I suspect the plans made by the Navy SEALs to capture Osama bin Laden were less detailed than some of the missives I have left behind with house and pet sitters when we go away. We used to live in a large, old Victorian house, where the list of things that had gone wrong or might go wrong was endless.

I would leave a large legal pad on my kitchen counter weeks before our departure and write down wildly important directions for the pet sitter as they burst in to my head.

“When we first bought the house, seven years ago, the sewer backed up into the basement. It is most unlikely this will happen again, but if it does, call this plumber because he knows the house inside and out (no pun intended).”

Or, “When it snows heavily, snow tends to avalanche off our roof with such force that it could snap your neck. When exiting the house, say a few Hail Marys and fling yourself down the front stairs in an effort to avoid being killed.”

“Here is what you should do if …” The pipes freeze. The cat brings a mouse in to the house. The boiler explodes. The washing machine gets stuck on the agitation cycle.

All are unlikely, all are possible. You know your house — it is like another family member. Now you must describe it, as if you were leaving whacky Aunt Sally in someone’s else care.

And then we get to the dogs: “Jeremiah likes to sleep on the brown couch, but we prefer that he sleep on the blue one.” “Kayak likes his pill once a day with honey roasted peanut butter from Whole Foods, not the Jiffy that is in the cabinet. That is for the children.”

And the cats: “Cecily pees in the maroon gym bag in my daughter’s room if you leave that door open. Please be sure that door is shut.” “If Butterbean seems flatulent, cut back on his treats, and call this vet.”

We once had to leave a cat that had been hit by a car and had a broken pelvis. We left her only because we had a family wedding to attend.

The instructions for caring for that cat, who lived in a crate on our dining room table for nearly two months, were in a 40-page manual complete with index, bar graphs and troubleshooting tips. That, I must say, was one of my finest vacation handbooks.

I have recently acquired chickens. “Beulah likes to roost in the tree; the headlamp to find her at night is hanging on the hook on the door in the downstairs bathroom.” “Minnie Ripperton somehow seems to escape all the time, and I cannot figure out why, so keep a close eye on her.” “Fiona is partial to linguine.”

This is essential: “If all the chickens escape, they tend to stick together like lemmings, and I have found using a broom to herd them back to the coop works best. We have come to call this Chicken Hockey.”

And don’t even get me started on feeding live crickets to the upstairs lizard. 

– Special to the Telegram