limited the pathways of the dog but when push comes to shove, needs must. I found more dog excrement in places that I had not imagined she would poo.

It Was Never About The View!

How did I facilitate the barricading? What did I employ in their construction? My first port of call was a large folded up massage table, which managed to block off a wide entranceway into the living room. I backed this up at a subsequent entrance into that large room with a coffee table turned on its side. Following this I used whatever I could find. Smaller side tables turned on their sides. Large decorative clay pots. A step ladder. Really big cushions. Misty was a good sport about this, in that she did not try and push the envelope in terms of knocking my erections down. She took it all in good spirit and, merely, made her way elsewhere on her circuitous wanderings about the house. Yes, her universe was getting smaller by the day but in her limited sensory experience it was never about the view.

The Final Solution

The final solution, which only came right at the end of my stay, was not taken easily by me. I did not rush to impose this last measure in the war against Doggie dementia: My month of pet poop and piss in Perth.  I thought long and hard about the possible ramifications of my decision to take this step. I reviewed the evidence of my last 26 days in regard to Misty’s proclivities to piss and shit within the house. My brother had even purchased a packet of doggie diapers from a pet warehouse. However, I imagined getting these on the dog and more disgustingly getting them off soiled and wet. I had decided to skip this methodology. I had toyed with grabbing the dog at first signs of defecation and had succeeded in averting a piss via extracting and removing Misty outside in the nick of time. Unfortunately, for the most part, the ‘so-called’ accidents occurred whilst I was sleeping. Therefore, I decided to lock her into the only room in the house where she had not pissed or pooped in over the preceding 26 days and nights. It would only be for the period I was sleeping. This would stop the nasty surprises of where I would find Misty’s waste deposits. The first time I did this it worked like a charm. Perhaps, I had found the solution and only lucked upon it at the penultimate date of my housing sitting completion. The next night proved me oh so wrong in this estimation of the situation.

A Travesty For An Off-White Carpet

This room was J’s study and contained Misty’s dog bed and cushion. What I found upon rising that day was a travesty for an off white carpet. Shit trodden into just about every fibre of that carpet and the stench was overwhelming. Piss stains galore too. On my last day I had a lot of work to do to restore this room to something that a home owner would want to return to. Emergencies are always harder to deal with when you are in unfamiliar surrounds. Where is the vacuum cleaner for instance? Where are the cleaning products? I had exhausted the original supply of carpet cleaner. They had cleaners coming in every other week so I had not been doing this stuff myself up until this moment. The only Hoover I found was woeful in performance, so no joy there. My rummaging through cupboards and sheds was unsuccessful. A trip to the supermarket was demanded to pick up the necessary cleaning products and accessories. I ended up on my hands and knees hand scrubbing the carpet with the assistance of purchased brush and can of carpet foam. The smell was bad. The odour of the carpet foam was fairly astringent itself. The fibres were wet and needed drying. I turned on the overhead ceiling fan on full speed. Opened doors; and banished the dog outside. The sun was shining outdoors and hells bells I reckoned it would be good for her health. A lot of swearing entailed over this operation, as time ran out for me. Dealing with a dog with dementia and deaf and blind and arthritic too was a big ask in terms of living cheek by jowl with it inside. I held no personal animosity toward Misty; it was not that kind of battle. No, this had been an insight into the downward physical spiral that all creatures can endure. Of course, everyone I spoke to about the dog recommended that it be put down for its own benefit, let alone mine. I do understand strong sentimental feeling towards pets, however. Dementia can be tricky too because they have their sprightly moments. There comes a time, however.

Misty & Access All Areas

Doggie Dementia: My month of pet poop and piss in Perth. It rained a lot during my time there, house sitting and looking after a very old dog. Plenty of cold and wet days filled my calendar month. It was a strange interlude for a petless fella, I suppose? We project our own feelings onto pets, as they cannot verbalise in our linguistic terms one way or another, really. We think that we can read the signs and interpret their body language. But these would deliver only the broadest brushstrokes of insights into their existence. I did sense that Misty was pretty happy to see the return of J and P. I mean, we all appreciate the return of the familiar, even more so after a trip away. Down came the barricades and Misty could access all areas. I shared the messy truth with J and P, sensitively and without rancour. They are planning another holiday soon, this time on home soil in WA, and plan to take Misty along in the campervan with them. What can I say, I wish them the best of luck.  I passed on the packet of doggie diapers.

What Price A Good Death?

What are my takeaways from this experience? Watching an old dog deal with the infirmities of old age up close. The initial response is that it is awful to witness an animal obviously suffering so. I mean, animals appear to lack the intellectual life to rationalise away the degeneration of their physical selves. I did not possess 17 years of shared history with Misty and, thus, was not conflicted in my estimation that euthanasia (means good death in Ancient Greek) would be best.

Our Visceral Reaction To Shit

“There’s no denying it, we can’t stand excrement. But why? To find out, we need to see which animals share our disgust, and which ones do the exact opposite.

Humans, as a rule, hate poo. Our love for our children generally outweighs our aversion to their bodily waste, but nobody actually enjoys changing a dirty nappy. At baby showers in the US, a game involving eating chocolate from clean, unused nappies still thoroughly grosses participants out. Many species share our aversion to faeces, however others actively seek it out – a finding that highlights the evolutionary logic beneath our apparently visceral reactions to waste.

Disgust, according to Charles Darwin, is one of the six most basic, universal emotions. The facial expression of it, which by some measures is recognisable across cultures, involves the wrinkling of the nose combined with a frown. This outward expression is accompanied by inner physiological changes like lowered blood pressure, reduced skin conductance and nausea.”

• (https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20131111-hate-poo-theres-good-reason-why)

Robots Don’t Crap

Watching The Ducks Go By

“There I am sitting in my living room gazing out the front window. A warm feeling is generated by the return visit of mister and missus duck and their trailing ducklings. Watching the ducks go by, I notice that the brood is down to 5 when it had counted 7 a couple of days ago. I ponder stuff about the meaning of life. Suddenly, a flurry of activity as duck parents race after the next-door cat and the ducklings are now down to 4. Nature, hey? We view it through rose coloured glasses, when in actual fact, if you actually live in it – it is brutal.”

• (https://wordsforweb.com.au/watching-the-ducks-go-by/)

Robert Sudha Hamilton is the author of What Price Life?, The Stoic Golfer; Money Matters and America Matters: Pre-apocalyptic Posts & Essays in the Shadow of Trump.

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