Today started like any other. I woke up with a burst of excitement, brushed my teeth with Crest Extra Whitening, and imagined my face on the Wheaties box as I stared longingly over breakfast. (I know the coveted spot is reserved mostly for sports heroes -- and me being afraid of balls and competition doesn't help my chances. Still, I dream of the day, "Worlds Best Dog Walker" will make the cover.)
The weather was abnormally beautiful and I actually left the house sans long underwear for the first time in six months. Things were on the up and up, and I wasn't the only one who noticed.
Everyone was in a good mood, and the neighborhood felt like a Disney musical: Sunshine was pouring through the gorgeous blue sky, and the pigeons seemed to be freshly cleaned and flying about. I half-expected the squirrels to start singing and holding hands, and the delivery men to dance around lamp posts, tipping their caps.
Even the dogs seemed to be in good spirits as we skipped and sashayed down the block. It was a perfect day and nothing could go wrong... until Fizzy ate dogdoo.
I didn't notice at first, as I was kindly giving two elderly vacationers directions to a local eatery. But I could tell something was up as my shoulder was still tucked neatly in its socket. For a twenty-five pound dog, Fizzy has mastered the "tug-yank-and-drag" like a champ. Yet today, he was oddly docile.
Feeling uneasy, I slowly dropped my gaze to find Fizzy knee-deep in the largest deposit of dog poop I had ever seen. I stood in shocked silence, not sure what to do. I'd heard of such horror stories, but shrugged it off as an urban myth. And now, there I was staring it in the face.
On the one hand, it was the most repulsive display of consumption in recent memory. At the same time, I realized that I could enter Fizzy into any one of the reality-based competition shows, and he would have a fighting chance.
His eye caught mine just as the tourists were backing away slowly in fearful repulse. I have to admit, I was a little scared too. Fizzy's big, sweet grin was just barely peeking out behind the thick, chocolate layer covering his entire head.
It was both disgusting and heartbreaking. Here I am praising my amazing dog walking abilities, when I cant even keep my clients from eating crap... that cant be a good sign.
Feeling defeated, I watched the Wheaties box flash before my eyes as I took Fizzy home and washed his mouth out with soap.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Bussom Buddies
Yesterday, I was followed by a hoard of homeless people,veterans, crazy dog-women, and yes, construction workers. I have no idea how it happened, but all of a sudden, I was the sweatpant-clad Pied Piper leading the lonely and disoriented around the city.
And I have no one to blame by myself. I cant help it that I'm friendly -- I come from the land of nice, Minneapolis. The place where, if you're not on the road, driving with the type of vicious passion that could kill a small cartoon character, you're bending over backwards to make sure that everyone else is happy. You open doors for others, offer up the last croissant and let people budge in line. Any action to the contrary is considered unnatural. That's just the way of life in the Mini-apple.
And that way of life works out wonderfully, until you take one of those doe-eyed, sweet as pie, petite, Minnesota girls and drop them into the sweltering, urine-based streets of New York. Here, you can walk by the same person four times a day, and not even crack a smile.
But I don't fit the mold -- Life, to me, is still a 1950's television sitcom complete with cordial neighbors, coiffed hair-dos and TV dinners. I cant help but beam and wave at any and all individuals I see along my dog walking path each day. This includes the elderly, doormen and vagabonds. (I usually avoid making eye contact with construction workers as I don't want to encourage them.)
But, on Thursday, March 22nd, every single person I had ever acknowledged, took it the wrong way, and I spent my afternoon travelling through a tag team of uninvited guest speakers who decided to "walk with me" as I worked.
It was bizarre -- as if each person was stationed around the city and knew right when their transient predecessor was finished. I probably had only 5-10 minutes between guests, and each took my previously friendly gesture as a genuine interest in their stories of leg surgery, dog problems or the onset of Hepatitis C.
Under different circumstances, I may have been very interested in hearing (almost all) of their (very brief) stories, but it's not the right time when I'm working.
What do you say to complete strangers who are jabbering your ear off about their time at war, their botched botox procedures or how they contracted a venereal disease? Since all I'm doing is "walking", its hard to pretend that I'm incapable of a conversation. So, I had to dig deep, go against everything Ive learned my whole life, and lay a hardcore smack down.
