There are two things I love: Dogs and Kraft Parmesan Cheese. Both are comforting, smell questionable, and generally make everything better. Most people are familiar with my adoration for our four-legged little friends. The cheese situation (as my mom refers to it), is more "private" information. In a typical month, I go through 2-3 containers of parmesan. It is the one item for which, if given the opportunity, I would choose to be the national spokesperson –- In the hopes that it would be accompanied with a lifetime supply.
Today, my two loves collided like never before. Let me set the scene: I’m babysitting two dogs over the holidays. Fizzy and Billy. Its been almost three years since I actually owned a dog, and I guess I forgot a few things: Apparently you shouldn’t leave home with your brand new container of parmesan cheese out on the counter. For one reason, its kinda gross (some say), and secondly, dogs like to get into trouble. This afternoon, Billy took said container, and (I can only imagine), held onto it by his teeth, while he spun around the room; coating the rug, couch and surrounding areas in a thin film of flavored, snow-like goodness. I walked in (after a long day), to the smell of delicious, processed cheese heaven. I could have enjoyed this dream-come-true, had I not been so mad at the little guy cowering in the corner.
I’m not going to lie. And I’m sure I’m not alone when I say, I’ve always secretly fantasized of swimming in a humongous pool of parmesan cheese and money. But, when the parmesan is mixed with dog hair and instead of a pool, you have a 5-year old rug in a tiny NYC apt, its not as glamorous. Add a broken vacuum to the mix, and you are well near disaster.
While I was very upset, I couldn't hold back my pride in Billy's targeted object of choice. If nothing else, he has good taste. And maybe I could learn something from him...Instead of simply "dreaming of the day" he could roll around in parmesan cheese...Billy picked a day and made it happen. He's a smart little guy...and a dog after my own heart.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Things are looking up
It's a great little world we live in...
I've just been added as a columnist for HousePetMagazine -- a wonderful website dedicated to the health and well-being of dogs everywhere!
To check it out, go to www.housepetmagazine.com and look for "Mirra's Corner" (in the Departments Section).
I've just been added as a columnist for HousePetMagazine -- a wonderful website dedicated to the health and well-being of dogs everywhere!
To check it out, go to www.housepetmagazine.com and look for "Mirra's Corner" (in the Departments Section).
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Food Fight
I’m not a competitive person. That’s probably why I didn't excel on the swim team in high school. Well, that and the fact that "belly-flop-splash-and-try-not-to-drown" is not yet a respected stroke. In any case, I hate feeling like I’m in competition.. especially when its one-on-one. Which makes my walks with Clifford (the big, red, 90-lb bundle of love) a bit more trying.
Clifford and I have our differences. 1. he has feelings for me that I cannot reciprocate. 2. he is rather large, and 3. he has got the appetite of a walrus in heat (I hear they get very hungry during that time). Now compare that to me: I’m not interested in a romantic relationship; I'm what you would call "petite" (I've often been compared to the hobbit in Lord of the Rings); and I’m an extremely picky eater. I "graze", as my mother would put it...and you cant get me to eat just anything.
Not so, for Clifford. Cliff will eat anything that walks in front of his path. He's like Pac-man on steroids: Day-old sandwiches, candy, chicken -- there were even a few times when he just licked the sidewalk. And unlike me, he will not make a fuss if a piece of chicken has bones in it, or if a piece of bread was touching a homeless person. He will eat anything, and in its entirety.
Obviously, this is not the best diet for a dog to uphold. Eating an entire rack of lamb (bones and all) is, beyond impressive, also utterly disgusting. My job as his dog walker and friend, is to notice the food before he does, and steer clear. But its not an easy task when competing with the largest and most gifted scavenger this side of the Mississippi. He will spot the food that is camouflaged, hidden under rocks, shadowed, obscure and just overall concealed. Trust me, if the WMD's were chicken-flavored, Cliff would have found them months ago.
My job, is a difficult one. Each day, I slap on my leather grip mittens, secure my head gear, and slick my hair back into a tight ponytail. Then, comes the most important step; The key to whether or not I will win the day's challenge, or forfeit cowardly to my hairy opponent: The leash wrap-around. Ill slowly stick my hand inside the leash loop and gently wind it around my entire arm, behind my back, around my waist and then back around the other arm. If there's extra leash, I may wind it around my forehead "Rambo" style. I’ve mastered it just so... that if I do the whole thing really fast, it sort of looks like I’m playing with numchucks.
Only then am I ready. And at that moment, Clifford and I are no longer dog and dog walker. But intense opponents... Just trying to get the job done.
Most days, Ill catch Clifford before he dives for food. Ill figure it out just in time and plant myself, skid forward a bit and then come to a stop... leaving only inches between his nose and the half piece of day-old pie on the sidewalk. Those days I feel like a hero.
And then there are other days. The ones where we'll be almost finished with our walk, Ill be ready to pat myself on the back for a job well done.. and then out of nowhere, Cliff will subtly and inconspicuously grab a full leg of lamb out from under a nearby bush. Since I’m not inclined to stick my hand inside his whale size jaws, Ill just have to sit there and watch him eat the entire thing in front of me. And he will take his sweet time: licking his paws, chewing really slowly and making joyful "ugh this is soo good" noises as he finishes it off. Those are the days that get me.
For a non-competitive person, I am a horribly sore loser. I can only seek solace in the fact that I’m getting better each day. At the beginning of this journey, Clifford would look at his walk as an all access pass to Old Country Buffet. Today, he looks at it as a challenge. The fact that I am am able to challenge, quite possibly, the most courageous eater in the world, makes me feel proud.
Clifford and I have our differences. 1. he has feelings for me that I cannot reciprocate. 2. he is rather large, and 3. he has got the appetite of a walrus in heat (I hear they get very hungry during that time). Now compare that to me: I’m not interested in a romantic relationship; I'm what you would call "petite" (I've often been compared to the hobbit in Lord of the Rings); and I’m an extremely picky eater. I "graze", as my mother would put it...and you cant get me to eat just anything.
Not so, for Clifford. Cliff will eat anything that walks in front of his path. He's like Pac-man on steroids: Day-old sandwiches, candy, chicken -- there were even a few times when he just licked the sidewalk. And unlike me, he will not make a fuss if a piece of chicken has bones in it, or if a piece of bread was touching a homeless person. He will eat anything, and in its entirety.
Obviously, this is not the best diet for a dog to uphold. Eating an entire rack of lamb (bones and all) is, beyond impressive, also utterly disgusting. My job as his dog walker and friend, is to notice the food before he does, and steer clear. But its not an easy task when competing with the largest and most gifted scavenger this side of the Mississippi. He will spot the food that is camouflaged, hidden under rocks, shadowed, obscure and just overall concealed. Trust me, if the WMD's were chicken-flavored, Cliff would have found them months ago.
My job, is a difficult one. Each day, I slap on my leather grip mittens, secure my head gear, and slick my hair back into a tight ponytail. Then, comes the most important step; The key to whether or not I will win the day's challenge, or forfeit cowardly to my hairy opponent: The leash wrap-around. Ill slowly stick my hand inside the leash loop and gently wind it around my entire arm, behind my back, around my waist and then back around the other arm. If there's extra leash, I may wind it around my forehead "Rambo" style. I’ve mastered it just so... that if I do the whole thing really fast, it sort of looks like I’m playing with numchucks.
Only then am I ready. And at that moment, Clifford and I are no longer dog and dog walker. But intense opponents... Just trying to get the job done.
Most days, Ill catch Clifford before he dives for food. Ill figure it out just in time and plant myself, skid forward a bit and then come to a stop... leaving only inches between his nose and the half piece of day-old pie on the sidewalk. Those days I feel like a hero.
And then there are other days. The ones where we'll be almost finished with our walk, Ill be ready to pat myself on the back for a job well done.. and then out of nowhere, Cliff will subtly and inconspicuously grab a full leg of lamb out from under a nearby bush. Since I’m not inclined to stick my hand inside his whale size jaws, Ill just have to sit there and watch him eat the entire thing in front of me. And he will take his sweet time: licking his paws, chewing really slowly and making joyful "ugh this is soo good" noises as he finishes it off. Those are the days that get me.
For a non-competitive person, I am a horribly sore loser. I can only seek solace in the fact that I’m getting better each day. At the beginning of this journey, Clifford would look at his walk as an all access pass to Old Country Buffet. Today, he looks at it as a challenge. The fact that I am am able to challenge, quite possibly, the most courageous eater in the world, makes me feel proud.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Monkey Boy
I decided to go eat brunch by myself last weekend. Not "decided" as much as "no one would call me back". It was really nice. I went to this little restaurant around the corner from my house -- actually one of my favorite places. They have the best cheese grits in the world (Please note: rating system is based on my discovery of grits two months ago...at this exact cafe). Add those grits to a seat at the bar, with a hot cup of coffee, a biscuit and the paper.. and you've got yourself a nice little set-up.
And nothing could have made it better than when the door opened to a middle-aged man toting an 11-year old mix breed dog. The music screeched to a halt. And within seconds, everyone -- previously deeply engrossed in intelligent convesation -- had put down their forks, napkins and glasses of OJ, and were now on the floor, cooing and overall molesting the little guy.
The owner was beaming with utter delight. And then, in an unfortunate turn, he decided the overabundance of attention was not enough, and it was "dog trick" time. Now, why in the hell would you decide that its a good idea to stop by a random cafe and perform a variety show with your dog? The man didnt want money... or not that I noticed. He was just looking for the fame that commonly accompanies being able to train your dog to balance food on his nose. Fido was being exploited. And it pissed me off.
I dont like when people do it with their children and I hate when they do it with their dogs. Who cares whether or not the dog can turn in circles, balance on his hind legs, or even bake a souffle to perfection? What about his overall quality of life? He's not a little plastic puppet on which you should take out your insecurities. This man was living vicariously through his overachieving pup. And the only person who really seemed to enjoy it was him. Everyone else just wanted to see Fido be a dog, not a monkey boy.
And nothing could have made it better than when the door opened to a middle-aged man toting an 11-year old mix breed dog. The music screeched to a halt. And within seconds, everyone -- previously deeply engrossed in intelligent convesation -- had put down their forks, napkins and glasses of OJ, and were now on the floor, cooing and overall molesting the little guy.
The owner was beaming with utter delight. And then, in an unfortunate turn, he decided the overabundance of attention was not enough, and it was "dog trick" time. Now, why in the hell would you decide that its a good idea to stop by a random cafe and perform a variety show with your dog? The man didnt want money... or not that I noticed. He was just looking for the fame that commonly accompanies being able to train your dog to balance food on his nose. Fido was being exploited. And it pissed me off.
I dont like when people do it with their children and I hate when they do it with their dogs. Who cares whether or not the dog can turn in circles, balance on his hind legs, or even bake a souffle to perfection? What about his overall quality of life? He's not a little plastic puppet on which you should take out your insecurities. This man was living vicariously through his overachieving pup. And the only person who really seemed to enjoy it was him. Everyone else just wanted to see Fido be a dog, not a monkey boy.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Bark
Dog Walker Wisdom
Lesson #2:
Apparently, Dog is the universal language.
Strangers always stop to tell me how cute Fizzy, the French Bull dog, is. They'll talk incessantly about how they've always wanted one, how they have one, or maybe they know someone who looks like one. In any case, there's no way I will NOT be stopped while out walking this adorable, pint size, drooling dog.
And today was no different. Except that this time, I was stopped by a sweet, elderly, Chinese man -- visibly excited about Fizzy's presence. He spoke no English and I speak no Chinese... and yet, we stood there, on Bowery and Spring, talking for roughly ten minutes. About what? No one knows. It mostly consisted of exaggerated facial expressions, guttural noises and pointing to the dog. Neither of us understood a single word the other person was saying, and yet, It may have been the best conversation I've had all day. Because, if nothing else... we tried.
Regardless of the language barrier and age gap, this man and I were able to find commonality in one thing: our adoration for this dog. And because of that… for those ten minutes, we understood each other.
