I got my walking papers

I just got FIRED from a dog walking job. Fired. I didn't even last six weeks. Of course, that proved to be more than enough time to get a glimpse into that particular world, and half the reason I did it was to write stories, so I'm mostly relieved. I can't even believe it, though. It's funny, it really is.
This, I think, best explains the reason.

Scroll on down to Poem of the Week. The extra-long linebreaks are an editorial addition.

Man.
More later, when I get over the absurdity of it all.
Or at least when I'm feeling inspired enough to go back and fill in all the ridiculous details I haven't written about yet.

Day 24 (zzzzz)

So, absolutely nothing of note took place today. Regarding the dogs, anyhow. It being the holidays and all, I'm down to 2 steady walks this week, with a couple of others thrown in here and there. Which amounts to a paltry income. So it might have been unwise to buy music, but fuck it. I did anyway.
The Kinks, The Cramps and Thee Headcoats.

While out to dinner with a friend, I gave her the lowdown on how sick I am of this job already.
"I mean, look at this! I'm wearing three shirts, a sweater, and a coat. I feel like the fucking Michelin man." I said, peeling off layers.

"You mean you were walking the dogs dressed like that?" she asked.

I nodded.

"You are the most stylish dogwalker I've ever seen." she told me, and started laughing. "I would think you wore sweatpants or something."

I frowned. "I don't even own sweatpants." I told her.

Then a friend in town from London called.
"So I'm intrigued about this dogwalking gig." she said.

"Well, there's absolutely nothing intriguing about it." I said.

"Do you get to bring the dogs around town?" she asked.

"No way. I thought it was going to be all relaxing, just walking around with dogs, but it's on a tight schedule. I have to go to the dog, take it out, bring it back, hurry to the next one, and do the same thing again. It's like having to be at work five times a day, instead of just once."

"Can I come with you?" she wanted to know.

"Well, yeah, okay." I said. I'd thought she hated dogs. I remember one time about ten years ago when we were stoned-out kids in a park on the Hudson River. It was a spring day, and someone's cocker spaniel came bounding across the grass directly towards her. She'd sort of backed away, but not quickly enough. The dog had leapt up onto her, and planted both its muddy forepaws onto her shirt. For the rest of the afternoon, she had two brown pawprints on her chest, which kept making us laugh.

Actually, it might be funny if she came with me.
"Yeah, give me a call tomorrow around 1:00." I told her.

Day 23 (busted, return of dog 3)

December 27, 2004

It seems wrong to be working today. I mean, I know most people are, and Xmas isn’t really a big deal to me anyhow, but still.
I got sort of busted for being late one day last week. The cold I’d had made me run late a couple of days, which I didn’t really feel all that bad about. It’s not like I called in sick or anything. I still went out in the cold with a cold and dutifully picked up dog waste.
But I guess when I wrote one of the cards (sickeningly cute pre-printed pink affairs with checkboxes for “pee” and “poo”) I didn’t happen to mention the walk time was an hour later than usual. Why would I have? The dog can’t tell time. I did my job.
But strangely enough, I saw this problem slowly approaching last week.
When I was at the the same owner’s apartment the next day, the card with the incorrect time was sitting coldly and starkly alone on the table next to the door. The following day it had been moved to the kitchen. Some intuitive force inside me saw that damn card and knew it was going to be a point of contention.
Sure enough, I got a voice mail message from the Man with the Dogs this morning,. He said the owner was concerned because one day last week she had been at home until 2:30, and I hadn’t showed. Then when she had gone out and returned, I had left a note saying I had been there at 1:45. Ugh.
First if all, if you’re home, why do you need me to walk your dog? Secondly, I’m a big proponent of taking up problems with the people you actually have them with. Instead, she chose to go over me to the Man with the Dogs. Fine, take it up with management, but I would think it denies you the gratification of confronting me yourself.
So I ended up not only calling back the Man with the Dogs with my explanation, but (hopefully) pointedly leaving the owner a note. You know, so she gets that not all transactions have to go through a third party. My explanation was this: I was sick all last week, and ran late on a couple of days, and must have meant to put the correct (late) time on the note, but my mind was so muddled by cold medicine that I erroneously wrote 1:45.
I guess that explains why I didn’t even get a “Have a nice holiday” note from Owner 4 on the day before Xmas.

So, I was forced to deal with Dog 3 today, after a merciful near-week without him. I was silently praying his owners had made the same stupid mistake of locking both locks, so I wouldn’t be able to get in and could go straight home, but no luck.
And the cleaning lady was there, anyway, so I would have been able to get in regardless.
“Mucho frio?” she asked me
“Uh, yeah. Si, si.” I answered.
Dog 3 was dreamily tucked into a corner of the couch, amongst his embroidered pillows. In rousing him, I saw one that had previously escaped my notice. It was small, and velvet, and said: WHEN I GET SICK OF SHOPPING, I TRY ON SHOES.
“Jesus.” I muttered out loud to myself.
Not only was it a thoroughly disgusting sentiment, full of blasé capitalism and reeking of small-minded spoiledness, but it scarcely made any sense. If the bearer of the pillow was so sick of shopping, why didn’t they just go home?