It was awkward at first, but once I felt that my new bussom buddies were impeding on my dog-time or personal space, I had to tell them that it wasn't ok. So, one by one, I politely let each of the walk crashers know, that they were seriously creeping me out.
After the last guest retreated (and the slow clap had subsided), I found myself, once again, beaming...but this time with pride. I haven't denounced my "Minnesota nice", I'm just adding a bit of New York savvy to my repertoire.
And I have no one to blame by myself. I cant help it that I'm friendly -- I come from the land of nice, Minneapolis. The place where, if you're not on the road, driving with the type of vicious passion that could kill a small cartoon character, you're bending over backwards to make sure that everyone else is happy. You open doors for others, offer up the last croissant and let people budge in line. Any action to the contrary is considered unnatural. That's just the way of life in the Mini-apple.
And that way of life works out wonderfully, until you take one of those doe-eyed, sweet as pie, petite, Minnesota girls and drop them into the sweltering, urine-based streets of New York. Here, you can walk by the same person four times a day, and not even crack a smile.
But I don't fit the mold -- Life, to me, is still a 1950's television sitcom complete with cordial neighbors, coiffed hair-dos and TV dinners. I cant help but beam and wave at any and all individuals I see along my dog walking path each day. This includes the elderly, doormen and vagabonds. (I usually avoid making eye contact with construction workers as I don't want to encourage them.)
But, on Thursday, March 22nd, every single person I had ever acknowledged, took it the wrong way, and I spent my afternoon travelling through a tag team of uninvited guest speakers who decided to "walk with me" as I worked.
It was bizarre -- as if each person was stationed around the city and knew right when their transient predecessor was finished. I probably had only 5-10 minutes between guests, and each took my previously friendly gesture as a genuine interest in their stories of leg surgery, dog problems or the onset of Hepatitis C.
Under different circumstances, I may have been very interested in hearing (almost all) of their (very brief) stories, but it's not the right time when I'm working.
What do you say to complete strangers who are jabbering your ear off about their time at war, their botched botox procedures or how they contracted a venereal disease? Since all I'm doing is "walking", its hard to pretend that I'm incapable of a conversation. So, I had to dig deep, go against everything Ive learned my whole life, and lay a hardcore smack down.
It was awkward at first, but once I felt that my new bussom buddies were impeding on my dog-time or personal space, I had to tell them that it wasn't ok. So, one by one, I politely let each of the walk crashers know, that they were seriously creeping me out.
After the last guest retreated (and the slow clap had subsided), I found myself, once again, beaming...but this time with pride. I haven't denounced my "Minnesota nice", I'm just adding a bit of New York savvy to my repertoire.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Creepy
Strange thing happened today.
I was assaulted by two psychotic individuals hailing cell phone pictures of their dogs. I didn’t know these people – actually I had never seen them before in my life. And still, they freaked out, dodged traffic and, arms outstretched, virtually vomited their little pixilated puppies all over me.
One minute, I was enjoying a leisurely walk with Fizzy, the next, I was cooing awkwardly over fuzzy fingerprinted pictures still emulating warmth from the bottom of this stranger's pocket. And no, they didn’t want me to walk their dog... they just wanted me to look at him. After stroking their ego for what seemed like 10 minutes, I walked away feeling used.
Here's the deal: I’m not one to get excited over baby pictures (I’ve often compared them to awkward potatoes with faces), and I’m starting to realize that I just don't want to see random pictures of your dog either. Its not fun. Bring me a dog in person and you wont be able to tear my adorable little paws away from him...but the afternoon cellphone montage just doesn’t do it for me. Its sort of creepy.
I was assaulted by two psychotic individuals hailing cell phone pictures of their dogs. I didn’t know these people – actually I had never seen them before in my life. And still, they freaked out, dodged traffic and, arms outstretched, virtually vomited their little pixilated puppies all over me.
