A huge black Newfoundland
dog lumbered toward me and I knew my life was over. Supposedly a person’s life
flashes before their eyes when they face death.
I only managed to wonder if massive amounts of dog slobber were
toxic. I furiously clicked my
handy-dandy dog zapper but it didn’t faze him.
He skidded to a stop two feet from me and underneath the slobber, I swear he grinned.
“He just
wanted some attention,” my husband suggested when I told him
later. “So what did you do?”
“Got back
in the car. You’ll have to go back and
read their meter.”
“I can’t keep reading meters every time a dog
scares you,” Keith said in exasperation.
“If you want to keep this job, you need thicker skin.”
Ah, well,
there you have it. If I want to keep this job. Some
months I’m not so sure. I’d landed this
crazy job to generate a little extra income.
For driving to every house in our township once a month and reading 127 electric meters,
I earn roughly $100 a month. Subtracting
$20 for gas and vehicle wear and tear, and provided I finished in four hours, I
make $20 an hour.
Meter reading looked easy
enough. Our old meter reader drove to
our power pole, read the meter, and drove away.
He didn’t even get out of the car.
Piece of cake, I thought. Nothing
to it. When our township’s meter
reading job opened up, I applied, blissfully unaware that not all meters are
created equal.
The first
clue this might be more than I bargained for should have been that my
predecessor had quit in December. I
started February 1, on an unseasonably warm winter morning, so didn’t discover
for nine more months how unpleasant meter reading is in subzero weather.
I was shocked
that some meters were harder than ours to read.
Some meters are behind people’s
houses or buildings. Some are in a field. That means I have to get out of the car to
read them, which is only a problem in the aforementioned freezing weather, or
if the homeowner has a scary dog.
Halfway through my first day, after
climbing over fences, dodging goats, slogging through mud, walking behind a
stinky hog barn, and being scared by dogs, I thought, “Angie, you idiot.”
REC provided a dog zapper that
makes a noise only dogs can hear and don’t like, and a can of mace, in case the
zapper doesn't work. What had I gotten
myself into?
I told Keith about my first day. He rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’ll want me to go with you.”
What a great idea. Then he could climb fences, slog through mud,
and handle scary dogs. I even offered to
share my “easy money.”
The second month, Keith and I set out,
armed with dog zapper, mace, binoculars, and dog treats. I was tickled we finished in four hours,
until I realized technically, that’s more like eight, which means we only made
$10 an hour.
Keith took me home and said he’d
finish the route on his way into town. He called twenty minutes later.
“Could Andrew (our son) come pull
me out of the ditch?”
“What happened?”
“What do you think happened? I went in the ditch.”
“How?”
“I was doing your job for you and misjudged my turn and slid into the ditch.”
Hmmpf! My job. If he gets half the money, it’s his job
too. Serves him right.
We settled into a monthly routine,
which worked great until the first time Keith couldn’t go.
“But what about the dog houses?” I
wailed.
“Do them yourself.”
“You could do them on your way into town,” I
reasoned. “Call me with the numbers and
I’ll do the rest.”
“Just this once, and then you need
to learn not to be afraid.”
Hah! Easier said than done. I considered telling REC their meter reading
ads don’t give near enough information.
They need a disclaimer: "Wimpy women afraid of dogs need not apply.”
Finally the dreaded day
arrived. Keith couldn’t go with me, and
I couldn’t, for love or money, talk him into doing the dog houses on the way
into town. He used the lame excuse he
was going a different direction.
“They aren’t as bad as you
think. Show the dogs who’s boss,” Keith
advised. "Don’t let them know you’re
afraid. The Harper’s dog won’t hurt
you. He’s just big, dumb, and stupid.”
Big,
dumb, and stupid. Big, dumb, and stupid,
I kept telling myself. I warily opened the car door and started towards the
house. The stupid dog jumped on me and
growled. Keith said the dog wouldn’t
hurt me, but he looked even bigger up close.
We played a variation of Mother,
May I? “Big, dumb, and stupid dog, may I read your meter?”
“No, you may not,” he growled. Turns out he wasn’t so stupid after all. He saw right through my not letting him know
I was scared act. His alpha dog
instincts kicked in as he smelled my fear and wouldn’t let me onto to his
property.
I explained all this in great
detail to Keith that afternoon.
“So what did you do?” he asked
suspiciously.
“Maybe you wouldn’t mind reading it
for me?”
He muttered unprintable words and
left to read the meter.
Besides Big, Dumb, and Stupid and the slobbering Newfoundland with
his speeding train imitation, the dogs that
scared me most were Rex, the big German shepherd down the
road who tolerated Keith but growled at me, the Hank the Cowdog wannabe next
door, the evil Dalmatian two miles east, a vicious mutt two miles west that
scared even Keith, and two obnoxious car-chasing Collies who lived around the
corner.
After two years we’d seen it all.
We’d been stuck in snow three times, and mud two times. We’d seen dead fly-infested bloated pigs
piled by a power box. Once we returned the
meter reading book and forgot to read our own meter.
Over time meter reading got easier. The evil Dalmatian was put down for biting
the Propane man. We learned how to sneak
up on Rex the German Shepherd. Big,
Dumb, and Stupid moved to Idaho. The drooling Newfoundland
died. (His owners said he went deaf;
that’s why the dog-zapper hadn’t bothered him.)
Keith and I split the route,
although I suspect not evenly since he finished in two hours and I finished in
three. But he did the dog houses
including two huge bull mastiffs that moved in that last summer.
I rejoiced the day REC called to
regretfully inform me they no longer needed my services as the system had been
automated. I was elated to be out of a
job as I had long since decided that some things just aren’t worth the money. Especially after Keith broke the news to me
that we didn’t actually make any money.
Our electric bill averaged $100 a month so we had basically broke even.
Moral of the story: Only buy
nice dogs, don’t put a meter on the back of your house, and think twice before taking
an “easy” job.