“Come on, let’s go.” I said to the dog, who was yawning as I pulled his limbs through the harness. We stood to leave.

The cleaning lady said something I didn’t catch most of, aside from ‘perro’ and ‘frio’. I looked at her, and she said it again, gesturing towards a table in the living room.
“Mucho frio.” She said.
I looked over and saw a small coat, presumably for Dog 3.
Goddamnit, I thought. Shouldn’t you be on my side?
But with her looking, I couldn’t not put the coat on the dog. Nor could I pretend I didn’t understand.
It was ridiculous to begin with, of course, but what made it worse was that it was a sort of sporty-looking coat, for such a lazy, decidedly un-sporty animal.
So we went out, both of us wearing coats. For christ’s sake.

Day 18 (the hidden poetry of the dumb)

My least favorite dog’s owners are just stupid people. It didn’t take me all that long to figure it out, considering I’d never even met them. I could just tell. After the first day, when I went to fill out the ridiculous pink report card for the dog and in glancing around, did not immediately see a pen, a bell went off. Not only no pen, but no pencil, crayon, marker, chalk- nothing to write with. I don’t trust people who never write anything down.

Plus they always leave the television on for the dog. And I can just tell who left home last, between the husband and the wife. Most times I let myself in and am immediately greeted by the sight of –no, not the lackadaisical dog—the large-screen TV lingering on a dewy close-up of some bad actor or actress, with their skittery soap-opera eye contact and thick foundation. I’m guessing that’s the Mrs. But once in a while, the TV’s tuned to MSNBC, with its tabloid take on everything, and freeway of news crawls racing across the bottom of the screen. The dog’s never watching anyway.

Today’s visit, however, unearthed a new gem of evidence of their dullness. Not only theirs, but their friends. In the corner of the living room, on top of a speaker, sort of hidden behind an armchair, was an 8x10 Lucite picture frame, the kind that’s all one piece, with a curved base.
There wasn’t a photo in there, though. I looked closer. It was a poem! A poem for the couple’s wedding, written by one of their friends. I seized it with horrified glee, sure it would be bad. That much was apparent from the appearance of the document itself—it was centered narrowly and painstakingly down the page in a large, florid font, and different “stanzas” were printed in a dazzling variety of vivid colors. Dotted mechanically around the borders were primitive looking clip art images of gift boxes, complete with bows on top. It looked like something I would have done as a child.
I also noticed that each stanza was exactly four lines long, and that at some point, something had gotten spilled on it, so a few of the gifts were streaky.

I stood there and read the whole thing, snickering at choice lines, while the Dog sulked in its bed, shifting fitfully every now and then.
The poem was perfectly rhyming couplets, ab ab ab ab ab ab. It was all about how she was so great, and pretty, and he was so handsome, and great, and how they’re such a great couple, and they were just meant to be.
“Yuck.” I said as I put it back down, and tried to rally the dog for its walk. I glanced at the TV. Some big-haired woman was yelling about Brad.

God they were dumb. Dumb, rich, arrogant people just about my age, who lived in a penthouse in one of New York’s most expensive neighborhoods and had a bratty dog that they left the TV on for all day, and needlepoint pillows exalting shopping, but never any pens lying around.

Day 17 (moxie-filled old lady in an elevator)

Day 17

I was sort of hung over today, but the thing about working with dogs is, they never notice.
Last night was the bar’s holiday extravaganza- a bunch of bands, burlesque dancers, and for me, at least, too many shots of Maker’s Mark. We’d run out of Jameson halfway through the evening.
Fortunately, it was the kind of hangover that’s essentially won over by a large coffee, and the weather was mild and sunny, so that helped, too.
It was unexpectedly pay day as well. Apparently the payroll people get one hell of a holiday vacation, because the next time I’ll see a check won’t be for three more weeks.

There was the best woman on the elevator this afternoon, in the building where Dogs 4 & 5 live. I’d seen her a bunch of times before, always in the lobby at the mailboxes in mid-day, always in fuzzy black slippers. I mean, really fuzzy. The type of material used to make gorilla suits. She’s got to be in her 70s, solidly built, grey-haired. She has an air of toughness to her.
So, we both got into the painfully slow elevator, and the first door slowly closed. There was a pause before the inner door began its tedious slide shut, and the woman sighed and stared up at the ceiling.
“Come on, already. Slowest elevator in town!” she said.
Behind her, I started laughing. She could’ve said “in the world” or “ever”, but the fact that she’d called it the slowest elevator in town cracked me up. There was something of vaudeville in her delivery.
She turned to me, snickering in the corner, and reached out to sort of sock me in the arm.
“If anyone wanted to murder you, they’d be done with it by the time the doors shut!” she said, gesturing towards them, starting to laugh.
I nodded, grinned. The elevator slowly rose.
“You’d be done before the doors shut.”
“Yup.” I said.
“Ah- I’ve only been telling them for the 39 years I’ve lived in this building.” She said, not particularly bitterly.
The car came to an eventual halt at her floor.
“Oh. Well, maybe they’ll fix it next year.” I said.
The door slid back, and she turned to look at me. When she saw me smiling, she knew I was giving her fuel.
“Hah!” she said, as she swung back the outside door and strode out into the hallway.
I kept laughing in the elevator by myself.

