Weekend at PFT's (It's Like Weekend At Bernie's But This Time Only PFT's Brother, Eric, Died)

This past weekend, I had the distinct privilege of dog sitting for PFT while he was galavanting down the East Coast. For everyone who doesn’t know, PFT’s dog, Leroy, is a Mastiff, and probably the largest dog I have ever seen. He has an entire couch to himself in PFT’s house, produces more slobber than any organism in the world, and moves at a maximum speed of roughly 1 mile/hour. Although the entire weekend wasn’t overly eventful, there were definitely some moments worth sharing.

First of all, Leroy’s exercise regiment consists of three walks a day: a half block in the morning and around noon, and a full block in the evening. However, he also sleeps for over 20 hours every day, most of the time on his couch, so getting him to exercise is quite a fickle mistress.

I found it best to wake him up with a tender scratch about six inches beneath the base of his neck, right in the sweet spot where there is just enough skin to make the scratch feel pleasant. After waking him up, Leroy, without fail, needs to be goaded off the couch with a treat. Leroy’s legs are taller that the couch, so he doesn’t really get off the couch, he emerges from it. The walks themselves are relatively mundane, if you consider anywhere from ten-to-fifteen people taking pictures of a dog while on walking a half-block within the category of the relatively mundane. After the walk, it’s always back to catching some Z’s.

The second thing that I feel is worth-while mentioning is Leroy’s love of pizza. PFT told me that I could eat anything in his house, which, considering one of PMT’s sponsors is Omaha Steaks so his freezer is loaded with all of the meat one man could ever need, seems like a dream. However, I am a millennial, and my incompetency extends well into the kitchen. Earlier this summer, I learned how to make scrambled eggs as well as spaghetti, so cooking up a country fried steak or some bacon was not even within the realm of possibilities.

Because of this, I used ordered a large bacon pizza from Postmates, one of my favorite features of a big city. 45 minutes later, all of my troubles in the kitchen whisked away thanks to clicking my mouse three times on my laptop. What followed was one of the most awkward experiences I have had since being in New York. Leroy watched me for the next half hour from this position:

He went from being an immovable object to gazing intently at the pie. All the while, I scarfed down slice after slice like, well, a starving intern living in New York City on a budget that is menial at best. On Saturday night, I watched 7 episodes of the newest season of Last Chance U while coincidentally eating 7 slices of ‘za.

Finally, getting to PFT’s was an experience in and of itself (I hate myself for using that phrase). I thought I got on the correct train, but instead of getting off near the house, the train went over a mile past the stop. Instead of hopping on another train and risking another potential fiasco, I decided to walk 1.3 miles in the light rain.

I think I’m back at PFT’s this weekend while Pardon My Take is jet-setting across the United States, so hopefully there will be more stories from good boy Leroy.