One minute, I was enjoying a leisurely walk with Fizzy, the next, I was cooing awkwardly over fuzzy fingerprinted pictures still emulating warmth from the bottom of this stranger's pocket. And no, they didn’t want me to walk their dog... they just wanted me to look at him. After stroking their ego for what seemed like 10 minutes, I walked away feeling used.
Here's the deal: I’m not one to get excited over baby pictures (I’ve often compared them to awkward potatoes with faces), and I’m starting to realize that I just don't want to see random pictures of your dog either. Its not fun. Bring me a dog in person and you wont be able to tear my adorable little paws away from him...but the afternoon cellphone montage just doesn’t do it for me. Its sort of creepy.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Mascara
Its freezing cold outside. The news is reporting zero and sub zero temperatures -- though I don't think its actually dipped below the teens. For New Yorkers its still considered the end of the earth as we know it. For Minnesotans, its what we call springtime.
Brief exposure to this "what-I-imagine-hell-to-be-like" weather can lead to frostbite in our little, canine friends. But we, your loyal dog walkers, still trek through the frozen tundra to make sure that no dog is left with crossed legs. We are the champions of winter. While you are sitting, toasty in your fancy office, sipping your margaritas and being fanned by a band of Tropicana girls, I'm trying to defrost the icicle snot that has formed on my face.
But I'm not complaining. I'm wearing two layers of long underwear over my thick, knit stockings; hand warmers in my heavy duty gloves; a ski mask; goggles and mascara. That's right. I may look like the love child of the abominable snowman and his Yeti mistress, I may have to "pee on the go" to maintain feeling in my legs, but underneath it all, I like to look nice. After all, I'm a professional.
Brief exposure to this "what-I-imagine-hell-to-be-like" weather can lead to frostbite in our little, canine friends. But we, your loyal dog walkers, still trek through the frozen tundra to make sure that no dog is left with crossed legs. We are the champions of winter. While you are sitting, toasty in your fancy office, sipping your margaritas and being fanned by a band of Tropicana girls, I'm trying to defrost the icicle snot that has formed on my face.
But I'm not complaining. I'm wearing two layers of long underwear over my thick, knit stockings; hand warmers in my heavy duty gloves; a ski mask; goggles and mascara. That's right. I may look like the love child of the abominable snowman and his Yeti mistress, I may have to "pee on the go" to maintain feeling in my legs, but underneath it all, I like to look nice. After all, I'm a professional.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
I dont like you in that way
Today, Clifford humped me in broad daylight. Thats right, in the middle of the day, on the busy, Chinatown sidewalk, 90-lbs-of-hunkin'-love took a running leap into my lower back and proceeded to vibrate to the high heavens. No, this isn't the first time Clifford hit on me, it was just the first time he couldn't wait until we got into the safe confines of his building elevator.
And since there were no elevator walls to bounce off of, I went flying (Im talking: arms and legs flailing) roughly 2 feet into the fish-tainted air, only to land face down in the street.
The worst part? Don't know if you've ever traveled to Chinatown... but it is probably the most convoluted area in the city: street vendors, tourists and inhabitants traverse the streets at a constant stream. Today, there were maybe 50 people walking by. And no one...NO ONE, stopped to help.
There I was, lying on the ground with a large, furry, man-dog attempting to rape me, and the most I got was one person who asked me to move.
Maybe I have too much faith in my fellow man. But, Ive always thought if I saw someone in need, I would do what I could to help. And a small girl being violated by Big-foot-in-dog-form, qualifies as such.
Are New Yorkers just completely desensitized? If the same thing had happened in Minneapolis, someone would have called the Fire Department and my harrowing ordeal would have been on the nightly news ("Local girl rescued from loins of neighborhood dog").
Not so, here. In New York, Ive got to fend for myself.
And since there were no elevator walls to bounce off of, I went flying (Im talking: arms and legs flailing) roughly 2 feet into the fish-tainted air, only to land face down in the street.
The worst part? Don't know if you've ever traveled to Chinatown... but it is probably the most convoluted area in the city: street vendors, tourists and inhabitants traverse the streets at a constant stream. Today, there were maybe 50 people walking by. And no one...NO ONE, stopped to help.