Day 16 (the thin veneer of patience wears through)

The Man with the Dogs just loooves to use the phone. Often, and mostly unnecessarily. As per the advice of my roommate, himself a former dogwalker, I made sure to lay down the law with MWTD immediately regarding last-minute walks by saying I could never do them. Ever. I mean, I thought I’d been clear on that the first week.
So when he called this morning as I was hastily drinking coffee, putting on my shoes and keeping an ear out for the Weather on the 1s segment (I’ve never been such a hawk for the weather reports before) I was annoyed, because it’s almost never anything new or important. On the contary, he’s more likely to forget to call when a walk has been cancelled.

I hurried into my room to pick up the phone, and sure enough, the caller was “Unknown”. I refuse to answer the phone by greeting him personally. I mean, he attempts to mask his identity by blocking his number, and on the one hand it’s no surprise who he is because “Unknown” is always him, but on the other there’s something equally weird about hiding behind the façade of “Unknown” and then saying “Good Morning” without identifying himself. And then pausing.
And waiting for me to recognize his voice, and say “Oh, hey.”
Like we’re pals.
Seriously. He does this. Never says “Hey, it’s the Man with the Dogs.” Just says Hello, or Good Morning, and then waits for me to recognize his voice.
Fucking wierdo.

So, the big deal and reason for the phone call this morning was a “favor”. I hate it when I am asked for a “favor”. First of all, it makes me think of the phrase ‘party favor’, and then I am resentful, because a party favor equals fun, and I immediately know that anytime someone is asking for a favor, the favor will not be fun. Plus it is usually accompanied by a wheedling tone and is overall a juvenile thing to ask for.

The favor was this: Could I walk Dog 3 twice today? And Dog 4, too, and also twice tomorrow?

I’ll tell you, I couldn’t help it. I know MWTD is my employer and all, and we’ve had this baroquely polite tone thus far, but I snapped on him. Without even thinking, I snarled:
“Look! I told you when I started I can’t EVER do last-minute walks! I can’t deal with this shit.” Then I felt bad. “Sorry. I mean, this stuff.” I said, more composed.

I have never, in my life, corrected myself when I curse or yell at someone. Partly because I always mean it if I do, and in the cases that I know I should be more delicate, I rephrase in my head before I speak.
But that is a testament to how annoying this man is.

I told him I could most likely do the second walk tomorrow, to soften the blow.
He said he’d find someone else for tonight.

Later that morning, I had another call from him, which I ignored. When I listened to the message, he actually sounded sheepish. I think I scared him.

Day 15 (pretending to be French)

I had a dream last week that I was having a conversation (with faceless, unidentifiable dream-people) about dogs in French, which I don’t even really know. So I pretended to be French today.
It felt particularly appropriate when I took out Dog 3, a Bichon Frise. Actually, I didn’t even know what sort of a dog he was until the other day, when a fellow person-with-a-dog mentioned it.
“Is he a Bichon?” she’d asked.
“Yes.” I said, smiling. It made sense. Sure.
“My mother has one.”
A lot of West Village dog people are so brittlely friendly. Like if one dog approaches another, they smile and beam like it just took a step on the goddamn moon. Which I guess in and of itself isn’t so bad. It’s just that so many of them have this reserved, polite, refined, proper demeanor they affect while they’re in the midst of what is essentially two animals tied to strings sniffing at each others’ asses. Like that’s the time for an overexertion of manners on their part. It’s funny to me, but I guess you get used to it if you deal with it every day. It’s still funny to me, though.

Anyway, I figured what better place to pretend to be French than in the West Village. I left for work listening to Stereolab, and wearing red lipstick, a leopard coat, and black leather gloves. On the subway, a couple wearing sunglasses were, for some reason, talking about me. I could tell. When I looked at them, I decided it was with admiration, judging by their expressions. For my chic appearance. I imagined they were French, too.

I thought it might make a difference with maddening Dog 3, if I took another approach with him. A French approach.
“Allons-y!” I said a lot, in an upbeat tone, instead of my usual muttered “Come on.”
It actually seemed to keep him moving. I smoked a cigarette and adjusted my sunglasses, noting with joy that 3 had expelled all waste (not even on a silver grate) within a record eight minutes. Chouette!

On the way back to 3’s building, one of the West Village Dog People came up the street with a cocker spaniel. The dogs began to slowly circle each other, but no fangs were bared.
“Allo.” I said to the other dog in my higher-than-normal tone. “Allo.”
I was wondering if I could successfully be phony-French and get away with it. I could if conversation was limited.
“Nice dog.” The guy said. “How old?.”
“Ohhh…” Should I pretend not to know English? Or just have an accent?
I dropped it. Screw that. I didn’t want to have to run into this guy again and always have to pretend to be not only French, but also the owner of Dog 3. It was too complicated. I might forget one day. Or he might start asking questions about France. Or he might go there every summer or something. It's one thing to pretend to be French in your head and to dogs, but I, for one, wasn't about to go the extra mile to sustain that type of delusion with another human.
“I really don’t know. I just walk him.” I said, and flicked my cigarette butt into the street.
“Oh.” He responded, and waited the loaded few seconds when I knew he really just wanted to split.
“Bye now.” He said.
“Au Revoir.” I responded.

