Dog Walkers are Super Heroes

If you're not part super hero, then you shouldn't be a dog walker.

I save the lives of dogs all the time. I've pulled a snarling Pit Bull off of a Great Dane, sprinted up a hill toward a busy freeway in ninety-degree heat to snatch a pair of puppies before they entered traffic, dove into gardia-infested puddles to stop a dog from drinking, but nothing compares to the feat of ingenious bravery I displayed today.

The day started out like any other Thursday. Thursday is barking day. I pick up a Dalmatian on Thursdays who barks non-stop and on full volume. Barking is like yawning. Soon the whole crew has to join in and like a bunch of drunken bar patrons trying to be heard over the neighboring table filled with people trying to be heard over the bad metal band, Thursdays get louder as each mile passes.

It's not only volume, it's proximity. Today, two dogs were standing on their hind legs, leaning into the barrier that separates their space from my space, and barking while biting at each other's faces. I might do that to someone I hated. They do it because they love each other and can't whisper sweet nothings or make out like we humans can.

I like to think that they do it right behind my head and not against the van window far far away because they love me too. The fact that it grates on my nerves and makes me want to swerve into oncoming traffic is just my small mind not appreciating their natural expression of pure love and affection.

During the love fest today, just as I was pulling onto the freeway, I heard a distinctly different sort of barking. It was the sound of a dog in distress, the yelping, screaming sort of dog sound accompanied by the snarling, thrashing sound of a dog proving her dominance over all living things.

I had a fight on my hands.

I yelled and squirted the attacker while keeping one eye focused on the road. When a second dog jumped in and the remaining seven dogs went silent and scurried away from the altercation, I veered into the shoulder, slapped my hazards on and whipped off my seat belt.

It was the first time there had ever been a real fight in the van. One French Bulldog had decided to dominate the most submissive dog in the van and an opportunistic Hound Dog decided he had her back. Two on one, squished in the corner of the passenger seat and the sliding door.

Normally, I would have jumped out of the van, whipped open the sliding door with lightning speed and broken up the three dogs with fierce agility and strength. But we were parked on the freeway on ramp. Trucks were flying past us on their way to 60 mph and if I survived the jump out of the driver’s seat, I was sure to lose more than one dog trying to flee the scene when I opened the slider.

The disastrous scenario played out in my head in milliseconds as I yelled and squirted at the fighting dogs and seven terrified dogs stared back at me to please do something already.

The only way to get to the dogs without getting hit by a SUV was to go through the barrier that I had recently reinforced for the millionth time in order to keep two Houdini dogs out of my front seat and therefore out of my lunch.

I had spent hours duct taping two metal barriers to each other, weaving in parts of a third barrier that had been disassembled at the stupidly designed plastic connectors by the eager chewing of two Lab puppies, and wedged a small plastic dog crate in between the two front seats to block any attempts at crawling under the makeshift fence.

I then taped the barriers to the handles on the back of each seat in the event the two barking love birds or any pair of wrestling pooches pushed the bottom half of the floor to ceiling tension rods enough to send the whole contraption careening onto the unsuspecting furry heads of their pack members. Some dogs were already only one more barrier crash away from never getting into the van again.

It took me hours to secure a barrier system that finally kept all the dogs in the back and about a half a second to decide to destroy it.

After three attempts at knocking the barrier down with the full force of my body weight slamming against it, I detected a week spot near the ceiling and pushed my arm through. The upper half of my body followed and finally tilted the barrier far enough away from the ceiling for me to grab the French Bulldog by the harness.

I pulled her up and away from the chaos, hoping the Hound Dog would give up the fight. He didn’t. Now that the Bulldog was out of the way, he was free to chew on the hind leg of the submissive dog like a chicken wing.

Unfortunately, my only hand not full of French Bulldog harness was stuck on the wrong side of the barrier. The thought of kicking against the dashboard to push my body far enough backwards to grab the flopping ear of the Hound Dog with my teeth actually crossed my mind.

Fortunately, the extra weight of the Bulldog dangling from my arm while the rest of my body teetered across the tilted barrier unstuck one more strand of duct tape and sent the whole contraption falling onto the Hound dog, releasing the submissive dog's leg.

When I lifted my face from the pee stained carpet, all eyes were on me, frozen in expectant stares.

The French Bulldog, harness still in my fist, eyes locked on the submissive dog in the corner growled into the silence.

And that's when I lost my shit.

Call it a combination of adrenalin rush and pure horror at the idea of terrorizing the sweetest dog in the van, but I grabbed the Bulldog by the jowls and yelled, "You're going to jail!" into her smushed little face before shoving her into the crate and slammed the little metal door.

After double-checking that the door was secure, I checked the submissive dog in the corner who seemed to be in shock but not bleeding. The Hound Dog seemed content to sit peacefully now that the excitement was over and all the remaining dogs had resumed breathing.

I sat back on my feet, just beginning to soak in what had happened and what should happen next when the first dog leaned towards me and swiped a dry tongue across my face. Immediately, my head was covered in dogs licking my face, chewing on my ears, and pawing gently at the top of my head.

"Your welcome," I said. "Now get off the barrier so I can put this stupid thing back up."

Dog Wakers Are Drivers Too

If you don’t like driving, you shouldn’t be a dog walker. If you like driving and don’t want to hate driving, you shouldn’t be one either.

I drive about 60 miles a day. That’s 60 miles of people texting while jaywalking to the beat in their noise canceling headphones. 60 miles of near misses that could have been five car pile-ups, innocent children turned into speed bumps, or, at the very least, piles of evidence that every driving-based stereotype is actually true.

And they are. Especially the one about teenagers. They’re bad drivers, but they’re also bad pedestrians and bad people in general.

The other day I turned down my favorite shortcut, squealed around the hairpin turn and practically ran over a crowd of teenagers blocking my path. Twenty or so kids just hanging around looking at each other in the middle of the street.

As a seasoned driver and conscientious member of my community, I’ve decided to take advantage of every teachable moment in order to restore pedestrian etiquette in the streets of my neighborhood.

The lesson of the day was: Silly kids, streets are for cars, and there was only one way to teach it. I took my foot off the break and let gravity roll the weight of my minivan into the crowd.

Layer by layer, the sea of teens parted until I was bumper to kneecaps with a girl fight. Turns out this group wasn’t just loitering in the street, they were jockeying for the best view.

Slowing me down on my route is one thing, but doing it in order to watch a senseless act of violence is just plain unacceptable.

I’m proud to report that I did not rev my engine, neither did I crack my window to spray the delinquents with the squirt bottle I use on misbehaving dogs. I even reapplied the breaks when one of the girls grabbed the other by the hair and threw her in front of my wheel.

While the girl was pulling herself back to her feet, I contemplated calling the police. Obviously, I was the only one on neighborhood watch that day and didn’t think the Golden Retriever whining behind my seat and I were a match for this crowd.

Before I even decided between using the non-emergency line or 911, I heard sirens and the teens scattered. I don’t know if the cops were headed our way or flying past on the main road near by and I didn’t wait around to see. I had a job to do and these stupid teenagers had taken enough of my time already.