There I was, lying on the ground with a large, furry, man-dog attempting to rape me, and the most I got was one person who asked me to move.
Maybe I have too much faith in my fellow man. But, Ive always thought if I saw someone in need, I would do what I could to help. And a small girl being violated by Big-foot-in-dog-form, qualifies as such.
Are New Yorkers just completely desensitized? If the same thing had happened in Minneapolis, someone would have called the Fire Department and my harrowing ordeal would have been on the nightly news ("Local girl rescued from loins of neighborhood dog").
Not so, here. In New York, Ive got to fend for myself.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Juggling Act
Today was a hard one.
I was walking Fizzy and Billy, trying to keep my balance as they both pulled in opposite directions, tripping over myself and dodging delivery men, small children and garbage cans along the way. Finally Billy found a desirable spot to go to the bathroom.
I steadied myself into a crouching-tiger type position, in order to keep hold of the dogs while picking up after them at the same time. And then it happened. Fizzy took off in a strong gait down the block. I wobbled momentarily, but soon, my growing thigh muscles (still sore from the "stairmaster-esque" daily routine of 5th floor walk up apartments) stabled my squat once more.
But Fizzy wasn't happy waiting for me to finish cleaning up after his friend. Through the corner of my eye, I could see the little bugger slowly retreating backwards as if to "wind up" for some amazing Olympic-like sprint. For a second, there was complete silence. I took this as an opportunity to continue my task. And then, mid-scoop, everything came crashing down. Like a shotgun, with all his might, Fizzy took off.
Unfortunately for him (and eventually for me), my jaws-of-life grip on his leash, and amazing cat-like reflexes repelled the little guy back into me -- more specifically, into the bag of poop I was holding. Which, in turn, flew (open side up) unto my newly cleaned jeans. It wasn't a direct hit, as much of a long smear.
For the next few minutes, I stood, open-mouthed, in complete amazement -- shifting my gaze from Fizzy, to my chocolate covered pant leg, and then back again. Occasionally, I would give Billy a look to see if he could provide any assurance or comfort. He couldn't. No one could. The fact was clear: I was covered in poo, and there was nobody to blame but myself.
I've decided that tomorrow, I'm going to wear plastic pants...and maybe carry a hose. No point in dressing nice anymore. If nothing else, I need to start bringing a camera. Whats the point of being covered in dogdoo, if no one will see it?
I was walking Fizzy and Billy, trying to keep my balance as they both pulled in opposite directions, tripping over myself and dodging delivery men, small children and garbage cans along the way. Finally Billy found a desirable spot to go to the bathroom.
I steadied myself into a crouching-tiger type position, in order to keep hold of the dogs while picking up after them at the same time. And then it happened. Fizzy took off in a strong gait down the block. I wobbled momentarily, but soon, my growing thigh muscles (still sore from the "stairmaster-esque" daily routine of 5th floor walk up apartments) stabled my squat once more.
But Fizzy wasn't happy waiting for me to finish cleaning up after his friend. Through the corner of my eye, I could see the little bugger slowly retreating backwards as if to "wind up" for some amazing Olympic-like sprint. For a second, there was complete silence. I took this as an opportunity to continue my task. And then, mid-scoop, everything came crashing down. Like a shotgun, with all his might, Fizzy took off.
Unfortunately for him (and eventually for me), my jaws-of-life grip on his leash, and amazing cat-like reflexes repelled the little guy back into me -- more specifically, into the bag of poop I was holding. Which, in turn, flew (open side up) unto my newly cleaned jeans. It wasn't a direct hit, as much of a long smear.
For the next few minutes, I stood, open-mouthed, in complete amazement -- shifting my gaze from Fizzy, to my chocolate covered pant leg, and then back again. Occasionally, I would give Billy a look to see if he could provide any assurance or comfort. He couldn't. No one could. The fact was clear: I was covered in poo, and there was nobody to blame but myself.
I've decided that tomorrow, I'm going to wear plastic pants...and maybe carry a hose. No point in dressing nice anymore. If nothing else, I need to start bringing a camera. Whats the point of being covered in dogdoo, if no one will see it?
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Holiday Cheese
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.
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.
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.
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