Day 14 (Part 1- PMS; the indulgence of my least favorite dog)

Day 14

This is what kind of a day I had:
I reprimanded a woman who jostled me on 1st Avenue this morning and didn’t apologize. Later, I yelled at a man whose dog was unleashed in Gramercy, and rounded out the day by giving the finger to a little girl in the West Village.

I have PMS. It takes a certain amount of introspection to realize it sometimes, to not automatically blame outside influences. Or at least acknowledge that while the outside influences are vexing, it is partially the blame of hormones that makes me react so vehemently and vocally. A sure sign is whenever one of the first words out my mouth in the morning is “goddamnit.” That’s how I know the reserve of patience on hand that day will be thin and worn, like a favorite bathrobe.

It’s the second day in a row that The Man with the Dogs called within 10 minutes of my alarm clock waking me up. I don’t feel as if it’s too much to ask, to have an hour to myself before I have to think about what I’m going to be doing with the next several hours in the freezing cold. The reason why he called was left on my voice mail instead of me dealing with it directly. He suggested that I should leave Dogs 1&2 for later, go instead to Dogs 3&5 first, then go up to 1&2, afterwards heading over to Dog 6, before going back downtown to re-walk 3&5. For the second day in a row, too, no mention was made of Dog 4. Yesterday I showed up to take her out, and she wasn’t there. So I figured no Dog 4 today, either, although I wondered when this would be made known to me officially. I would be much more annoyed if Dog 4 didn’t live directly next door to Dog 5. It really only results in a loss of 30 seconds of time. But still.

As soon as I got off the subway, I received a message from one of the owners of my least favorite dog, who coincidentally or not, are my least favorite owners. He asked me to call him at his office so we could talk “for 5 or 10 minutes” and he could give me some “pointers” about the dog. I wish to hell he was a Pointer, instead of a fluffy, indulged lap dog. He has embroidered pillows, for Christ’s sake. Come on.

When I called, he began by announcing that the Dog (3) had had some “accidents” in the apartment, so maybe if I knew a few of his idiosyncracies, and was extra-patient, and he were to get used to me, this wouldn’t happen. He told me that I should bring him to “silver grates”, where, presumably, he would feel more comfortable taking a crap. Either that or between two parked cars. Okay, I said. Sure.
“I mean, I know it just sounds so strange, but that’s the way he came out…and I don’t know if my wife spoke to you?”
No, I told him flatly. “It’s the first time I’ve spoken to either of you.” The subtext was that it would’ve made a lot more sense to cover this two weeks ago.
“Oh, okay. Well, if you have any questions, you know, just feel free to give me call.”
“Same to you.” I said.
When I hung up, I thought of how cool it would be if someone else walked that dog instead.
A half-hour later, I was still thinking of it as I slowly coaxed 3 to every grate in a two- block radius, with no result. I continuously tried to steer it between parked sets of cars, with no result. It made a point of thoroughly and repeatedly sniffing every scaffolding post and stoop that it sniffed each and every painful day, We were one block from the Hudson River, and the sharp wind that blew up the street made my eyes tear.
Every time another dog came into view, 3 would do his thing of either sitting firmly down on the pavement or straining at the leash, despite the fact that most of the dogs were easily twice his size. I bitterly regretted that a portion of the least was elasticized. It made it more difficult to drag him away.
“This is slow torture.” I said out loud, two or three times.
Eventually, I managed to get 3 home. I didn’t have all day for him to stand there on the sidewalk while my hands grew numb.

Up in Murray Hill, it was sunny. I walked from Park Avenue over to the FDR drive, stopping at a drugstore so I could pick up blank tapes and fresh batteries for my guerilla taping of the Pet CPR class.
As I was waiting to cross 34th Street with a few other people, a middle-aged woman pushed past me from behind, walking into me. She didn’t look back. I gave her an icy stare. “Excuse you.” I said tartly, and marched past her. Fucking rich people.

Day 13 (Pet CPR Class Eve)

I’m still not used to getting up early. I mean, I know it’s not all that early, but my other job bartending is much better suited to my sleeping schedule, so it’s a pain in the ass to have to get out of bed at 10 when I’m used to being up until 4 or 5.
So when The Man With the Dogs called at 9, I got resentful. I looked at my phone to see who was calling. It said “Unknown”, which doesn’t fool anyone. Guess what? If the same person always calls with a blocked number, it’s not going to be a longshot to figure out who “Unknown” is. I went back to sleep, only to be woken up again about fifteen minutes later with another call from Unknown, which I also ignored.