Lesson #2:
Apparently, Dog is the universal language.
Strangers always stop to tell me how cute Fizzy, the French Bull dog, is. They'll talk incessantly about how they've always wanted one, how they have one, or maybe they know someone who looks like one. In any case, there's no way I will NOT be stopped while out walking this adorable, pint size, drooling dog.
And today was no different. Except that this time, I was stopped by a sweet, elderly, Chinese man -- visibly excited about Fizzy's presence. He spoke no English and I speak no Chinese... and yet, we stood there, on Bowery and Spring, talking for roughly ten minutes. About what? No one knows. It mostly consisted of exaggerated facial expressions, guttural noises and pointing to the dog. Neither of us understood a single word the other person was saying, and yet, It may have been the best conversation I've had all day. Because, if nothing else... we tried.
Regardless of the language barrier and age gap, this man and I were able to find commonality in one thing: our adoration for this dog. And because of that… for those ten minutes, we understood each other.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Click-ity Clack
I've never been the popular girl. Scratch that, I was very popular in elementary school. I remember that the "sexiest" 6th grader asked me out three times. Each time, I said "no". He later shot someone. What I'm saying is, I was never part of a clique. Dont know why. I was always that slightly awkward girl who maybe hung out with the crowd once in a while, but was never invited to join.
Middle school and high school helped to solidify my concern. I was an outsider. Not that creepy guy who doesnt shower and smokes cigarettes behind the school. Dont get me wrong, I didnt shower... but I wasn't creepy; Just not cool enough to be part of "the" club. College life faired a bit better. There weren't so many cliques and I was able to find my place among individual friends. But I was eager to get out into the "real" world, where I assumed these selective groups magically disappeared, and I would suddenly be realized as very attractive.
And, since graduation, things seemed to be on the upswing. I've grown a few inches, started washing regularly, and have become more confident in myself. I've had numerous jobs in advertising, have been offered positions at almost every major agency in New York, and quit it all to own a dog walking company. You could say I've become a spitfire. But apparently, to one small group of snotty individuals inside the Tompkins Square dog park, Im still the pimply, awkward, smelly girl from Minneapolis. Yeah, thats right... the dog park has a clique. And it's a zinger.
The group consists of roughly 10 people, who, when standing inside the park fences, follow the credence that no one else matters. Regardless of the park's public access, they still give you the "who invited you?" look when you walk in. It's sort of how I imagined a modern day Dynasty...on crack, with dogs. And no, they are not overly attractive, or funny or special (to the untrained eye). They've just got an invite-only group that makes all others feel slightly less than. They are too cool for school, and they're ruining the harmonious "watch-Billy-humpathon" Ive been enjoying for the past few weeks.
But not any longer. I've realized that I don't really want to be a part of that clique... or any clique, for that matter. There's no need for exclusivity. And those who implement it, are saying something about themselves and their priorities. I'm perfectly happy sitting by myself, enjoying the dogs, fresh air and overall great outdoors. And hey, if someone comes over and wants to chat...Im all ears. But don't expect me to show up the next day donning matching t-shirts and ignoring anyone who doesn't adhere to our idea of social standards. That's way too involved. I'd much rather just relax.
Middle school and high school helped to solidify my concern. I was an outsider. Not that creepy guy who doesnt shower and smokes cigarettes behind the school. Dont get me wrong, I didnt shower... but I wasn't creepy; Just not cool enough to be part of "the" club. College life faired a bit better. There weren't so many cliques and I was able to find my place among individual friends. But I was eager to get out into the "real" world, where I assumed these selective groups magically disappeared, and I would suddenly be realized as very attractive.
And, since graduation, things seemed to be on the upswing. I've grown a few inches, started washing regularly, and have become more confident in myself. I've had numerous jobs in advertising, have been offered positions at almost every major agency in New York, and quit it all to own a dog walking company. You could say I've become a spitfire. But apparently, to one small group of snotty individuals inside the Tompkins Square dog park, Im still the pimply, awkward, smelly girl from Minneapolis. Yeah, thats right... the dog park has a clique. And it's a zinger.
The group consists of roughly 10 people, who, when standing inside the park fences, follow the credence that no one else matters. Regardless of the park's public access, they still give you the "who invited you?" look when you walk in. It's sort of how I imagined a modern day Dynasty...on crack, with dogs. And no, they are not overly attractive, or funny or special (to the untrained eye). They've just got an invite-only group that makes all others feel slightly less than. They are too cool for school, and they're ruining the harmonious "watch-Billy-humpathon" Ive been enjoying for the past few weeks.
But not any longer. I've realized that I don't really want to be a part of that clique... or any clique, for that matter. There's no need for exclusivity. And those who implement it, are saying something about themselves and their priorities. I'm perfectly happy sitting by myself, enjoying the dogs, fresh air and overall great outdoors. And hey, if someone comes over and wants to chat...Im all ears. But don't expect me to show up the next day donning matching t-shirts and ignoring anyone who doesn't adhere to our idea of social standards. That's way too involved. I'd much rather just relax.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Game Gear
Im discovering more and more red flags that I need to be aware of during my daily dog walks. Things you wouldn't normally think of -- like the leftover rack of lamb Billy dove for under a fence yesterday. I now spend all my time scanning the ground and surrounding areas for anything that would interfere with a nice casual walk. Seriously. My job is more like a video game.
Each day, I find myself battling out the forces of nature (rain, freezing cold or wind) while keeping an eye on possible predators or obstacles that I may encounter on my path. These predators can come in the form of a cat hiding in a doorway, a pile of dogdoo or maybe a piece of chicken lying in the street. It's also crucial that I keep track of my special tools (ie. supplies, such as dog bags, treats and keys), and my personal well-being (energy, stamina and food levels). And, if I pretend Im provided with points for each of the obstacles I successfully overcome, it helps me to get through each walk.
For example...
Thursday afternoon, while walking Psycho and Spaz, I hid behind a tree as a pitbull mix approached (2 points). It was a bit rainy out, so I held an umbrella in one hand and the two psycho maniacs in another (equivalent to level 3 difficulty) and I had only one power bar for breakfast (energy level at 4 out of 10). I was able to keep Psycho from jumping on a child in a stroller (bonus adrenaline points -- to be used later). Cat came out of nowhere and both dogs started barking to high hell (-2 points). Didn't see the pile of dogdoo before Spaz decided to roll in it (-5 points). However, I was able to efficiently clean her off in under 7 minutes (3 points). Plus, after cleverly spinning the story, the owner thought it was hysterically funny (3 points). And I was able to accomplish all this in the designated 30 minutes (7 points). Ok, so at the end of the walk, Ive got 6 dog bags left (which can be traded in for stamina), a full set of keys, and im only crying a little bit. not bad.
See...Its fun! And it keeps me going. Today, the elevator was broken in Fizzy's building. Most people would look at that as an 11th floor walk up, and a chance to call in sick. But, I just viewed it as level 5 difficulty with an opportunity to acquire 12 points. Now, this doesn't mean I didn't cry. I did. But then I chugged a power drink and slowly ascended the never-ending, psychotic number of stairs. It was horrible. And it didn't help that I had to do it twice (once to get him, and again to bring him home).
But, In my quest to be the best dog walker ever, I knew I couldn't back down. So, I went into game mode -- rescued Fizzy from his overreactive bladder and left feeling extremely satisfied and a bit proud.
Each day, I find myself battling out the forces of nature (rain, freezing cold or wind) while keeping an eye on possible predators or obstacles that I may encounter on my path. These predators can come in the form of a cat hiding in a doorway, a pile of dogdoo or maybe a piece of chicken lying in the street. It's also crucial that I keep track of my special tools (ie. supplies, such as dog bags, treats and keys), and my personal well-being (energy, stamina and food levels). And, if I pretend Im provided with points for each of the obstacles I successfully overcome, it helps me to get through each walk.
For example...
Thursday afternoon, while walking Psycho and Spaz, I hid behind a tree as a pitbull mix approached (2 points). It was a bit rainy out, so I held an umbrella in one hand and the two psycho maniacs in another (equivalent to level 3 difficulty) and I had only one power bar for breakfast (energy level at 4 out of 10). I was able to keep Psycho from jumping on a child in a stroller (bonus adrenaline points -- to be used later). Cat came out of nowhere and both dogs started barking to high hell (-2 points). Didn't see the pile of dogdoo before Spaz decided to roll in it (-5 points). However, I was able to efficiently clean her off in under 7 minutes (3 points). Plus, after cleverly spinning the story, the owner thought it was hysterically funny (3 points). And I was able to accomplish all this in the designated 30 minutes (7 points). Ok, so at the end of the walk, Ive got 6 dog bags left (which can be traded in for stamina), a full set of keys, and im only crying a little bit. not bad.
See...Its fun! And it keeps me going. Today, the elevator was broken in Fizzy's building. Most people would look at that as an 11th floor walk up, and a chance to call in sick. But, I just viewed it as level 5 difficulty with an opportunity to acquire 12 points. Now, this doesn't mean I didn't cry. I did. But then I chugged a power drink and slowly ascended the never-ending, psychotic number of stairs. It was horrible. And it didn't help that I had to do it twice (once to get him, and again to bring him home).
But, In my quest to be the best dog walker ever, I knew I couldn't back down. So, I went into game mode -- rescued Fizzy from his overreactive bladder and left feeling extremely satisfied and a bit proud.
Monday, November 13, 2006
The Look of Love
Clifford (the big, red, 90 lb dog) has become increasingly aggressive with his sexual advances. Im not saying that it isnt flattering. But it has also become potentially dangerous. Today, after our walk, I unlocked the building's front door only to be pushed up against the wall and awkwardly humped for what seemed like minutes. After finally getting the World's Largest Dog to calm down, i walked into the elevator and almost flew into the adjacent wall as Clifford once again attempted to "get to know" me.
Now, most dogs humping your leg is nothing more than a small nuisance. It might even be deemed as adorable. But, when the equivalent of Sasquatch tries to make love to you, it's a bit different.
Luckily, I've learned to look for the signs: There were a few times, when I was reaching out to pick up after him, and his paw gently grazed my hand. Then there will be the "look".... maybe your eyes will meet for just a second, before you both turn away. Soon, he will crack a sly grin, which can often be confused as hunger or #2. When his eyes seem to glaze over, you're still in the clear; Meaning, you are only at Stage One and there's still time to distract him with a squirrel or dog treat. But, when you feel the warm, slow-moving dog breath panting subtly on your lower back, you might as well just accept your fate.
This past weekend, I spoke to Clifford's owners about the awkward circumstance I seem to find myself in every day after our walk. They were extremely empathetic and kind enough to bring me downstairs and walk me outside. But I was uncomfortable with the look of pride they gave clifford as he, once again, humped me in the elevator on the way down.
Now, most dogs humping your leg is nothing more than a small nuisance. It might even be deemed as adorable. But, when the equivalent of Sasquatch tries to make love to you, it's a bit different.
Luckily, I've learned to look for the signs: There were a few times, when I was reaching out to pick up after him, and his paw gently grazed my hand. Then there will be the "look".... maybe your eyes will meet for just a second, before you both turn away. Soon, he will crack a sly grin, which can often be confused as hunger or #2. When his eyes seem to glaze over, you're still in the clear; Meaning, you are only at Stage One and there's still time to distract him with a squirrel or dog treat. But, when you feel the warm, slow-moving dog breath panting subtly on your lower back, you might as well just accept your fate.
This past weekend, I spoke to Clifford's owners about the awkward circumstance I seem to find myself in every day after our walk. They were extremely empathetic and kind enough to bring me downstairs and walk me outside. But I was uncomfortable with the look of pride they gave clifford as he, once again, humped me in the elevator on the way down.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Dog Walker Wisdom
Im learning new life lessons everyday... most occur when Im walking dogs. And Ive decided it's time to chronicle all these little bits of wisdom along the way. Who knows? Someone might find it to be helpful. So, here is the first installment of "Dog Walker Wisdom":
Lesson #1:
Random people wont bug you if you're singing to yourself.
