Dumb Gifts

Don't be a dog walker.

If you do, you'll get dumb gifts.




Oh, socks covered in dogs about to pee. How thoughtful.












Oh, there's one of those brown and black dogs, the ones the police use! What are they called again? Wait, let me check my sock.

That's right, German Shepard! I almost said German Shepherd. Wow, that would have been embarrassing.











If they did Hollywood Squares for dogs, this is what it would look like.













Cats, dogs, same difference.














I think I'll re-gift these to the first 8 year-old dog walker I meet.













At least it's not a puffy paint T-Shirt like the last time my mom went on a cruise.















Clearly a subliminal message about the superiority of cats to dogs.











Where the hell am I supposed to wear novelty socks? I WALK DOGS. If I tried to wear them for work, my hiking boots would slip right off somewhere between my front door and my van. I'd step in one mud puddle and have pneumonia and a toe rotted off within the hour.

Now if SmartWool made dog-themed socks, that would be a different story. Seriously, do people really think the next time I'm looking for some thin socks to wear with my dress up shoes I'll reach for my misspelled German Shepherd socks?

Dogs Are Manipulative Bastards

I carry treats with me at the park to increase the speed and frequency of my dogs coming to me when I call them. If I run out, a dog might come running the first time, but when he figures out there's nothing but a pat on the head as a reward, he acquires sudden and acute hearing loss the next time I call.

I've got a few dogs who need to know what kind of treats I have that day before they decide if it's worth their time. If the dog with wheat, gluten and chicken allergies is with us, they won't even bother sniffing at the bacon-shaped cardboard I'm offering. I have other dogs who would pull themselves out of a dead squirrel and come sit at perfect attention if I held out a pine cone plucked from a mud puddle.

My little French Bulldog, however, has brought food motivation to a whole new level. She learned quite quickly that other dogs get treats when they drop stolen tennis balls or squeaky toys. Without an ounce of retrieving instinct in her blood, she now races along side the Labradors to get to the ball and steal it. Instead of bringing it back like the retrievers do, she runs in circles, looking back to watch my reaction, until I tell her to drop it. In an instant, the ball is out of her mouth and her front paws are on my leg, waiting for her reward.

On her lazy days, when it's too hot to run or the ball is too far away, she pulls out a trick she learned from the poop eaters. If a poop eater sniffs at another dog's pile, I tell them to leave it and pull out the best tasting treat on the market. Some dogs just stand there, looking at the poop, and looking at the treat, looking at the poop and looking at the treat. As if it's a difficult decision. While they're making up their mind, I've got the French Bulldog climbing up my pant leg, trying to claim the treat for herself.

In hindsight, I should have given her the treat. I can see her point. She left the poop alone, she deserved a treat as much as the poop eater. But now, I've got a new poop eater in the pack. And it's clear it comes as naturally to her as racing a Labrador on her three-inch legs.

I know she's about to do it when she sees a dog squat runs towards it, and stands there looking at me. For some reason, she waits for me to say "leave it," before smushing her flat face into the mess. I can't help but cry out in disgust, and that's when she stops and looks right at me, like a kid in a high chair with pudding all over his face, and waits to see if I reach into my pocket. If I don't go for a treat, she dives right back in. She gets a treat every time.

I've inadvertently created a monster. A ball-stealing, poop-eating, flat-faced, manipulative monster.

Dog Walking Makes You Fat

Don't get me wrong. When I first started walking dogs, I lost enough weight to have every single person I know telling me I was losing weight. "You're losing weight!" As if I'm not the person putting on my pants every morning.

Why is it rude to comment on weight gain but not weight loss? "God, where'd your ass go?" Um, I sent it in as my entry fee into the Calista Flockhart Fan Club.

It just took me a while to adjust to my new work day. My entire career had been spent behind a desk or standing in front of a room talking and I was never more than two doors away from a fridge and a microwave. Now I was obeying one condo unit's "No Dogs In the Elevator" policy for five stories a day and sprinting after run away dogs on a regular basis.