About an hour later, while making coffee, I listened to the messages. There was nothing urgent about them. One was:
OK, so don’t forget the Pet CPR class is tomorrow. You have the address, and the other walker you’ll be meeting there has the check paying for the class, so you’re all set. It should be fun, so have a good time.
I laughed and deleted it.

The second message was:
I gave [another walker] your phone number. She wants to meet up with you outside or downstairs before the class, so here’s her number, give her a call and you can set it up with her.

Great. Does she want me to hold her hand throughout the class, too? For one thing, I don’t think it’s necessary to wait around for someone in a lobby when we can just as easily go there seperately. I don’t get it. I’ll see you there, for christs’s sake.
For another thing, The Man With the Dogs is the one who scheduled evening walks for two of the dogs tomorrow, and advised the instructor that I might be running a few minutes late, so he should know as well as I do that it’s pointless to meet this girl beforehand.

I didn’t write down her number, but I saved that message and drank coffee, marvelling at the level of disorganization.

I wondered about the Pet CPR class intermittently throughout the day. I had told a few friends about it, and they delightedly speculated about it along with me.

“I didn’t even know Pet CPR existed. Are you going to do mouth-to-mouth on dogs?” asked one.

“I have no idea. But I have a feeling that’s exactly what’s going to happen.” I said.
It had occurred to me, but now I thought about it more in-depth. Ugh.
“Hopefully it’ll only be dummies of dogs.” I said.


“What? Are you serious? I want to go!” said another.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re not in the dog-walking field, so I don’t think you’d be allowed to. Don’t worry, though. I’m going to tape the whole thing.”

“Do you even know human CPR?” asked another.

“No.” I admitted.


I pictured the class taking place in a big, gymnasium-like room, with flourescent lighting buzzing overhead and a group of a dozen or so people sitting in a circle. I imagined we would all take turns practicing resuscitation. This was going to be good.

Day 12- (1st Paycheck)

Hooray. I feel rich. I got my first paycheck for this ridiculous job today, even though I had to go all the way uptown to pick it up. Fortunately, it was left for me at the front desk, so I didn’t have to encounter the Man With The Dogs.
I went straight to the bank and deposited all 500-odd dollars of it into my account. No, it’s not that much money. But I was glad to have it, glad that I would be able to pay rent without stress this month.

“You know,” I thought to myself as I filled out the deposit envelope, “I’ll probably get used to this soon. It’s not the worst job I’ve ever had, and look—more than thirty dollars in my bank account is something else I could get used to.”

Such is the sneaky evil of capitalism. Or at least cumulative capitalism. I know damn well if I were ending each day by pocketing 40-something measly bucks, if I was forced to examine the direct rate for each stupid days’ work, I wouldn’t be so amiable about the whole thing.
As I was leaving the bank, I found a note enclosed with the check, which was a printout of an email between MWTD and, I’m supposing, the guy who runs the Pet CPR class, with directions to the place where it’s going to be held.
Handwriiten on the printout was a message from MWTD:
Next Tuesday at 5:30!
It was signed, dismayingly:
Woof woof, [MWTD]

And that made me a little bit sad, to be honest.

Day 11 (crazy ex-drummer in 1970s punk band)

Day 11

Late once, which makes me late for everything.
Walking the first dogs of the day, the slight sunny part of early afternoon before it was to become overcast, and finally, rainy.
I had the puppies, #s1&2, and was trying to manage them both with one hand. My left arm has been mysteriously sprained for a few days. I have no idea why. It’s not like I’ve moved around a bunch of heavy objects or play racquetball or anything. More than one person has mentioned the catch-all explanation for unexplained pain: Maybe you slept on it funny. Yeah. The laziest way to sustain an injury.

It was windy. I had on sunglasses. The puppies were sniffing around the thin trunk of a young tree on 35th Street. I tried not to be impatient, because it was my own damn fault I was running late, but I wished they’d hurry it up. We’d been out for 20 minutes, and they only showed interest in a bunch of garbage bags outside a bar and piles of leaves near the park.