Lately, I've become exceedingly frustrated, as my daily dog walks are accompanied by the constant "trailer park comments" from disgusting and horny passerbys. You know what I'm talking about, things like: "I like how you pick that up", "you and your dog look very healthy", and the all too popular, "daddy needs a walk too". Ill do my best to ignore them -- pull my hood over my head, stare right through em', or give them the look of death. But nothing seems to work. And the constant verbal garbage has made me really dread walking each day.
So, today, I started singing to myself. And it worked brilliantly. Not only does it help to keep the pace, but it also makes you look crazy. And crazy people don't get hit on as much. Today, I sang Stevie Wonder's "You are the sunshine of my life".. which initially had mixed results. However, I found if you add "bitch" after each sentence, it lessens the "sing-along" feel and gives you some edge.
Jackson Five's "Ill Be There" is on deck for tomorrow.
Lesson #1:
Random people wont bug you if you're singing to yourself.
Lately, I've become exceedingly frustrated, as my daily dog walks are accompanied by the constant "trailer park comments" from disgusting and horny passerbys. You know what I'm talking about, things like: "I like how you pick that up", "you and your dog look very healthy", and the all too popular, "daddy needs a walk too". Ill do my best to ignore them -- pull my hood over my head, stare right through em', or give them the look of death. But nothing seems to work. And the constant verbal garbage has made me really dread walking each day.
So, today, I started singing to myself. And it worked brilliantly. Not only does it help to keep the pace, but it also makes you look crazy. And crazy people don't get hit on as much. Today, I sang Stevie Wonder's "You are the sunshine of my life".. which initially had mixed results. However, I found if you add "bitch" after each sentence, it lessens the "sing-along" feel and gives you some edge.
Jackson Five's "Ill Be There" is on deck for tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The Duel
I always count down to the last walk of the day with complete and utter dread. Because at 3pm, each afternoon, I walk two adorable, pint-sized toy poodles...who are complete and utter terrors.
The younger one, we'll call him "Spaz", is a nut. He is the size of a fat squirrel and has the vocal capacity of a hyena in heat. I was warned that he "doesnt like homeless people", which actually turned out to be incorrect -- He just doesnt like people. He'll jump up the legs of any and all innocent passerbys. And if someone walks up cooing at how "cute he is", he'll bark to high hell. The irony of which I can only enjoy for about 2 seconds, before he attacks.
The old, larger pup, who we'll call "Psycho", is a lot less severe...although he runs after squirrels and came with the warning that he "hates people in uniform". Awesome.
But, being the over-achiever that I am (kidding...im actually watching E! News as I type this), I figured I could take em'. And with each of the owners' protective warnings, I responded with a, "hey, it'll be a piece of cake". And I was right. It's a piece of dirt-filled, squirrel-chasing, foam-at-the-mouth-barking, chocolate cake. In summation, it sucks.
And nothing sucks more, than when Im walking Psycho and Spaz... and we see another dog coming towards us. My hands start sweating like mad, I can feel my heart pounding out of my chest and my stomach feels like its going to explode. Because, these two little homicidal pischers never go more crazy, then when they see another dog.
Each day, during our walk, I start slowing down when I near a corner. Just like MacGyver, I inch up against the wall (or bush), before very carefully sliding my body (head first) around the corner to see if another dog is approaching. If there is no dog, then the walk continues as normal. However, in the unfortunate circumstance that I do happen to spot another pooch, I run like mad in the other direction....pulling the two startled maniacs behind me.
And this has worked fine up until today. I guess most people appreciate that Im pulling the two viciously barking dogs away from them. However, today was different. Today, I was challenged to a duel.
I guess I could call it a "bark off". I was walking down a relatively quiet stretch of the park, when I noticed a cocky man, with two large golden retrievers in tow. I was desperately hoping he would turn the corner, as most people would do when they see us... but instead he started walking towards me! Clearly dissapointed with the stranger's lack of common sense, I rolled my eyes and started pulling Psycho and Spaz around to face the other direction; thereby allowing myself out of a lose-lose situation. But the man wouldnt let up.
"What, your dogs dont like other dogs?" he taunted.
"no."
"Awww, come on, it cant be that bad." And with that, he let one of his dogs OFF THE LEASH to run towards me.
I was being challenged. Im sorry, WE were being challenged. And WE weren't about to lose.
I began to fill with rage and an evil smirk grew across my face as I slowly turned to face the man.. He didn't know what he was in for. We were gonna have a bark off and g-damnit, we were gonna win.
The golden retriever bounded towards us, and with that, Psycho and Spaz were suspended in mid air...only being chained to Earth by my kung-fu grip on their leashes. The golden stopped mid trot, let out a soft whimper and waited for his horrified owner to run up, grab him and together, retreat backwards...Very slowly.
I watched the losers with the look of "what now bitches?" as they rounded the corner and out of sight. I then turned to my two prized jewels, and with a look of motherly love, bent down to show them my appreciation. At the same time, Spaz jumped up and gave me a nose bleed, and Psycho started pulling on my pant leg, ripping it up the seam to my knees.
The younger one, we'll call him "Spaz", is a nut. He is the size of a fat squirrel and has the vocal capacity of a hyena in heat. I was warned that he "doesnt like homeless people", which actually turned out to be incorrect -- He just doesnt like people. He'll jump up the legs of any and all innocent passerbys. And if someone walks up cooing at how "cute he is", he'll bark to high hell. The irony of which I can only enjoy for about 2 seconds, before he attacks.
The old, larger pup, who we'll call "Psycho", is a lot less severe...although he runs after squirrels and came with the warning that he "hates people in uniform". Awesome.
But, being the over-achiever that I am (kidding...im actually watching E! News as I type this), I figured I could take em'. And with each of the owners' protective warnings, I responded with a, "hey, it'll be a piece of cake". And I was right. It's a piece of dirt-filled, squirrel-chasing, foam-at-the-mouth-barking, chocolate cake. In summation, it sucks.
And nothing sucks more, than when Im walking Psycho and Spaz... and we see another dog coming towards us. My hands start sweating like mad, I can feel my heart pounding out of my chest and my stomach feels like its going to explode. Because, these two little homicidal pischers never go more crazy, then when they see another dog.
Each day, during our walk, I start slowing down when I near a corner. Just like MacGyver, I inch up against the wall (or bush), before very carefully sliding my body (head first) around the corner to see if another dog is approaching. If there is no dog, then the walk continues as normal. However, in the unfortunate circumstance that I do happen to spot another pooch, I run like mad in the other direction....pulling the two startled maniacs behind me.
And this has worked fine up until today. I guess most people appreciate that Im pulling the two viciously barking dogs away from them. However, today was different. Today, I was challenged to a duel.
I guess I could call it a "bark off". I was walking down a relatively quiet stretch of the park, when I noticed a cocky man, with two large golden retrievers in tow. I was desperately hoping he would turn the corner, as most people would do when they see us... but instead he started walking towards me! Clearly dissapointed with the stranger's lack of common sense, I rolled my eyes and started pulling Psycho and Spaz around to face the other direction; thereby allowing myself out of a lose-lose situation. But the man wouldnt let up.
"What, your dogs dont like other dogs?" he taunted.
"no."
"Awww, come on, it cant be that bad." And with that, he let one of his dogs OFF THE LEASH to run towards me.
I was being challenged. Im sorry, WE were being challenged. And WE weren't about to lose.
I began to fill with rage and an evil smirk grew across my face as I slowly turned to face the man.. He didn't know what he was in for. We were gonna have a bark off and g-damnit, we were gonna win.
The golden retriever bounded towards us, and with that, Psycho and Spaz were suspended in mid air...only being chained to Earth by my kung-fu grip on their leashes. The golden stopped mid trot, let out a soft whimper and waited for his horrified owner to run up, grab him and together, retreat backwards...Very slowly.
I watched the losers with the look of "what now bitches?" as they rounded the corner and out of sight. I then turned to my two prized jewels, and with a look of motherly love, bent down to show them my appreciation. At the same time, Spaz jumped up and gave me a nose bleed, and Psycho started pulling on my pant leg, ripping it up the seam to my knees.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Spin Cycle
Tuesday sucked. I had just gotten back in town from a last minute trip to Minnesota for my grandfather's funeral. I was exhausted, emotional and it was pouring outside. I love rainy days...when you get to stay indoors, drink hot chocolate and watch A&E documentaries. But I no longer have such luxuries. Nope, on a day when most people look out of their office windows praying that the rain will let up just long enough for them to make a mad (5 minute) dash to the subway after work, I was out walking dogs...For about 4 hours.
Tuesday also happened to be my first day walking Clifford (the big red 90-lb dog). I think the truest test of a dog walker is to walk a 90-lb dog for the first time while trying to keep your balance on the slippery streets of China town and also hold an umbrella. Oh, and Clifford runs after cats. Afterwards, he tried to hump me in the elevator. It wasn't that disgusting, as much as comforting... Being that he is 90 lbs, it just felt like a much-needed, vibrating hug.
And, what else... Oh yeah, the person I had hired to walk the Upper East Side (we'll call her "Schmucky"), up and quit on me Tuesday. I had previously asked that she give me two weeks notice, but unfortunately, the other job she just accepted needed her the next day, coincidentally, right around the time of her scheduled walk. I should have known Schmucky was a dud when she didn't show up to our first interview, showed up twenty minutes late to our training session, and two days into dog walking, could no longer work Fridays. Yes, in retrospect, she sucked. But, to her credit, right after dropping the bomb, she did offer her condolences to me and my family.
So, to recap, I came home Tuesday night, soaking wet from the rain, freaking out from the lack of a dog walker, and slightly bruised from being on the receiving end of Clifford's day out.
Yesiree, Tuesday sucked. But today was just ridiculous.
Because today, Billy rolled in dogdoo. Now, you may ask "how does one go about cleaning poop off of a dog in an apartment you neither own, nor are accustomed to"? Well, I don't exactly know. But here's what I learned...right after I finished crying:
First its important to remove the crap-infested collar and clean it off. This was the point where I realized that poop was everywhere: In my fingernails, on my shirt, in the sink, in my hair.
The next step is generally to freak out -- realize that you still have dogs to walk that day.. In the next 15 minutes. Look around for towels, if you cant find them, then stick the dog in the shower, turn on the water and pray that this somehow works out. That seemed like an ok plan until Billy shook dogdoo-water all over the place... splattering brown droplets on the walls and floors of the bathroom. This is what I call "Code Red".
Just as I was searching under the sink for some disposable towels, Billy ran out of the bathroom and started shaking everywhere. every. where. At this point, I would generally recommend crying again. It cant hurt. Then call your boyfriend. Then wipe down the walls.
It was now 1:45 and I was 20 minutes late to my next dog appointment. So after I cleaned as much as I could, I had to leave. I called Billy's owner (Jilly) and left a voicemail, a text message, and I shot off a flare...And then went to my next appointment.
When the phone finally rang with Jilly's name on the caller end, I felt my stomache drop. I was prepared to offer (or rather, insist) to come back in the evening and help clean. I picked up the phone and rambled on incessantly about the goings on of the walk, and how sorry I was. And when I finally took a second to breath, I heard Jilly's voice on the other end, laughing hysterically at the story I had just told. She wasn't mad, she was more amused by the whole thing and said: "I just think its really funny that you put him in the shower." She also said that the text message I had sent her at the pinnacle of my panic, was equally funny: "Emergency: Billy has rolled in poop. Please call."
So, I guess things aren't all bad. They're just messy and still smell of dog poop...But even that can be cleaned up. And tomorrow's a new day.