Plus, the leftovers I used to eat tasted terrible cold and I wasn't wasting money on some overpriced Thermos until my client list was longer. Oh, and did I mention the two English Labs that squeezed around and eventually chewed through the metal pet barrier designed to keep them out of my front seat? If they found my lunch bag before the bag of dog treats, I went hungry for the day. Not that the human-food-induced dog farts and diarrhea didn't make me lose my appetite anyway.

Now I've got a metal thermos that takes longer to chew into than it does for me to get in an out of a dog's house, a grocery list full of easy-to-eat-while-driving snacks, and no more Labs after they ate something poisonous and require 24 hour supervision from the long lasting health complications. And no, the poison wasn't from my lunch. My bets are on the metal pet barrier. Those things might be toxic.

So, I'm back to my original weight and having to watch what I eat again. Just when I was getting used to stuffing my face full of whatever I could find, my dogs don't run away anymore and the no-elevator client cut back to twice a week.

I had a hard time buttoning my pants today, which means my transition from high calorie food to low calorie but still high energy food isn't going as smoothly as I thought. But then again, it's summer and all of my shorts have drawstrings, so it's easy to see how I could be fooled.

Don't be a dog walker. You'll get skinny, then get fat again. It's not worth it.

Some People Learned Nothing in Kindergarten

It's a myth that you can become a dog walker and avoid people. They're everywhere.

In my experience, the dog walking profession attracts more socially awkward people than even the computer industry, and that can't be a coincidence. But nothing beats the losers a dog walker runs into during the day. Or in today's example, doesn't run into but finds evidence of their sorry existence.

For the third time this year, I find myself putting my name on my Chuck-it. You know, the long-handled plastic thing that hurls tennis balls further than the bionic man playing fetch with his robo dog?

It's no small feat branding my Chuck-It. Sharpie wears off within an hour on a drizzly day or within five minutes in the slobber factory which is a Pit Bull's mouth. That's right, I have a Pit Bull who steals my Chuck-It when I'm not looking.

The Pit Bull, I can forgive. But who the Hell do you think you are, mystery park thief? When you find something at the dog park that you didn't drop, that doesn't make it yours. Or did you miss that in Kindergarten class? "Oh, here's a Chuck-It lying haphazardly by the gate as if someone had a hard time wrangling all of their dogs into the van while an over protective Pomeranian owner screamed obscenities in the direction of the Pit Bull. Lucky me, I think I'll take it home!"

News flash Sticky Fingers: IF IT'S NOT YOURS, DON'T TAKE IT! See that lost and found basket over there? Use it.

Now I'm one small business owner out a total of $60 for three Chuck-Its. Jerk.

The thought of you encountering you at the park is enough to crush everyone's dreams of being a dog walker.

Nature is a Bitch

Being a dog walker requires being out in nature. It's dangerous.

It's baby bird season and one of my clients had a crow's nest in their front yard. Over the weekend, two of the babies left the nest and instead of soaring, they took a nose dive into the driveway. One died on the spot and one was rushed to the animal hospital and is recovering nicely. Unfortunately, papa crow blames the dog and any humans attached to the dog. That's me.

Every time I pick the dog up, I have papa crow swooping at my head. He hasn't made contact yet, but he gets close enough to have my bangs sway in the wind of his wings. Plus he's tracking me, and that freaks me out. I park in a lot across the street from the house and he greets me from the branch above my van. One big squack when I get out, then continuous yelling as he hops from tree to tree all the way across the parking lot, across the street, and into the front yard. When the dog comes out, he starts swooping back and forth, all the way back across the street, across the parking lot, and back above my van.

It's not that I think he could kill me or anything, but I've seen what those birds pick at in the middle of the street and I don't want a new wound opened by one of those nasty claws. Roadkill residue festering in my scratch. That's a guaranteed infection.

Dog walking is dangerous, don't do it.