So I was steering them both away with my good arm, over to the next tree, when I was greeted loudly from halfway down the block.
“Hello! Double trouble!”
I turned slightly, glanced out from behind my sunglasses, and saw a man approaching.
He looked harried and flyaway, maybe homeless, or close to it. He was white, probably in his early 50s, not too unkempt, but wearing a slightly beat-up looking overcoat, sneakers grey with age, and carrying a couple of well-worn shopping bags.
Slowed by the ever-sniffing dogs, I couldn’t easily escape. I turned my attention to 1& 2 as the man strode slowly, steadily toward us.
“Double trouble.” He rasped again, a few feet away from us.
I’m used to being approached by the weirdos of the world. Unless I feel threatened, I don’t usually flat-out shun people. But sometimes I’m more in the mood to have strange conversation than others. It still felt like morning to me, even though I’d been up for three hours.
I gave him a smile/snarl in response.
“Hey…look at these two. Double trouble.” He said yet again. Of course the puppies stopped their sniffing in the face of attention focused solely on them, and began to wag their tails and sit up straight. I sighed and looked across the street, at two women speed-walking.
“Don’t give Mom any trouble, alright?” He addressed the dogs. I decided against telling him they weren’t mine.
“It’s okay, I grew up down the street.” He told me, as if his longtime proximity would allay me of any suspicions. It sort of did, actually, although not completely.
“I’m Patrick. What’s your name?”
For a second I wondered if I should give him a phony name, an old habit that I sometimes dust off for fools and drunks. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done it.
I told him my actual name instead.
Then he asked me if the dogs were good dogs. I told him they were, and waited for him to go away.
“Come on, guys.” I said to the dogs, who were refusing to budge. We walked a maddeningly paltry couple of paces, with Patrick following. The puppies became immediately engrossed in a scent on the next square of sidewalk. Not complicit in my escape at all.
“Go with your Mom.” He told them.
I don’t know why I was engaging a conversation, but I told him they weren’t my pets.
“I just walk them. They don’t belong to me.” I said, noticing the unlit half-cigarette he held in one hand.
He became interested. “Really? You’re doing this for money? How much they pay you?”
I shrugged. “Ten bucks a dog.”
“Oh. It depends, huh?” Either he hadn’t heard me or he didn’t understand.
I just nodded.
“So,” Patrick said. “Why do you cut your hair like that? Why do you have those bangs?”
I was genuinely unsure of how to respond. I’d never been asked that. Why does anyone do anything to their hair?
“I don’t know. It’s just the way I do it.”
“Oh. You got sick of brushing your hair? You just want to let it go?” He asked, inexplicably.
I looked down at the dogs and thought: What?
And then I thought: Mental illness.
“Come on, guys.” I said again, tugging at the leases, vainly trying to speed our pace.
No dice.
Patrick then asked me something unintelligible, which I either shrugged or nodded in response to.
“Yeah? Well I used to be a drummer in a punk band years ago. We played everywhere, man. CBs, everywhere. And we got $225 a night, plus free drinks. We had roadies, we had cash.”
I looked up at his face. His eyes were very blue and confused. I was glad to be wearing sunglasses.
Against my better judgment, I was interested.
“What was the name of your band?”
“The Bladessss.” Patrick said, drawing the word out.
It sounded vaguely familiar, in the way that it seemed plausible that a 70s era punk band called that had existed. I really didn’t know, though. But I’m sure he wasn’t lying. I mean, that didn’t occur to me.
“So you do this for a living. Where did you go to school?”
“Purchase.” I said.
He had a way of asking questions that were, while not overtly uncomfortable, definitely disconcerting. I fleetingly wondered if I should flip into fuck off mode, pick the puppies up and walk away. I didn’t feel threatened, though. Just very aware that he was a person who didn’t adhere to widely accepted topics of conversation, and didn’t seem to comprehend social interaction the way most people did. I figured he was slightly schizophrenic. We were close to Bellevue.
He didn’t seem to know what I meant by Purchase.
“Art School.” I said, to clarify.
“My sister is a professor of biology at Plattsburg.” He said proudly, which made me feel sad for him, a half-bum ex-drummer carrying around a cigarette end and stinking of stale, drank gin at noon, describing long-ago glory days with a stranger on the street where he used to live.
I pulled hard on the leashes, ready to go. Dog 1 looked up at Patrick and slowly wagged his tail.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Patrick stared at me. I weighed this.
“Well, you can ask me, but I might not answer.” I said.
He sighed. “What have you done with your eyebrows?” He began to laugh.
“Okay.” I said. “I have to go.”
The man made no sense. Either he was still drunk, and beginning to feel comfortable enough to drunkenly goad me, or he was surely crazy. I didn’t want to find out. I didn’t have time to find out.
I had to drag the dogs away.
“Hey. I’ll see you again.” He called after me.
The truth and certainty of that statement registered absolutely.
I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Day 10 (recycling)

So, another rainy day. What a complete pain in the ass it is to try and hold an umbrella at the same time as a leash. It leaves no free hand to smoke or talk on the phone.
It reminds me of last, last June when it rained almost every single day. Man, that was terrible. That, in turn, reminded me of the Ray Bradbury story where the kids only get to see the sun once a year, and they lock some poor sap in the coat room that day, so he has to wait another whole year to see it.

Anyway.
Today I witnessed the grossest behavior from normally enjoyable Dog 6. Our route takes us around and through the park just north of Bellevue hospital, which more often than not is crammed with recent or future patients, and lined with dog shit. Seriously. All along the fence on 1st Avenue, stretching for an entire block, there is mound upon mound of crap. I don’t know what the deal is, exactly. It’s as if it’s the hotspot for not having to clean up after your pet. And yeah, I’ve been tempted, along the lines of “What’s one more pile of crap?” but ultimately I am too goddamned polite to do something like that. So although I am literally surrounded by waste- old and new, all shapes and sizes- I always break out the financial section of the New York Times (it’s only use, as far as I’m concerned) and clean up after Dog 6.