Tuesday also happened to be my first day walking Clifford (the big red 90-lb dog). I think the truest test of a dog walker is to walk a 90-lb dog for the first time while trying to keep your balance on the slippery streets of China town and also hold an umbrella. Oh, and Clifford runs after cats. Afterwards, he tried to hump me in the elevator. It wasn't that disgusting, as much as comforting... Being that he is 90 lbs, it just felt like a much-needed, vibrating hug.
And, what else... Oh yeah, the person I had hired to walk the Upper East Side (we'll call her "Schmucky"), up and quit on me Tuesday. I had previously asked that she give me two weeks notice, but unfortunately, the other job she just accepted needed her the next day, coincidentally, right around the time of her scheduled walk. I should have known Schmucky was a dud when she didn't show up to our first interview, showed up twenty minutes late to our training session, and two days into dog walking, could no longer work Fridays. Yes, in retrospect, she sucked. But, to her credit, right after dropping the bomb, she did offer her condolences to me and my family.
So, to recap, I came home Tuesday night, soaking wet from the rain, freaking out from the lack of a dog walker, and slightly bruised from being on the receiving end of Clifford's day out.
Yesiree, Tuesday sucked. But today was just ridiculous.
Because today, Billy rolled in dogdoo. Now, you may ask "how does one go about cleaning poop off of a dog in an apartment you neither own, nor are accustomed to"? Well, I don't exactly know. But here's what I learned...right after I finished crying:
First its important to remove the crap-infested collar and clean it off. This was the point where I realized that poop was everywhere: In my fingernails, on my shirt, in the sink, in my hair.
The next step is generally to freak out -- realize that you still have dogs to walk that day.. In the next 15 minutes. Look around for towels, if you cant find them, then stick the dog in the shower, turn on the water and pray that this somehow works out. That seemed like an ok plan until Billy shook dogdoo-water all over the place... splattering brown droplets on the walls and floors of the bathroom. This is what I call "Code Red".
Just as I was searching under the sink for some disposable towels, Billy ran out of the bathroom and started shaking everywhere. every. where. At this point, I would generally recommend crying again. It cant hurt. Then call your boyfriend. Then wipe down the walls.
It was now 1:45 and I was 20 minutes late to my next dog appointment. So after I cleaned as much as I could, I had to leave. I called Billy's owner (Jilly) and left a voicemail, a text message, and I shot off a flare...And then went to my next appointment.
When the phone finally rang with Jilly's name on the caller end, I felt my stomache drop. I was prepared to offer (or rather, insist) to come back in the evening and help clean. I picked up the phone and rambled on incessantly about the goings on of the walk, and how sorry I was. And when I finally took a second to breath, I heard Jilly's voice on the other end, laughing hysterically at the story I had just told. She wasn't mad, she was more amused by the whole thing and said: "I just think its really funny that you put him in the shower." She also said that the text message I had sent her at the pinnacle of my panic, was equally funny: "Emergency: Billy has rolled in poop. Please call."
So, I guess things aren't all bad. They're just messy and still smell of dog poop...But even that can be cleaned up. And tomorrow's a new day.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Big Red
Last week, I received another inquiry about my dog walking services. Even though I now receive these emails/phone calls more regularly, it doesn't diminish my excitement. This particular caller, though, was special. Not only did he live around the block from me, but his dog was 90 pounds. NINETY. POUNDS. This choice bit of info came at the end of our rather lengthy conversation. It was more of a: "hmmm, what else is there to tell you?... Oh yeah, my dog is 90 pounds." click.
There wasn't enough time to process that information and then formulate an appropriate response. After hanging up the phone, I sat there in shocked silence. I had set up a meeting with the dog and his owners for the following day. So, should I tell them ahead of time, that I'm roughly the same size as their dog? Or, should I just show up, let them "laugh it out" and then win them over with my sparkling personality? When it comes down to it, I KNOW that I can handle big dogs, as I've always owned larger dogs. (Note: Larger = 50-60 lbs). I just didn't want to be the laughing stock when they prepare their horse-dog to meet a hefty dog walker and instead, find me with a saddle and lasso.
After much debate with friends and family, I decided to just show up and prove my capabilities. So, the next morning, I woke at 8am and prepared the usual meet-and-greet materials to take with me. With each step, I questioned what the hell I was doing and considered turning around and running home. But somehow I made it to their front door and rang the doorbell. I heard the elevator chime and braced myself, half expecting to see a man in a dog suit bound towards me.
Instead, a gorgeous, rust-colored mix-breed pup, only the size of a golden retriever, trotted over. Although he may BE 90 pounds, he didn't look it. And I knew that this would turn out ok. I met with the owners, won them over (obviously) and signed my newest client! Aptly named "Clifford".
There wasn't enough time to process that information and then formulate an appropriate response. After hanging up the phone, I sat there in shocked silence. I had set up a meeting with the dog and his owners for the following day. So, should I tell them ahead of time, that I'm roughly the same size as their dog? Or, should I just show up, let them "laugh it out" and then win them over with my sparkling personality? When it comes down to it, I KNOW that I can handle big dogs, as I've always owned larger dogs. (Note: Larger = 50-60 lbs). I just didn't want to be the laughing stock when they prepare their horse-dog to meet a hefty dog walker and instead, find me with a saddle and lasso.
After much debate with friends and family, I decided to just show up and prove my capabilities. So, the next morning, I woke at 8am and prepared the usual meet-and-greet materials to take with me. With each step, I questioned what the hell I was doing and considered turning around and running home. But somehow I made it to their front door and rang the doorbell. I heard the elevator chime and braced myself, half expecting to see a man in a dog suit bound towards me.
Instead, a gorgeous, rust-colored mix-breed pup, only the size of a golden retriever, trotted over. Although he may BE 90 pounds, he didn't look it. And I knew that this would turn out ok. I met with the owners, won them over (obviously) and signed my newest client! Aptly named "Clifford".
Monday, October 09, 2006
Cookie
I meet a lot of people on my daily dog outings. Most are pretty nice, some are creeps, and every once in a while, ill meet a true gem. I was lucky enough to meet one such person, in the Tompkins Square dog park last Thursday.
It was a busier day than normal and my usual seat (on the bench next to the quiet man with the headphones, New York times and Pit bull-mix) was already taken. So, my eyes eagerly scanned over to an open spot on the next bench, where an older, cartoonish-type man sat watching his adorable mix breed dog.
The man was straight out of a Roald Dahl book. He had a round tummy, held in by the same high-waisted, tan pants that connected to long red suspenders covering his grey patterned shirt. You could tell that he had been sporting his tattered old newsboy cap since before it was popular. And his face could only be described as "jolly".
The man looked weathered, but in a good way. I walked over and smiled subtly as I sat on the other side of the iron armrest. Truthfully, I didn't think the two of us would speak at all, but like the amazing conversation-starter he is, Billy started to hump this man's dog.
Our talks began slowly. The man (who I would later learn is named David) has a slight speech problem so it takes a bit longer for him to form words. But its worth the wait. I learned that David has lived in the same east village apartment for over 30 years. The rent, which started out at a billowing $120/month, has now topped off at $350. And he makes his keep by selling articles at local fairs and the occasional Astor Place vendor strip. Before becoming a vendor (which he has been doing for the past 25+ years) David lived on a commune in Virginia.
It was difficult, because I could tell his speech impediment was both embarrassing for him, and keeping him from giving me special details about his life. His explanations were rather simple. And although I was so interested in hearing more, I only had 1/2 hour before it was time to bring Billy back home.
After leaving the park that day, I felt as though I had met someone important. But, as the dog park sometimes goes, I wasn't sure that I would see him again. Today, however, I did. At first, I wasn't sure if I should approach David. On one hand, I was eager to talk to him and hear more about his life, but on the other hand, being the introvert that I am, I didn't want to give up my dog park "Billy-and-me" time.
After about 10 minutes of back and forth, I walked over and sat on the bench across from David... and he, in turn, walked over to sit on the bench right next to me. I cant quite explain it, and it could be because of my failing grandfather, or maybe its because Im still trying to find my way, but Im so interested in talking to David and hearing his story.
Lately, Im more and more interested in hearing how people have made it in the world... how they've managed to find their way through all of life's obstacles. When I think of my grandpa right now, I imagine what he was like as a 26 year old. I imagine that he was once the same age as me, looking at life with many of the same questions. And now, he's learned all there is to know here...or at least, all HE will ever learn here. Everyone has a story. Some people are living it, some are reflecting and others are slowly turning the last page of the chapter to see what lies ahead. Im really interested in hearing those stories. So I look forward to the next time I see David at the dog park. He's a sweet, old man with a lot to say...if youve got the time to listen.
Oh, and his dog's name is Cookie.
It was a busier day than normal and my usual seat (on the bench next to the quiet man with the headphones, New York times and Pit bull-mix) was already taken. So, my eyes eagerly scanned over to an open spot on the next bench, where an older, cartoonish-type man sat watching his adorable mix breed dog.
The man was straight out of a Roald Dahl book. He had a round tummy, held in by the same high-waisted, tan pants that connected to long red suspenders covering his grey patterned shirt. You could tell that he had been sporting his tattered old newsboy cap since before it was popular. And his face could only be described as "jolly".
The man looked weathered, but in a good way. I walked over and smiled subtly as I sat on the other side of the iron armrest. Truthfully, I didn't think the two of us would speak at all, but like the amazing conversation-starter he is, Billy started to hump this man's dog.
Our talks began slowly. The man (who I would later learn is named David) has a slight speech problem so it takes a bit longer for him to form words. But its worth the wait. I learned that David has lived in the same east village apartment for over 30 years. The rent, which started out at a billowing $120/month, has now topped off at $350. And he makes his keep by selling articles at local fairs and the occasional Astor Place vendor strip. Before becoming a vendor (which he has been doing for the past 25+ years) David lived on a commune in Virginia.
It was difficult, because I could tell his speech impediment was both embarrassing for him, and keeping him from giving me special details about his life. His explanations were rather simple. And although I was so interested in hearing more, I only had 1/2 hour before it was time to bring Billy back home.
After leaving the park that day, I felt as though I had met someone important. But, as the dog park sometimes goes, I wasn't sure that I would see him again. Today, however, I did. At first, I wasn't sure if I should approach David. On one hand, I was eager to talk to him and hear more about his life, but on the other hand, being the introvert that I am, I didn't want to give up my dog park "Billy-and-me" time.
After about 10 minutes of back and forth, I walked over and sat on the bench across from David... and he, in turn, walked over to sit on the bench right next to me. I cant quite explain it, and it could be because of my failing grandfather, or maybe its because Im still trying to find my way, but Im so interested in talking to David and hearing his story.
Lately, Im more and more interested in hearing how people have made it in the world... how they've managed to find their way through all of life's obstacles. When I think of my grandpa right now, I imagine what he was like as a 26 year old. I imagine that he was once the same age as me, looking at life with many of the same questions. And now, he's learned all there is to know here...or at least, all HE will ever learn here. Everyone has a story. Some people are living it, some are reflecting and others are slowly turning the last page of the chapter to see what lies ahead. Im really interested in hearing those stories. So I look forward to the next time I see David at the dog park. He's a sweet, old man with a lot to say...if youve got the time to listen.
Oh, and his dog's name is Cookie.
Sit. Stay. Speak.
I know, it takes me so long to write a new blog. Truthfully, I think its because Im EXHAUSTED by the time I get home at the end of the day. (I realized that I would be walking dogs, but apparently, it never occurred to me that I would be doing something I havent done in 2 years: exercising on a regular basis. I actually have to stretch when I wake up in the morning, otherwise I will be sore the next day.)
Secondly, Im very critical of what I write. Dont think I havent TRIED to write another blog since Sept 30th. I have. Ive actually written a few, but didnt really like any of them enough to post.
And lastly, there is SO much to write about now. From the comments I get on the street from other dog owners, to meeting new clients, to interviewing/hiring employees, to asinine comments I get from others about my career... Ive got a lot to say. The difficult part, I guess, is narrowing it down into one concise essay for your viewing pleasure.
