“Pants” is not a verb in that title; it’s definitely a noun.

I “babysat” my friends’ dogs while they were on an 8-day camping trip earlier this month. Two Jack Russell Terriers and a young Schnauzer were entrusted to my care, and the mere fact that I survived the week is testimony to my cunning, ingenuity, and the fact that I’m just slightly smarter than the three of them combined.

For those who’ve never been around Jack Russell Terriers, let me just say one thing about them as a general species observation: They are great jumpers. Never met a Jack Russell who couldn’t easily jump as high as I could reach to snag a doggie treat.

The problem arises when they are so happy to see you that they decide to jump up into your arms to say hello and you don’t always see it coming. Fifteen pounds of hurling dog missile aimed directly at your midsection, times two, and the average person doesn’t stand a chance.

But I love these dogs, and I’ve cared for them on other occasions, so I’m well-prepared for all their quirky shenanigans. They’ve got quite the personalities, and never cease to keep me entertained.

One of them eats undoggy-like, with a slow deliberation, first placing each kibble out on the floor before eating it. The one I call Miss Piggy gobbles it all up and goes nosing around the other bowls looking to score a bite here and there. The schnauzer doesn’t eat much of anything the first two days his people are away.

So I wore my “dog pants” every time I went over to tend to them. These are my “I don’t care if they get all dirty and dog-printed” pants. These are the pants where I hide a few milk bones in the pockets, assuring me my charges won’t stray too far when we’re out chasing the ball every afternoon.

Dogs are wonderful, and I love these little mutts, but I don’t want one of my own. From time to time I like to wear a different pair of slacks.