Unfortunately, Dog 6 decided this afternoon to treat the festoonings of crap as a buffet. He kept pulling like crazy at the leash, and being a full-grown lab, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him. He pretty much dragged me over to the fence, and began to sniff at each pile discriminatingly. Some he went quickly past, others he paused at, one he even went back to. That was the one he ate.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Ugh!” I yelled, jerking at the leash. “You’re disgusting!”
Dog 6 rolled a guilty eye up at me from his lowered head, his jaws working on that poo.
“Ugh!” I repeated.
I have never seen anything like that.
From now on we’re walking on the other side of the street.

The Interview

So, after trawling Craig’s list for a few days, I finally found a suitable-looking ad under “etc jobs”:
Dogwalker needed for part-time work in Manhattan, beginning after Thanksgiving. Must be reliable, friendly, honest, knowledgable of the city, and already employed elsewhere part-time. Please do not respond unless you meet all the requirements. This job is for someone looking to supplement their income. Hours 11-4. Please send an email with your contact information and experience.

Also, there was a link to their website.

I banged out an email that hopefully encompassed all the desired traits:
Hello (friendly)-
I am interested in the dogwalking position you’ve posted on Craig’s list. I am currently working part-time as a bartender, and looking for another part-time job on the side. (already employed elsewhere)
I’ve lived in New York for most of my life, and in Manhattan for the past four years. (knowledgable of the city) While I have not been employed as a dogwalker before, I have always had pets, including a few dogs. (what other kind of experience do they really need, anyway?)
I can always be reached at (XXX) XXX-XXXX. (reliable).
Thanks.

I didn’t really know how to convey my honesty via email.

At this point, might I add, I was getting a little nervous. I had no idea how I was going to pay most of this month’s rent if I didn’t find a job this week.
Fortunately, I wasn’t kept waiting long. I received a phone call that afternoon from an enthusiastic-sounding man, and we set up an interview for the following day. I tried to sound enthusiastic, too, and I was. About paying rent.
I took down the guy’s address, pointedly noting its Upper-Upper East Side location and the fact that he lived in a penthouse.
“Oh, and it would be really helpful if you checked out our website. That’ll fill you in on our story.”
Story? I liked stories. That was half of my motivation for trying to get this job.

Of course I woke up late the morning of the interview, as is my wont. Especially having worked at the bar the night before until 4 AM.
I decided against wearing my everyday shoes- red creepers with jolly rogers on the toes- and wore purple sneakers instead. It was raining. I called the guy on my way out the door to let him know I would be running late, and got his voicemail. As I was leaving a message, he called me, but when I clicked over, he had hung up. Then he called back within seconds and I assured him I was running only 20 minutes late. He sounded frenzied.

“Okay- twenty? Okay, twenty minutes. So, ten of one? I’ll see you then.”
Man.
Even being late, I could not pass up a coffee from the place on the corner.

In a fog, I made my way through the necessary subway stations and cars, sort of on automatic pilot, swigging at the coffee between bouts of staring into space. No sleep in conjunction with rainy weather does that to me. I emerged from underground at 79th and prepared to walk the few blocks west in the drizzle, proudly noting that although I was originally late, I was not going to be late on top of late.

When you’re late all the time, throughout the span of your whole life, these things are small accomplishments.

So I went to double-checked the address, and then, finally, I woke up that morning.
I was on the completely wrong side of town.

“Shit!” I hissed, as a wizened woman in a long down coat hurried past.

Without thinking, I’d rearranged the address in my head to the Upper West Side instead of the Upper East Side. I needed to be at 3rd Avenue, and instead I was several long, lonely, wet blocks in the opposite direction. And in between was Central Park.
I began to hurry eastward, and knew I would never get there on time. I couldn’t call the guy again. I was pretty broke, but I knew I had at least enough for a cab, so I started to keep an eye out for one, still walking.

Damn Upper Manhattan and all the perfectly logical turns you can’t take when you’re in a cab, in a hurry.

Amazingly only 5 minutes later than my estimated time of (late) arrival, I was being eyeballed by a doorman and eventually directed to the penthouse suite of my possible employer.

As I got out of the elevator, a door at the end of the hallway opened. Two small, fluffy, white toy dogs of some type bounded out, yapping. A tall, tanned man stood behind them, smiling.
I knew this was a test, the unspoken part of the interview.

“Hi! Hi!” I cheerily greeted the dogs. I reached down to pet them, but they were very low to the ground, and didn’t stay still long enough to be pet. My hand grazed one of their tails.

Me and the man shook hands and I came inside, to a very spacious, very clean apartment with a glass coffeetable, shining wood floors and ultra-modern looking chairs.
After the perfunctory chatter, we got down to business. I sat down in one of the Ikea-meets-Clockwork Orange chairs, which was not very comfortable.

“So, if you could fill out this form, that would be great. We have wonderful clients and wonderful dogs.” The guy beamed. A few feet away, the two fluffy pets danced around each other.

“What are their names?” I asked.

“Lexus and Maxima.” He answered, smiling down at them.

Jesus. Not knowing how to respond, I turned my attention to the form.
The guy kept interrupting me to ask questions.

“So, what did you say your other job is?”

“I’m a bartender.”

“Oh, where?”