Im not trying to make excuses.. Not at ALL. I love having a blog and writing about the daily dog occurrences. Like, for example, how interesting it is that people treat you differently when youre with a dog. Strangers who normally would have passed you by without a second glance, now stop to ask you questions, give advice or tell you about their canine experiences. It doesnt matter if you look busy, if youre in the middle of picking up poop or if youre clearly trying to get the dog to keep moving.. people feel like youre part of "the club" and that you, therefore, understand eachother. Ive never felt so loved, and so completely vulnerable at the same time. Walking a dog provides an opportunity for all types of people to strike up a conversation...
Yesterday, while walking in the park with French Bull Dog Fizzy, some (dirty, old) man watching us exclaimed, "that dog is really healthy... just like his mother." Might be the most disgusting thing Ive ever heard. And initially, I wasnt sure how to react. Did he actually KNOW Fizzy's mother? Probably not. But at the time, I was so shocked that anyone would have the gall to actually say something so inappropriate, that I was hoping he just mis-spoke. Doubtful.
When walking the small Havanese, Hannah, on the upper east side, people often stop me to tell me how perfect the two of us look together. Now, dont get me wrong...I think small dogs are adorable, and yes, I can see how people might assume that I am the owner of this $5000 dog - I dont dress like a typical dog walker (there's no mullet, mom jeans or harness full of dog supplies), and Im walking around swank areas during day time hours with one little pooch by my side. On top of that, I probably seem really happy and carefree...not because Im loaded, but instead, because Im doing something that I love. So I can see how people would assume that Im living "the life" on the UES with my little dog. Now, I love all dogs, but when it comes to owning one, I fancy myself a large mutt owner. I tend to have a connection to most lab mixes. we just "get" eachother.
My favorite comment Ive ever received was while walking beagle-lab mix, Billy. Whenever we get to the dog park, Billy will run ahead of me and play with other dogs. After a few minutes, he'll jump onto a bench and start sniffing around looking for me. I know this, because once he finally sees me, Ill simply wave (as to say hello) and he will come bounding over to sit next to me. One day in the park, someone told me that they couldnt believe I was just Billy's walker, because he treated me like I was his owner. It was such a compliment.
But I guess thats why I love being a dog walker.. thats why I wanted to be a dog walker, because I LOVE being with dogs. And thats why it was so flattering -- someone was validating the fact that this is not just a job for me, but instead, an exciting opportunity to build relationships with my new friends.
On a side note, Saturday was Leo's birthday. He would have been 14 years old. Leo is one of the reasons I started the New York Pooch Patrol. I miss him everyday.
Secondly, Im very critical of what I write. Dont think I havent TRIED to write another blog since Sept 30th. I have. Ive actually written a few, but didnt really like any of them enough to post.
And lastly, there is SO much to write about now. From the comments I get on the street from other dog owners, to meeting new clients, to interviewing/hiring employees, to asinine comments I get from others about my career... Ive got a lot to say. The difficult part, I guess, is narrowing it down into one concise essay for your viewing pleasure.
Im not trying to make excuses.. Not at ALL. I love having a blog and writing about the daily dog occurrences. Like, for example, how interesting it is that people treat you differently when youre with a dog. Strangers who normally would have passed you by without a second glance, now stop to ask you questions, give advice or tell you about their canine experiences. It doesnt matter if you look busy, if youre in the middle of picking up poop or if youre clearly trying to get the dog to keep moving.. people feel like youre part of "the club" and that you, therefore, understand eachother. Ive never felt so loved, and so completely vulnerable at the same time. Walking a dog provides an opportunity for all types of people to strike up a conversation...
Yesterday, while walking in the park with French Bull Dog Fizzy, some (dirty, old) man watching us exclaimed, "that dog is really healthy... just like his mother." Might be the most disgusting thing Ive ever heard. And initially, I wasnt sure how to react. Did he actually KNOW Fizzy's mother? Probably not. But at the time, I was so shocked that anyone would have the gall to actually say something so inappropriate, that I was hoping he just mis-spoke. Doubtful.
When walking the small Havanese, Hannah, on the upper east side, people often stop me to tell me how perfect the two of us look together. Now, dont get me wrong...I think small dogs are adorable, and yes, I can see how people might assume that I am the owner of this $5000 dog - I dont dress like a typical dog walker (there's no mullet, mom jeans or harness full of dog supplies), and Im walking around swank areas during day time hours with one little pooch by my side. On top of that, I probably seem really happy and carefree...not because Im loaded, but instead, because Im doing something that I love. So I can see how people would assume that Im living "the life" on the UES with my little dog. Now, I love all dogs, but when it comes to owning one, I fancy myself a large mutt owner. I tend to have a connection to most lab mixes. we just "get" eachother.
My favorite comment Ive ever received was while walking beagle-lab mix, Billy. Whenever we get to the dog park, Billy will run ahead of me and play with other dogs. After a few minutes, he'll jump onto a bench and start sniffing around looking for me. I know this, because once he finally sees me, Ill simply wave (as to say hello) and he will come bounding over to sit next to me. One day in the park, someone told me that they couldnt believe I was just Billy's walker, because he treated me like I was his owner. It was such a compliment.
But I guess thats why I love being a dog walker.. thats why I wanted to be a dog walker, because I LOVE being with dogs. And thats why it was so flattering -- someone was validating the fact that this is not just a job for me, but instead, an exciting opportunity to build relationships with my new friends.
On a side note, Saturday was Leo's birthday. He would have been 14 years old. Leo is one of the reasons I started the New York Pooch Patrol. I miss him everyday.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Dog Tags
The other day, I brought a newspaper to the dog park, figuring I'd have time to read. When I got there, let Billy off his leash and sat down, I realized that watching the dogs was much more entertaining... and enlightening.
Im learning that, just like human society, subgroups also exist in the dog park:
The Prom Queen -
Doesn't have to be female, but there's usually only one of them. When this pup comes in, every single dog in the park takes notice. Our park has crowned Tasha, a middle-aged chocolate lab. Within seconds of her arrival, she's on her back, having her choice of sexual advances or rough housing. And, being the good sport that she is, she opts for everything. Last week, Billy "moved in" from behind, while a small, pit bull puppy (whose clearly just learning) made love to her upper back. Owners of these types of dogs are usually pretty understanding.
The Show Offs -
A direct reflection of their owners. On command, these dogs are jumping to ridiculous heights, running and fetching obscure objects and usually fluent in 2-3 languages. Its obnoxious. And the worst thing to do is stare in awe at this miracle-of-a-dog as their owners adjust their smaller-than-normal genitals.
The Tease -
Just as you'd expect, these little pischers are the ones making eyes, bending over and licking themselves.... But as soon as another dog tries to move forward with their relationship, you hear this deep-seeded, guttural growl that you could have sworn sounded like, "oh hell no".
The Philosophers -
The one or two pups who enter the park and go off to a desolate area to reflect. Yes, they'll let you pet them if you come over, but they aren't willing to get up. And the other dogs know not to bug them while they're in deep meditation.
The Posers -
These guys are typically small in stature, and come in barking to high hell. But, when another (usually larger) pooch takes notice, these little dogs freak out, jump onto the nearest table and bark from there. Clearly, they respectfully want to avoid embarrassing the other dogs with the "hard core beat down" that they would have let loose.
The Sluts -
From the get-go, these pups are casing the park for Grade A Prime Choice meat. These horny little buggers force themselves on most any unfortunate pooch that comes their way. They are the ones that would probably be doing drugs if given the opportunity.
The Intellectuals -
You would find these dogs slowly walking around the park with their noses to the ground - clearly picking up samples of data for some sort of ethnographic study. You cant get their attention, as they are extremely determined. These guys usually don't stay long as they bore easily and only urinate in order to increase levels of acidity. They'll probably go home, sip mineral water and subtly tap their tail to Miles Davis.
Sitting there, watching the mini-society unfold before me, Ive started to draw correlations between those dogs and people I know (or hear about) in real life. All of us know a Prom Queen, a Philosopher and a Slut (I happen to know many). Seeing these dogs interact at the same level that we all do, tends to put things in perspective. With all the subgroups that society has formed, Im struggling with being OK in the grey area: Undefined, but learning more about myself every day. All that matters in life, is being a good person, and holding yourself to the same moral standards you set among others.
Fizzy is a slut, Tasha is a Prom Queen... and Im not judging them. Because at least they "own" it, and are proudly living their title to the fullest.
Im learning that, just like human society, subgroups also exist in the dog park:
The Prom Queen -
Doesn't have to be female, but there's usually only one of them. When this pup comes in, every single dog in the park takes notice. Our park has crowned Tasha, a middle-aged chocolate lab. Within seconds of her arrival, she's on her back, having her choice of sexual advances or rough housing. And, being the good sport that she is, she opts for everything. Last week, Billy "moved in" from behind, while a small, pit bull puppy (whose clearly just learning) made love to her upper back. Owners of these types of dogs are usually pretty understanding.
The Show Offs -
A direct reflection of their owners. On command, these dogs are jumping to ridiculous heights, running and fetching obscure objects and usually fluent in 2-3 languages. Its obnoxious. And the worst thing to do is stare in awe at this miracle-of-a-dog as their owners adjust their smaller-than-normal genitals.
The Tease -
Just as you'd expect, these little pischers are the ones making eyes, bending over and licking themselves.... But as soon as another dog tries to move forward with their relationship, you hear this deep-seeded, guttural growl that you could have sworn sounded like, "oh hell no".
The Philosophers -
The one or two pups who enter the park and go off to a desolate area to reflect. Yes, they'll let you pet them if you come over, but they aren't willing to get up. And the other dogs know not to bug them while they're in deep meditation.
The Posers -
These guys are typically small in stature, and come in barking to high hell. But, when another (usually larger) pooch takes notice, these little dogs freak out, jump onto the nearest table and bark from there. Clearly, they respectfully want to avoid embarrassing the other dogs with the "hard core beat down" that they would have let loose.
The Sluts -
From the get-go, these pups are casing the park for Grade A Prime Choice meat. These horny little buggers force themselves on most any unfortunate pooch that comes their way. They are the ones that would probably be doing drugs if given the opportunity.
The Intellectuals -
You would find these dogs slowly walking around the park with their noses to the ground - clearly picking up samples of data for some sort of ethnographic study. You cant get their attention, as they are extremely determined. These guys usually don't stay long as they bore easily and only urinate in order to increase levels of acidity. They'll probably go home, sip mineral water and subtly tap their tail to Miles Davis.
Sitting there, watching the mini-society unfold before me, Ive started to draw correlations between those dogs and people I know (or hear about) in real life. All of us know a Prom Queen, a Philosopher and a Slut (I happen to know many). Seeing these dogs interact at the same level that we all do, tends to put things in perspective. With all the subgroups that society has formed, Im struggling with being OK in the grey area: Undefined, but learning more about myself every day. All that matters in life, is being a good person, and holding yourself to the same moral standards you set among others.
Fizzy is a slut, Tasha is a Prom Queen... and Im not judging them. Because at least they "own" it, and are proudly living their title to the fullest.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Lazy Daze
All right, now that I’m a bonafide dog walker, I spend a lot of time amongst the little pischers ... apparently, completely unbeknownst to them. Seriously, Billy LOVES me when I get to his apt.. when we're walking down the street, or when I’m scratching his back. But when I get to that dog park, its like I’m the embarrassing mother yelling after him "Remember to wipe!" as he runs off with his friends.
His memory of my loyal and faithful friendship miraculously comes back when I run over to stop him from humping, or if I have treats. But other than that... I’m merely his hired help.
And its ok. I understand that Billy doesn’t always get the chance to romp and hump other dogs. I’m fine being the silent observer. Always watching in the background....Just trying to understand the mysteries of the canine world.
Not a day goes by when I don’t come across a dog-ism that I don’t quite understand. For example: there is this one hole, in the middle of the park, that the dogs take turns digging. When one dog is finished furiously scratching at the void of dirt, another runs in to take his place. Its like the dog park slut.. everyone has been all up in it. So what’s the deal? Is there something buried there? Is this a good form of exercise? not sure. Whatever it is, its extremely popular at the park. And I’m not.