Oh God, It's Friday

Don't go to the dog park on Fridays. Just don't. Maybe everyone's brain is in weekend mode a.k.a. shut off, but it doesn't excuse how stupid people get on Fridays.

Like the guy who showed up today with his wife and their young black lab. Yes, sir, I'm talking about you. I should have run the other way as soon as you asked if I was a dog walker. 10 dogs and you have to ask. I thought about it but two of my dogs took a liking to yours so I only walked the other way slowly so they could lag behind and have a little play time with your puppy. That's what dog parks are for, right? Apparently not.

You, sir, seemed to think you could show up at an off leash park with your dog and his favorite ball, which happens to be every dog's favorite ball, and play a little game of fetch.

But then the nightmare began when you approached my pack to ask be about the breed of a dog you found attractive and my little French Bulldog put her paws on your freshly pressed jeans to get closer to the squeaky ball you held in your hand. I appreciate you turning around and telling her, "off" in your firm voice, it takes a village to train these dogs, but next time, instead of holding the ball higher in the air, spinning around in circles screeching at her before kicking her away, why don't you try a little secret only those of us in the super secret underground dog club know. Put the f@#*ing thing in your pocket. You know, out of sight. Remove the temptation.

And, though I realize you were out of your mind with concern over the paw print on your shin, I still think you way overreacted to your puppy playing with other dogs. That's right sir, playing.

When two dogs meet, bark at each other in that high voice, bend their heads low to the ground with their front paws splayed out, that's translated as, "hey, you're cool, wanna play?" And when those two same dogs go chasing after each other, it's not a hunt to the death. It's a game of chase, like tag, only without touching. And the dog in the front, like your little Lab today, is actually in the alpha dog position. Unfortunately, your little Lab is being trained to grow up to be a scared little Lab by you stomping and yelling at his new playmates to go away. And if you kick your little Lab like you kicked my dogs today, I hope your neighbors call animal control and find your Lab a home with someone who has a clue about four legged creatures.

It is stupid Friday today, so I realize you were at your worst, but seriously, you should get cable and watch a dog training show. Do it for your dog, and for your poor wife. I'm sure your people skills aren't stellar either.

Down to Business

If you insist on being a dog walker, you should do it under the table. Seriously. The bookkeeping and taxes are a killer. I should know, it's April 15th and all the savings I had now belongs to the IRS.

It's not that Quickbooks is all that hard to navigate, it's not that I blow all my money on pre-cut organic liver treats, it's not even that I don't believe in taxes. It's just that I got into dog walking because I love the dog stuff.

If I wanted to crunch numbers, I would have been an accountant, or one of those shady bookkeepers that skims off the top because they work for someone like me who only wants to know if she has enough money to stop by the taco truck on the way home.

Profit Loss What? I'd rather scoop poop with my hands and a leaky bag when it's raining sideways and the neurotic German Shepard is barking in my ear than reconcile my checking account. I'd rather tromp through the blackberries at high noon in August chasing after a lost dog than record a receipt.

So that's my advice, first off, don't be a dog walker. Second, just be self-employed, don't be some highfalutin business owner keeping track of write-offs and quarterly estimates. Ask your customers for cash, give 20% to your favorite charity so you're not a complete tax evading jerk and spend your time shopping for more effective rain gear instead of wrestling with spreadsheets. Oh, and keep your day job.

Dog walkers are the new realtors

I've been in the dog walking business for almost two years now, which is long enough for me to reliably say that dog walking has replaced selling houses as the latest career fad. Not that long ago, everyone I knew was taking real estate classes and trying to get rich off the housing bubble. Now it's the same with dog walking. I've lost track of how many people have approached me at the off leash park for tips on starting their own dog walking businesses. The mere fact that they think it's reasonable for me to chat while on the job makes me question their competence. Let me just set down my Chuck-It and poop bags, turn my attention away from the 100 lb Lab who knocks unsuspecting park goers on their backs for fun and the Pointer who will chase a squirrel across the country given the slightest gap in the fence and explain my marketing strategy to you so you can advertise to my potential clients.