I named the Hell’s Kitchen rock dive I worked in, knowing he’d never heard of it. Indeed, no flicker of recognition went across his face.

“And where do you live?”

“The Lower East Side.”

“You mean like, near 34th Street?”

What? Was he serious? I looked at his uncomprehending face. Yes, he was. He was so far out of touch up here in his penthouse that he thought Murray Hill was considered the lower part of Manhattan island.

“Uh, no. I mean way downtown. South of the East Village.”

“Okay. Well, we have clients in the West Village- three on one block, two of whom are literally next door to each other in the same building, and a couple of others in the 20s and 30s on the east side.”

So we shot the shit for a while, and I began to think he wasn’t so bad. I mean, yeah, he was totally sheltered by money, and had named his pets after luxury cars, but he asked what kind of writing I did, and seemed interested when I mentioned the last thing I’d written was a piece about a riot in Tompkins Square Park for an upcoming anthology of activism in the Lower East Side.
It turns out he’d had a background in finance (no shock there) but was really into dogs, so had started this company and ditched the market.
However, when the recent election came up, (a black day which had me depressed for the remainder of that week) he made some sort of veiled, open-ended reference which fell on just this side of regret for Bush’s (re-)election. Unused to people so timid about expressing their ideas, it threw me off a little bit. I don’t understand why people are half-hearted and/or guarded about political issues, hinting at what they think instead of just saying what they mean. And around me. I mean, who the hell am I? The CIA?

Basically, the pay would be for shit ($10 per dog, 5 dogs per day), but it would only mean working from 11-4, at most. And how bad could it be, spending just a few hours walking dogs? I wouldn’t really have to deal with the owners. An added bonus would be the anonymity, the access I would have to strangers’ homes. Or rather, the fact that people didn’t feel weird about it. That interested me on principle.

I finished filling out the form, and looked for a place to put references. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a space for them. Surprising because you’d think that references would be in order from someone who would procure copies of clients’ keys and enter their homes on a daily basis.

“Is there somewhere I can list references?” I asked.

“Oh. Sure. You can just write them on the back, or wherever there’s space.”

So I did. I was given some promotional brochure to check out, and the guy told me to think it over for the weekend, and let him know on Monday. He stressed that it was important to be able to commit to the job for a year, at which I inwardly scoffed. The hell I’d be walking dogs for a year. But truthfully, I wasn’t planning on leaving New York, and I didn’t have another plan in the near future, so I could honestly say I’d be around and available.

“Did you get a chance to check out the website?” he asked

“No, not yet.” I said.

“Ok, you definitely should. That’s really the best way to get a feel for what we do.”

Now I was intrigued by The Website. This was the second time he’d mentioned it to me, and he’d said something about stories the first time. It must be something.

I told him I thought I’d like the job for the flexibilty, and because I was into dogs but didn’t have any.

“There aren’t enough dogs in my life.” were my actual words. And as soon as I saw his expression, placid and smiling, I knew I had the job.

I promised to call on Monday, and went home in the rain.

Prologue

I value my free time. I value it more than most things, including money. Almost, it would seem, to a fault. I prefer to work about as much as it takes to get me by, so that I have as much time as possible to read, write, run around town, socialize, make collages, shoot pool, do crossword puzzles, have long telephone conversations, and do a dozen other things that are more fun than working for someone else.
Some people see this as a lack of ambition. They are fools. For me, there would be nothing less ambitious than settling down into a sedentary, long-term situation that is predictable and predestined. I can’t say I’m completely satisfied with the gamble of making rent every month, and of course it’s been years since I’ve had any type of health insurance, but still, if the tradeoff means the level of freedom I have in my day-to-day life, it’s preferable.

I’ve had a pretty wide variety of jobs. I haven’t travelled a straight career path by any means. Partly because I tend to get sick of any one thing after awhile of working at it, and partly because there are so many things I wouldn’t mind doing for a while, I’ve jumped around. None of them have been anything I would want to do on a long-term basis, and some of them I didn’t want to do for nearly as long as I did them. There just isn’t one job out there I really could picture myself doing contentedly for years and years. I’d feel stuck. So, for now, at least, I’m continuing to support myself through a string of unrelated jobs, and the payoff is the outlook this affords me. I have time to find everything hilarious, and time to write about it.

However, my bartending job wasn’t altogether cutting it. I’d managed to get by working one or two nights a week for the past few months, but I came to accept that I’d have to find something else to supplement my income, or else be in some trouble the next time rent and bills were due.

Far from arbitrarily stumbling into dog-walking, it seemed like an ideal solution. I specifically looked for a job walking dogs. My roommate had done it; It wasn’t a 9-5, it wasn’t sitting (or standing) in the same place all day long, it wasn’t dealing with people. Maybe best of all, I’d heard dozens of stories about it from my roommate- stories about the dogs, the weird requests from the owners, the strange, cultish details that inevitably come with such a specific job. It would be funny. The pay would be for shit, but I’d have plenty to write about. Besides, it might be fun to be out with dogs every day, in unfamiliar neighborhoods. I just hoped I wouldn’t have to work on the Upper East Side.