And yet another mystery:
Fizzy, my French Bull dog client, has a drooling problem. Not the thin, liquid, dainty drool. No, I’m talking two strands of thick mucous forming on the corners of his mouth. Once the drool starts, it slowly accelerates into a long icicle- shaped mechanism that drags on the ground, picking up stray leaves and feathers. Its adorable. And the best part --there's no way to stop it. Its like those scary movies, where, if you try to kill something, it just mutates and multiples.
Yep.. same thing here. When I try to wipe it off, it just grows back, more powerful then ever before. Today, I wiped off a feather that had become attached to Fizzy's drool-tentacle. The next time I turned around, he was dragging a tennis shoe. Oh, and I got slimed in the process. But he doesn’t seem to mind! Not one bit. Even when he shakes the slime all over his face… He wears it as a badge of honor.
So, to those of you who thought the life of a dog walker is a glamorous one, full of manicured fingernails and fan mail. You’re completely mistaken. Yes, it’s a joy to behold - but a messy, sloppy, disgusting one... that Im extremely proud of.
His memory of my loyal and faithful friendship miraculously comes back when I run over to stop him from humping, or if I have treats. But other than that... I’m merely his hired help.
And its ok. I understand that Billy doesn’t always get the chance to romp and hump other dogs. I’m fine being the silent observer. Always watching in the background....Just trying to understand the mysteries of the canine world.
Not a day goes by when I don’t come across a dog-ism that I don’t quite understand. For example: there is this one hole, in the middle of the park, that the dogs take turns digging. When one dog is finished furiously scratching at the void of dirt, another runs in to take his place. Its like the dog park slut.. everyone has been all up in it. So what’s the deal? Is there something buried there? Is this a good form of exercise? not sure. Whatever it is, its extremely popular at the park. And I’m not.
And yet another mystery:
Fizzy, my French Bull dog client, has a drooling problem. Not the thin, liquid, dainty drool. No, I’m talking two strands of thick mucous forming on the corners of his mouth. Once the drool starts, it slowly accelerates into a long icicle- shaped mechanism that drags on the ground, picking up stray leaves and feathers. Its adorable. And the best part --there's no way to stop it. Its like those scary movies, where, if you try to kill something, it just mutates and multiples.
Yep.. same thing here. When I try to wipe it off, it just grows back, more powerful then ever before. Today, I wiped off a feather that had become attached to Fizzy's drool-tentacle. The next time I turned around, he was dragging a tennis shoe. Oh, and I got slimed in the process. But he doesn’t seem to mind! Not one bit. Even when he shakes the slime all over his face… He wears it as a badge of honor.
So, to those of you who thought the life of a dog walker is a glamorous one, full of manicured fingernails and fan mail. You’re completely mistaken. Yes, it’s a joy to behold - but a messy, sloppy, disgusting one... that Im extremely proud of.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Birthday Girl
There was a time, during my pre-teens, when I became very awkward. I got really into acting, didn't shower as much and donned big plastic glasses and head gear. I didn't date, omitted a pungent odor and was extremely, extremely skinny. So, it was no surprise when my dogs' birthdays rolled around, that I decided to throw them a party.
Tali (our lab-springer mix)'s birthday was Sept 25th and Leo (our lab-keeshond)'s was Oct 7th. Since there was only 12 days in between the special events, it was the perfect opportunity to celebrate. So, I picked a date and sent out about 15 invitations to the local dogs in the neighborhood. When most kids my age were experimenting with drugs or losing their virginity, I was creating individualized bandanas for each of my dogs' "friends".
Not to be outdone, I spent a lot of time on the details of the party. There were party bags, complete with pet trinkets and treats. I made a birthday cake by layering wet and dry dog food in an aluminum tin pan (and spelling out "Tali and Leo" in chicklet-shaped kibbles on top). And, of course, no party would be complete without the "guess how many pieces of dog food" jar.
The shindig was held at a local park two blocks away from my house and the turnout was wonderful (probably 20 people and 10 dogs). It seemed that everyone had a good time; The dogs got to run around with each other and eat the rice and lamb flavored bday cake, my dad videotaped from the sidelines and Tali and Leo seemed really happy.
The party almost became an annual event until Year Two, when a dog got pregnant. So, sadly, after that, we scrapped the idea. Without the structure of Tali and Leo's birthday patries, I was quickly lost. I spent the following years trying to perfect the dance scene from "Cant Buy me Love" and eventually decided to go through puberty.
Growing up, Ive always been a fan of the "dog birthday party". On May 10th each year, I used to come downstairs to Honey (our loyal Husky-Beagle-Poodle) sitting at the kitchen table, eating dog food out of a carved out grapefruit. Normally she wasnt allowed to sit at the table.. in fact, she probably would have been scolded. But on that day, her birthday, my mom would find a comfortable chair (with arms that stretched out touching the table) and place Honey in it, so that she could have a celebratory birthday breakfast.
No, we weren't obsessed with our dogs. We werent those owners who speak to their dog in a baby voice, lavish their fur with ridiculous bows and carry around pictures of them to show friends. We just loved our dogs...and looked at them as a member of the family.
So, when my client Billy (the "sexer") had his birthday this past Friday, I was more than excited to wrap up a bag of dog treats and a rope bone, slap on a bow and wish him a happy birthday. If nothing else, to show I care.
Today is the anniversary of Tali's birthday. She would have been 16 years old. Tali is one of the main reasons I was inspired to create my own dog walking company. I miss her every day.
Tali (our lab-springer mix)'s birthday was Sept 25th and Leo (our lab-keeshond)'s was Oct 7th. Since there was only 12 days in between the special events, it was the perfect opportunity to celebrate. So, I picked a date and sent out about 15 invitations to the local dogs in the neighborhood. When most kids my age were experimenting with drugs or losing their virginity, I was creating individualized bandanas for each of my dogs' "friends".
Not to be outdone, I spent a lot of time on the details of the party. There were party bags, complete with pet trinkets and treats. I made a birthday cake by layering wet and dry dog food in an aluminum tin pan (and spelling out "Tali and Leo" in chicklet-shaped kibbles on top). And, of course, no party would be complete without the "guess how many pieces of dog food" jar.
The shindig was held at a local park two blocks away from my house and the turnout was wonderful (probably 20 people and 10 dogs). It seemed that everyone had a good time; The dogs got to run around with each other and eat the rice and lamb flavored bday cake, my dad videotaped from the sidelines and Tali and Leo seemed really happy.
The party almost became an annual event until Year Two, when a dog got pregnant. So, sadly, after that, we scrapped the idea. Without the structure of Tali and Leo's birthday patries, I was quickly lost. I spent the following years trying to perfect the dance scene from "Cant Buy me Love" and eventually decided to go through puberty.
Growing up, Ive always been a fan of the "dog birthday party". On May 10th each year, I used to come downstairs to Honey (our loyal Husky-Beagle-Poodle) sitting at the kitchen table, eating dog food out of a carved out grapefruit. Normally she wasnt allowed to sit at the table.. in fact, she probably would have been scolded. But on that day, her birthday, my mom would find a comfortable chair (with arms that stretched out touching the table) and place Honey in it, so that she could have a celebratory birthday breakfast.
No, we weren't obsessed with our dogs. We werent those owners who speak to their dog in a baby voice, lavish their fur with ridiculous bows and carry around pictures of them to show friends. We just loved our dogs...and looked at them as a member of the family.
So, when my client Billy (the "sexer") had his birthday this past Friday, I was more than excited to wrap up a bag of dog treats and a rope bone, slap on a bow and wish him a happy birthday. If nothing else, to show I care.
Today is the anniversary of Tali's birthday. She would have been 16 years old. Tali is one of the main reasons I was inspired to create my own dog walking company. I miss her every day.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Crap.
Perfectly describes both the day I had, and what I stepped in.
Oddly enough the day didn’t start off too badly (— oh, before I move on, please note that the sarcasm level is at an all time high today... continue—) I got up at 5am in Minneapolis. Barely slept the night before after saying good bye to my terminally ill grandfather. (Probably one of the hardest things you'll ever have to do. Not just "goodbye". Goodbye Period. Horrible.)
Landed 30 minutes late, and watched the luggage revolver wind around for what seemed like hours before my jam-packed, too-large-for-carryon baggage finally rolled my way. And of course, it was buried under an awkward shaped pinkish-greenish Barbie-patterned bag, which was clearly used to camouflage the non-children-friendly contents; An obvious overabundance of some innocent child's mother's things. (I can only imagine the little girl's disappointment when she realized she was simply a pawn in her mother's ploy to stash hair gel, tooth paste, pliers and anything else prohibited from the airplane).
Once I was able to jimmy my bag from the mountain of crap (note: the theme) from which it was suffocating beneath, I ran outside to catch a cab. Please note, "jimmying a bag" consists of holding on to whatever appendage of the bag is within arms reach and laying on the ground hoping that as you’re being pulled around in a great circle, your leg or foot will at some point catch onto something on the floor and you will either come to a stop, or the bag will fall off the ramp. A mixture of the two happened.
I ran outside amidst a sea of cabby's — each hoping that I would be a foreigner and could, therefore, be weaseled into hitching a ride and paying a ridiculous fare — even more ridiculous than that of the jacked-up prices of the yellow cab that I was able to quickly wave down. (Maybe the only non-crap moment of the day).
Finally, I made it home. And by "finally", I mean after a 45-minute drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. At this point there was no way I could make it to my first dog walking appointment. I had to call back up... which sucked as I was really looking forward to the adorable French Bull Dog awaiting me.
Once I got my bearings, I was able to haul ass to my second appointment: The highly popular (and sexually active), Billy, who today, was probably the horniest I’ve ever seen him (or any other non-human male). After awkwardly pulling him off about 5 dogs, I was able to bring him home and head uptown.
On the way, I got a nose bleed.
And then we come to the pinnacle of the story...the reason I began on this tirade in the first place. I stepped in crap. I knew it was bound to happen at some point, but not so soon. and not like this.
I walked into my client's swank east 80's apartment. The place is amazing — everything is polished and expensive, right down to the marble floors and unlocked doors. (Apparently, there's no need to lock your doors when you're really really rich. For me, my non-wealthy doors lock by themselves, and (in one case in particular) refused to budge until a neighbor was kind enough to open them with a credit card. Ahhh...Safety first.)
I sashayed through the front corridor (Its classier to sashay) and gently opened the kitchen door to find sweet little 4-month old Hannah excited and ready to go. I looked over my shoulder to see a stash of money Hannah's owner had left for me. Right beneath, on the floor below, lay a considerably large-sized deposit of dog poop. Unfortunately I didn’t see THAT, until I had walked over to grab the money and stepped right in it. In retrospect, the placement seemed a little too perfect. Almost planned out.
In any case, I stepped in crap. It was everywhere. It was disgusting. But damn my amazingly empathetic nature (and good looks), I couldn’t be upset with the little pischer. I just felt badly, cause you could tell she knew she did something wrong. And truthfully, its not her fault. If she could strap on her own leash, sashay out the door and walk herself, she would. She's just a little puppy and she's just learning the ropes.
So, I tucked my tail between my legs, cleaned up the floor and went on my way... hoping that tomorrow will be a little better.
Oddly enough the day didn’t start off too badly (— oh, before I move on, please note that the sarcasm level is at an all time high today... continue—) I got up at 5am in Minneapolis. Barely slept the night before after saying good bye to my terminally ill grandfather. (Probably one of the hardest things you'll ever have to do. Not just "goodbye". Goodbye Period. Horrible.)
Landed 30 minutes late, and watched the luggage revolver wind around for what seemed like hours before my jam-packed, too-large-for-carryon baggage finally rolled my way. And of course, it was buried under an awkward shaped pinkish-greenish Barbie-patterned bag, which was clearly used to camouflage the non-children-friendly contents; An obvious overabundance of some innocent child's mother's things. (I can only imagine the little girl's disappointment when she realized she was simply a pawn in her mother's ploy to stash hair gel, tooth paste, pliers and anything else prohibited from the airplane).
Once I was able to jimmy my bag from the mountain of crap (note: the theme) from which it was suffocating beneath, I ran outside to catch a cab. Please note, "jimmying a bag" consists of holding on to whatever appendage of the bag is within arms reach and laying on the ground hoping that as you’re being pulled around in a great circle, your leg or foot will at some point catch onto something on the floor and you will either come to a stop, or the bag will fall off the ramp. A mixture of the two happened.
I ran outside amidst a sea of cabby's — each hoping that I would be a foreigner and could, therefore, be weaseled into hitching a ride and paying a ridiculous fare — even more ridiculous than that of the jacked-up prices of the yellow cab that I was able to quickly wave down. (Maybe the only non-crap moment of the day).
Finally, I made it home. And by "finally", I mean after a 45-minute drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. At this point there was no way I could make it to my first dog walking appointment. I had to call back up... which sucked as I was really looking forward to the adorable French Bull Dog awaiting me.
Once I got my bearings, I was able to haul ass to my second appointment: The highly popular (and sexually active), Billy, who today, was probably the horniest I’ve ever seen him (or any other non-human male). After awkwardly pulling him off about 5 dogs, I was able to bring him home and head uptown.
On the way, I got a nose bleed.
And then we come to the pinnacle of the story...the reason I began on this tirade in the first place. I stepped in crap. I knew it was bound to happen at some point, but not so soon. and not like this.
I walked into my client's swank east 80's apartment. The place is amazing — everything is polished and expensive, right down to the marble floors and unlocked doors. (Apparently, there's no need to lock your doors when you're really really rich. For me, my non-wealthy doors lock by themselves, and (in one case in particular) refused to budge until a neighbor was kind enough to open them with a credit card. Ahhh...Safety first.)
I sashayed through the front corridor (Its classier to sashay) and gently opened the kitchen door to find sweet little 4-month old Hannah excited and ready to go. I looked over my shoulder to see a stash of money Hannah's owner had left for me. Right beneath, on the floor below, lay a considerably large-sized deposit of dog poop. Unfortunately I didn’t see THAT, until I had walked over to grab the money and stepped right in it. In retrospect, the placement seemed a little too perfect. Almost planned out.
In any case, I stepped in crap. It was everywhere. It was disgusting. But damn my amazingly empathetic nature (and good looks), I couldn’t be upset with the little pischer. I just felt badly, cause you could tell she knew she did something wrong. And truthfully, its not her fault. If she could strap on her own leash, sashay out the door and walk herself, she would. She's just a little puppy and she's just learning the ropes.
So, I tucked my tail between my legs, cleaned up the floor and went on my way... hoping that tomorrow will be a little better.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Just Say No
When you're starting your own dog walking business (as i am).. and you need to take it where you can get it (not that way, pervert... Im talking clients).. when is it ok to say no?
I cant tell you how many times Ive been contacted by slightly "off" individuals asking for special treatment for their dogs.
Dont get me wrong, If a client needs an extra walk, maybe a brushing or a vet visit, I can comply.. but when they ask me to tip toe into their apt in the morning (while they are sleeping on the couch), gently rub down their three chihuahuas with baby wipes and chew-then-regurgitate mashed up cheerios into their little open mouths, Ive got to draw the line.
I know, I need to be excited and enthusiastic when a potential client calls... I need to show that Im willing to go above and beyond to ensure the care and well-being of dogs everywhere... but when does it stop being caring and start being creepy?
Yes, Im a dog walker. Yes, I pick up crap for a living...but I still have my pride.
I cant tell you how many times Ive been contacted by slightly "off" individuals asking for special treatment for their dogs.
Dont get me wrong, If a client needs an extra walk, maybe a brushing or a vet visit, I can comply.. but when they ask me to tip toe into their apt in the morning (while they are sleeping on the couch), gently rub down their three chihuahuas with baby wipes and chew-then-regurgitate mashed up cheerios into their little open mouths, Ive got to draw the line.
I know, I need to be excited and enthusiastic when a potential client calls... I need to show that Im willing to go above and beyond to ensure the care and well-being of dogs everywhere... but when does it stop being caring and start being creepy?
Yes, Im a dog walker. Yes, I pick up crap for a living...but I still have my pride.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Bad Dog
Word of mouth.
Apparently, no matter what your credentials or how your advertise, the only way to get your dog walking name out there, is through word of mouth. Who knew? Here I am pining away at advertising campaigns, website development, logos and press kits. And for what? Most of the people I meet with dont even care for the "About Us" folder I put together (detailing the Red Cross certification in Canine First Aid and CPR, my interest to go to school for Canine Rehabilitation Therapy, and the certificates of insurance and liability bonding through Pet Sitters International), nor do they care whether my logo is perfectly centered on the "Daily Report Card" I leave after each walk. In fact, one guy even told me he doesnt want any of it... just walk his dog and he'll be happy.
What Im saying is... maybe Im being too polished? But, after all my years in advertising -- learning how to sell (and upsell) the client -- how could I be anything but?
So, lets switch things up, shall we? No, I wont stop creating ads on Illustrator or discontinue my modifications to my website through Dreamweaver. But I will make my posters a little more gritty.. maybe a little tongue in cheek.. cause, hey.. it doesnt matter anyways, right?
So, here is the newest installment of New York Pooch Patrol ads. Let me know what you think. The campaign centers around the thought that while youre away, your dog gets into trouble.. serious trouble (drugs, sex and rock and roll). Thanks to my sister Jenny, who did the drawings, Ive put together the following "Idle Paws" campaign.. and will be posting them around the city this weekend. If nothing else.. to see what happens.
Apparently, no matter what your credentials or how your advertise, the only way to get your dog walking name out there, is through word of mouth. Who knew? Here I am pining away at advertising campaigns, website development, logos and press kits. And for what? Most of the people I meet with dont even care for the "About Us" folder I put together (detailing the Red Cross certification in Canine First Aid and CPR, my interest to go to school for Canine Rehabilitation Therapy, and the certificates of insurance and liability bonding through Pet Sitters International), nor do they care whether my logo is perfectly centered on the "Daily Report Card" I leave after each walk. In fact, one guy even told me he doesnt want any of it... just walk his dog and he'll be happy.
What Im saying is... maybe Im being too polished? But, after all my years in advertising -- learning how to sell (and upsell) the client -- how could I be anything but?
So, lets switch things up, shall we? No, I wont stop creating ads on Illustrator or discontinue my modifications to my website through Dreamweaver. But I will make my posters a little more gritty.. maybe a little tongue in cheek.. cause, hey.. it doesnt matter anyways, right?
So, here is the newest installment of New York Pooch Patrol ads. Let me know what you think. The campaign centers around the thought that while youre away, your dog gets into trouble.. serious trouble (drugs, sex and rock and roll). Thanks to my sister Jenny, who did the drawings, Ive put together the following "Idle Paws" campaign.. and will be posting them around the city this weekend. If nothing else.. to see what happens.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Sex and the Park
Ever since I moved to New York, the dog parks have been a weekly trip for me. When most people like to go to the museums, Central Park, work out, do yoga or hang out with friends, I tend to be drawn to watching dogs frolic with one another in a gated environment. Don't know what it is about the scene, but I find it to be adorable..and really funny. Dogs of all sizes flying through the air, landing sideways and rolling to a stop on the ground. Small dogs forgetting their size and pouncing full force on larger mutts -- the same dogs who, if they were encountered on the street, would cower in fear. But not at the dog park. Its like Myspace for canines: they get to reconnect with all their friends and there's no age requirement.
I've often stood outside the large black gates, with my head on my hands, imagining what it would be like to one day be the lucky owner who gets to sit inside. You know the one -- waving to his pooch, chatting it up with other owners, petting all the dogs... THAT is the life.
Well, ladies and gentleman, today... I made it into the park. Its true. I took one of my favorite clients, Billy, who happens to live right around the corner from Tompkins Square. Truthfully, I felt sort of like a fraud when I opened the heavy door and ushered Billy in. I felt like maybe they would figure out that I wasn't his owner, but instead, his humble dog walker. However, no sooner had I stepped inside, that tons of dogs started walking over to welcome us. Within a few minutes, everyone was coming up to me asking what type of dog he was, how long I had walked him and giving me high fives. It was kind of what I imagined my high school reunion would be like -- no one would know who I was, but they'd immediately think i was really cool.
It was a dream come true. I was completely in my element and surrounded by like-minded people and dogs abound. That is, until I turned around to see Billy leap off of the bench next to me and bound towards an unsuspecting Pitt Bull mix. At first, I didn’t think much of it -- I figured he was just going over to play with his new friend. But then I noticed the glazed over look in his eyes. The very same look often associated with the all-too-friendly construction workers in my neighborhood. Before I knew it, Billy had suctioned himself to the rear of this poor Pitt Bull (not that he wasnt asking for it).
They began to make love...in dog speak, we call it "humping". And for a dog walker, who was just experiencing her first time at the dog park, it was really awkward.
They don’t teach you how to handle such situations in dog walking school... do you go over there and try to reason with the dog? Do you find the other owner and apologize? Moreover, how does one go about making one dog stop "doing it" with another? No matter what the angle, its a very personal situation on all ends.
I was in a state of utter panic, and immediately ran over to Billy to try to get him to stop what he was doing. And he did (good dog!) only to run over and jump on another (this time, much larger) pup. I watched in horror as he maneuvered himself on top of this horse-of-a-dog. He was barely hanging on when I got over there and made him cease and desist. (I think I actually had to help him down).
It was then that I decided we should go. Not because I was upset with Billy (how could I be, he is adorable!), but because I was really embarrassed. On the way out, I ran into one of the slut-dog owners and apologized for Billy's impressive libido. The owner wasn’t upset, but instead told me something that will stay with me forever: "Dogs like to hump. That’s just what they do."
Thanks for the heads up.
I've often stood outside the large black gates, with my head on my hands, imagining what it would be like to one day be the lucky owner who gets to sit inside. You know the one -- waving to his pooch, chatting it up with other owners, petting all the dogs... THAT is the life.
Well, ladies and gentleman, today... I made it into the park. Its true. I took one of my favorite clients, Billy, who happens to live right around the corner from Tompkins Square. Truthfully, I felt sort of like a fraud when I opened the heavy door and ushered Billy in. I felt like maybe they would figure out that I wasn't his owner, but instead, his humble dog walker. However, no sooner had I stepped inside, that tons of dogs started walking over to welcome us. Within a few minutes, everyone was coming up to me asking what type of dog he was, how long I had walked him and giving me high fives. It was kind of what I imagined my high school reunion would be like -- no one would know who I was, but they'd immediately think i was really cool.
It was a dream come true. I was completely in my element and surrounded by like-minded people and dogs abound. That is, until I turned around to see Billy leap off of the bench next to me and bound towards an unsuspecting Pitt Bull mix. At first, I didn’t think much of it -- I figured he was just going over to play with his new friend. But then I noticed the glazed over look in his eyes. The very same look often associated with the all-too-friendly construction workers in my neighborhood. Before I knew it, Billy had suctioned himself to the rear of this poor Pitt Bull (not that he wasnt asking for it).
They began to make love...in dog speak, we call it "humping". And for a dog walker, who was just experiencing her first time at the dog park, it was really awkward.
They don’t teach you how to handle such situations in dog walking school... do you go over there and try to reason with the dog? Do you find the other owner and apologize? Moreover, how does one go about making one dog stop "doing it" with another? No matter what the angle, its a very personal situation on all ends.
I was in a state of utter panic, and immediately ran over to Billy to try to get him to stop what he was doing. And he did (good dog!) only to run over and jump on another (this time, much larger) pup. I watched in horror as he maneuvered himself on top of this horse-of-a-dog. He was barely hanging on when I got over there and made him cease and desist. (I think I actually had to help him down).
It was then that I decided we should go. Not because I was upset with Billy (how could I be, he is adorable!), but because I was really embarrassed. On the way out, I ran into one of the slut-dog owners and apologized for Billy's impressive libido. The owner wasn’t upset, but instead told me something that will stay with me forever: "Dogs like to hump. That’s just what they do."
Thanks for the heads up.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Bring It
My first day on the job... first day that I can no longer say: "I just quit my job in advertising and Im trying to form a dog walking company." Nope, now its just " Yeah, Im a dog walker" and I have to take the judgement and misunderstanding that goes along with it.
It's strange how many people feel it's their right to grace me with their opinion on what Im doing with my life. Especially those that wont look past their own misconceptions to realize that it could be a wonderful thing. Im going after something that I feel would make me happy.. something I think I deserve. And after three plus years in advertising.. why not go on an adventure?... I think I've earned it.
Most respond with a laugh when they hear that Ive given up my well-paying, suffocating, like-sucking, mind-numbing, corporate job to walk dogs. "Are you kidding? What are you really doing?" is the typical response. Once they realize that I am telling the truth, people usually assume that I didn't go to college or that Im some sort of trust fund baby taking the easy route.
Well guess what? Im neither.
I did, in fact, go to college (hey, I even graduated!), Im not being funded by my parents and most importantly, this isn't easy. Starting your own company, facilitating marketing strategies, creating and distributing advertisements (yeah, i had to learn Photoshop, inDesign and Illustrator), developing your own website (from scratch), figuring out fees/expenses and saving up money so that I would be able to do all this, was (no pun intended), not a walk in the park.
It's more than simply walking dogs (which, in itself, is an art). It's building a functioning business. It's being fully responsible for other living beings. And it's proving to myself that I don't need the corporate structure to run my life. I can be in charge... and be successful doing so.
So, to all you nay sayers out there: Bring it on... I guess Ill just have to prove you wrong.
It's strange how many people feel it's their right to grace me with their opinion on what Im doing with my life. Especially those that wont look past their own misconceptions to realize that it could be a wonderful thing. Im going after something that I feel would make me happy.. something I think I deserve. And after three plus years in advertising.. why not go on an adventure?... I think I've earned it.
Most respond with a laugh when they hear that Ive given up my well-paying, suffocating, like-sucking, mind-numbing, corporate job to walk dogs. "Are you kidding? What are you really doing?" is the typical response. Once they realize that I am telling the truth, people usually assume that I didn't go to college or that Im some sort of trust fund baby taking the easy route.
Well guess what? Im neither.
I did, in fact, go to college (hey, I even graduated!), Im not being funded by my parents and most importantly, this isn't easy. Starting your own company, facilitating marketing strategies, creating and distributing advertisements (yeah, i had to learn Photoshop, inDesign and Illustrator), developing your own website (from scratch), figuring out fees/expenses and saving up money so that I would be able to do all this, was (no pun intended), not a walk in the park.
It's more than simply walking dogs (which, in itself, is an art). It's building a functioning business. It's being fully responsible for other living beings. And it's proving to myself that I don't need the corporate structure to run my life. I can be in charge... and be successful doing so.
So, to all you nay sayers out there: Bring it on... I guess Ill just have to prove you wrong.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Rolling with the Big Dogs
So what makes a good dog walker? The reason I ask, is because I had the rare opportunity today of interviewing someone for the job. He seemed cool enough -- a musician, who can play almost any instrument with his eyes closed and currently lives in Brooklyn Heights, or Park Slope or Queens. Truthfully, I dont recall -- anywhere outside of the constrains of Tribeca to 14th street seems like a blur to me.
He was pretty cool, and despite our differences in music, hairstyle, hygiene and clothes, I think we had a lot in common. In short, he was awesome. you know how sometimes you can just tell? You just get a feeling for someone? Thats how I felt with him.
Now, some of you may be asking: "why do you need another dog walker? arent YOU going to walk the dogs?" (others may be asking: "why would anyone write a blog about dog walking anyways?" and others may just be asking "whats for dinner?"). In any case, I need another dog walker so that I can branch out to other areas in the city (you know, those above 14th street) and become the best damn dog walking company ever. (which, at this rate, is a distinct possibility).
Oh, and Im meeting with a potential client tomorrow morning who lives way the hell on the upper west side (where? exactly.) so Im gonna need an adventurous (trustworthy, reliable and flexible) young squire to do my bidding when I wont be able to get up there.
So, for those eager apprentices, my requirements (in addition to those listed above)are... applicants must LOVE dogs. Just love em. So much so, that this isnt as much a job as the chance of a lifetime.. to get to hang out with dogs all day long. (Truthfully, thats why Im doing it). Secondly, Im gonna need some dog experience. you know, walkers, owners, groomers...what not. And lastly, they've got to be able to trek to the ends of the earth (above 23rd street). If youre reading this and feel like youre reading a page of your own diary... then we may have a match.
He was pretty cool, and despite our differences in music, hairstyle, hygiene and clothes, I think we had a lot in common. In short, he was awesome. you know how sometimes you can just tell? You just get a feeling for someone? Thats how I felt with him.
Now, some of you may be asking: "why do you need another dog walker? arent YOU going to walk the dogs?" (others may be asking: "why would anyone write a blog about dog walking anyways?" and others may just be asking "whats for dinner?"). In any case, I need another dog walker so that I can branch out to other areas in the city (you know, those above 14th street) and become the best damn dog walking company ever. (which, at this rate, is a distinct possibility).
Oh, and Im meeting with a potential client tomorrow morning who lives way the hell on the upper west side (where? exactly.) so Im gonna need an adventurous (trustworthy, reliable and flexible) young squire to do my bidding when I wont be able to get up there.
So, for those eager apprentices, my requirements (in addition to those listed above)are... applicants must LOVE dogs. Just love em. So much so, that this isnt as much a job as the chance of a lifetime.. to get to hang out with dogs all day long. (Truthfully, thats why Im doing it). Secondly, Im gonna need some dog experience. you know, walkers, owners, groomers...what not. And lastly, they've got to be able to trek to the ends of the earth (above 23rd street). If youre reading this and feel like youre reading a page of your own diary... then we may have a match.
Friday, September 01, 2006
A Touch of Honey
I was just a pea in my mother's belly when this story took place... but its a zinger.
My pregnant mom was at home one day, caring for my soon-to-be older sister, Becky (who was only 2 at the time), when there was a knock at the door. She cautiously peered out the window to find a pugish-looking man leading a pack of 10 little puppies. Apparently, he was going door-to-door to see if anyone was interested in adopting one. Its interesting how things work differently in midwestern towns. Here, if some random guy came to my door with puppies, I would probably assume he is homeless and asking me to convert. (I assume everyone who talks to me is). Its happened before.
Little Wendy looked down at the gaggle of pups and was drawn to the only completely black one. Labeled, as the man mentioned, a husky-beagle-poodle...which, oddly enough, we all completely accepted. Nowadays, this little puppy would, most likely, be called a "Husbeapoo" and range from $1000-1500. But back in the olden days (1980-1985) things were much simpler. Also, what the hell does a Husky-Beagle-Poodle look like? I can only imagine some blue-eyed, spotted, curly-haired, unicorn-type creature...In retrospect, not sure this guy was telling the truth.
Wendy (only roughly 30-ish herself) ran to the nearest phone to call my dad (a strapping young dentist working to build his practice) and discuss the life changing decision they had before them. And when all was said and done... we got a dog.
Although our little addition to the family was a foreign development for 2-year-old Becky (granted, not being able to release yourself into one's plastic underwear would also be labeled as such), this wasn't that new for my parents.
Mom had grown up with a couple of pure-bred mini poodles named Bijou and Jaime (pronounced "Zsa-mee" - the correct inflection was necessary if you wanted the little pischer to listen to you) in her upper class home on the lake. And dad, had raised a "friendly" little beagle named Missy whose whorish ways resulted in thirty bouncing bundles of joy (not at once.. through 4-5 litters). So, dad grew up with a constant stream of new puppies (and neighborhood gigolo-dogs coming to woo Missy while she was in heat).
Which brings me back to our newest member of the family...little soulful, dark eyes seeping out from her mane of black straight fur.. .she was a vision. The cutest puppy anyone had ever seen. I've only had three dogs in my life, and as you will soon find out, my two sisters and I would each get to name one. This one belonged to Becky. Well, didn't really belong to her, but Jenny and I weren't born yet and therefore weren't given the opportunity to strong-hold her. (although, we totally could have done it.)
For a bed-wetting, high-pitched, little, big sister, I gotta hand it to her. Becky earned her keep... naming our little dog "Honey" (after my dad's pet name for my mom). And because of this, I had the pleasure of being born into a family where our dog was a very present and positive force. I grew up feeling like this is what a home should be like. And I never forgot that.
My pregnant mom was at home one day, caring for my soon-to-be older sister, Becky (who was only 2 at the time), when there was a knock at the door. She cautiously peered out the window to find a pugish-looking man leading a pack of 10 little puppies. Apparently, he was going door-to-door to see if anyone was interested in adopting one. Its interesting how things work differently in midwestern towns. Here, if some random guy came to my door with puppies, I would probably assume he is homeless and asking me to convert. (I assume everyone who talks to me is). Its happened before.
Little Wendy looked down at the gaggle of pups and was drawn to the only completely black one. Labeled, as the man mentioned, a husky-beagle-poodle...which, oddly enough, we all completely accepted. Nowadays, this little puppy would, most likely, be called a "Husbeapoo" and range from $1000-1500. But back in the olden days (1980-1985) things were much simpler. Also, what the hell does a Husky-Beagle-Poodle look like? I can only imagine some blue-eyed, spotted, curly-haired, unicorn-type creature...In retrospect, not sure this guy was telling the truth.
Wendy (only roughly 30-ish herself) ran to the nearest phone to call my dad (a strapping young dentist working to build his practice) and discuss the life changing decision they had before them. And when all was said and done... we got a dog.
Although our little addition to the family was a foreign development for 2-year-old Becky (granted, not being able to release yourself into one's plastic underwear would also be labeled as such), this wasn't that new for my parents.
Mom had grown up with a couple of pure-bred mini poodles named Bijou and Jaime (pronounced "Zsa-mee" - the correct inflection was necessary if you wanted the little pischer to listen to you) in her upper class home on the lake. And dad, had raised a "friendly" little beagle named Missy whose whorish ways resulted in thirty bouncing bundles of joy (not at once.. through 4-5 litters). So, dad grew up with a constant stream of new puppies (and neighborhood gigolo-dogs coming to woo Missy while she was in heat).
Which brings me back to our newest member of the family...little soulful, dark eyes seeping out from her mane of black straight fur.. .she was a vision. The cutest puppy anyone had ever seen. I've only had three dogs in my life, and as you will soon find out, my two sisters and I would each get to name one. This one belonged to Becky. Well, didn't really belong to her, but Jenny and I weren't born yet and therefore weren't given the opportunity to strong-hold her. (although, we totally could have done it.)
For a bed-wetting, high-pitched, little, big sister, I gotta hand it to her. Becky earned her keep... naming our little dog "Honey" (after my dad's pet name for my mom). And because of this, I had the pleasure of being born into a family where our dog was a very present and positive force. I grew up feeling like this is what a home should be like. And I never forgot that.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
The First of Many
So, I guess it begins...
My attempt to make it -- for the first time -- on my own.
No corporate structure to cling to or predecessor to learn from.. just me.
It would seem that the area in which you excel the most would be the one that you love.
So bare with me.. Im just trying to figure it all out.
My attempt to make it -- for the first time -- on my own.
No corporate structure to cling to or predecessor to learn from.. just me.
It would seem that the area in which you excel the most would be the one that you love.
So bare with me.. Im just trying to figure it all out.
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