Don't be a dog walker

Open Letters to Park Picnickers

2010-06-09T18:06:00.001-07:00

To the kid who lost his Pizza-themed Lunchable to my French Bulldog,

I’m sorry your dad was so stupid as to feed you at an off leash park. I’m also sorry your dad gave you flavored chemicals for lunch. The Bulldog did you a favor. Thank you for simply screaming instead of trying to save the “pepperoni”. You could have lost an arm.

To the guy who ate McDonalds and shared with my “cute little Pug”,

Next time, fucking listen. I wasn’t yelling for the Pug to leave you alone. I was yelling that he has severe allergies and you were about to kill him. I don’t care if he sat when you told him to, he doesn’t know there’s trace amounts of real Chicken in those nuggets that could send him into anaphylactic shock.

To the guy who yelled at me and kicked a dog who tried to steal his Subway sandwich,

You’re a dumb ass. I wish that dog had bitten you. I regret not biting you myself.

To everyone who picnics at the off leash park,

You know that beautiful, grassy hill right by the picnic table? There is dog pee there, also piles of things bad owners don’t pick up. That’s why you don’t let your children roll down it, as inviting as it looks to them.

The dogs I bring to the park every weekday run down that toilet of a hill before they play king of the mountain on your eating surface. That table top calling you to sit for a spell, is a cesspool.

Do you live under a rock? Is this your first day with your first dog ever? Even the most docile Golden Retriever can turn into a Velociraptor when there is food involved.

What makes you think the smell of your bologna sandwich won’t send someone’s dog into wild hyena mode, devouring your lunch as well as any forearms resting on the table? What if your dog plays family protector when another dog jumps on the table to steal a snack? What then? Is your four-legged family member dog enough to win a bout with a hyena? Mine’s not. That’s why I don’t eat at the dog park.

Awkward

2010-06-02T21:09:00.000-07:00

Being a dog walker can be awkward. There are moments in my job where I would turn in my leashes for a desktop under florescent lights in a second.

Like the time I showed up early to a client’s house.

When the dogs didn’t greet me at the door and I heard an, “Oh fuck,” come from upstairs, I assumed the dogs were at the groomer’s and someone forgot to tell me.

I hate showing up when there are no dogs. Not only do I not get paid for a walk, I have to sit and listen to people over apologize and explain why their life was so hard that they couldn’t call me and cancel.

“Hello!” I called to announce myself. As if the house alarm chime ringing through the house didn’t make my entrance obvious enough.

A single bark shot down the stairs. So there was a dog to walk after all. A dog that never left the side of her owner who was taking a ridiculously long time coming down the stairs.

I wiped my shoes on the welcome mat and stepped into the living room with vaulted ceilings.

An elongated “Oh God,” floated over the banister and down to my level.

“You’re kidding me,” I thought to myself. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

I make a whole lot of noise when I come into someone’s house. Mostly because I don’t like scaring people, but also because opening the door to one client in his boxers was one time too many.

Unless the acoustics of the house only worked in one direction, there was no way these people didn’t hear my knock on the door, the alarm chime, the jingling of my enormous key ring, my hello, and near slam of their front door.

If I had snuck in quietly and sent them scurrying off the couch with throw pillows hiding sensitive areas, I would be mortified and apologetic. As it was, I was just pissed.

Pissed and awkwardly stuck in their living room weighing my options.

If I left and came back later, I risked them still being home and trying to cover up the obvious fact that I had already been there and left. That seemed super awkward and a waste of my time.

If I left and never came back, well, that would be unprofessional.

I decided to wait it out, then had second thoughts. What if they really didn’t hear me? What then? How long would I wait in silence before pretending to have just walked in the house? How would I know if they heard me and were just taking their time and then caught me pretending? There was no non-awkward solution.

As I backed toward the door in indecision, the dog came flying down the stairs followed by one owner in flannel pants and a pink tank top.

I greeted her like nothing had happened. My plan was to grab the dog and go but she sat down on the second to last stair and started chatting like we were sharing a table at a coffee shop.

“How have you been?” she asked.

“Busy,” I said, clipping the dog’s leash and reaching for the door handle.

“Got any plans for the weekend?”

Seriously? It’s one thing to exchange ‘hellos’ and ‘have a great days' while pretending your partner isn’t smoking a cigarette eight feet above our heads, but engaging in idle chitchat while I’m trying to flee the situation is just plain inappropriate.

And so, dear reader, unless you too want to spend your entire career trying not to think about your clients having sex every time you open a front door, stick to your office job, where people are more likely to have their intimate moments in closets where you don’t frequent or on desks behind locked doors.

Dog Pack Profile # 1

2010-05-19T18:27:00.000-07:00

The Missile Kisser

120 lbs of pure, muddy intensity, this dog is a park goers nightmare. An extreme athlete, the Missile Kisser is a force to be reckoned with both in the air and on the ground. The wobbliest Frisbee launched across the park never hits the grass thanks to his lightning quick reflexes and impeccable eye/mouth coordination.

Beware the call of the dog walker "Stay down, Missile Kisser! No jumping!" as he charges towards you. His tail may be wagging, his long tongue flopping out the side of his huge smile, but he is no friend to you.

The dog walker has seen it before. The call is not for him. It is for you. She is giving you time to put your knee up, turn your back to his charge, slow him down with a firm stare and a resounding "No!" anything to snap him out of the hallucination that your face is a Frisbee.

The wrong move in this moment could very well ruin your entire day. The Missile Kisser aims for the mouth, leaving the lucky person with a slobbery cheek and a fat lip, the unlucky, a ripped shirt and a missing tooth.

Should you fail to see him in action, victims of his attack are easy to recognize. They wander zombie-like across the park, hand gently touching their lips as if checking to see if that really did just happen to them.

Steer clear of the missile-kissed. It is likely they're thinking what they should have done to retaliate and likely they will do it to you should you startle them in your approach.

If your dog pack has a Missile Kisser, upgrade your insurance and beef up your first aid skills because this dog wrecks havoc wherever he goes.

Dog Walkers are Super Heroes

2010-04-14T18:01:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-07T19:40:00.000-07:00

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.

It's Raining

2010-01-15T17:14:00.001-08:00

I've been considering taking back everything I've said about not being a dog walker. My heart is torn. Torn between the flood of unemployed office workers giving dog walking a try and a desire to reach out to the wannabe dog walkers of the world.

It's the middle of January. A new year, a new decade and time for me to turn over a new leaf. Let it be known that as of today, my message to you is, BE A DOG WALKER. That's right, shut down your Farmville game, get out of your PJ's, decline that unemployment extension deal and come make an offer on my business.

From now on, it's up to YOU to figure out how to make it through one more Seattle winter without drowning in a three inch mud puddle diving after a dog who won't leave the park. It's YOUR turn to fill your holiday wish list with Smartwool and Gortex, Shamwows and eyeglass squeegees. And best of all, YOU get to come up with your own snappy comebacks for your clients when they say, "Stay dry out there!" as rainwater drips off the tip of your nose while you coax their dog from it's bed by the heating vent.

Get in touch with your inner five year old! Buy a yellow rain slicker with matching boots. Stomp through puddles until your toes rot and fall off. Rediscover the joy of spending a day with the ends of your sleeves soaking wet. Restore your skin to baby's ass smoothness with a windblown sand and natural rainwater exfoliating treatment.

Wanna be a dog walker? Take advantage of our winter special and receive one thousand dog towels and a lifetime discount card for the local laundry mat.

Dumb Gifts

2009-09-21T16:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-24T16:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-22T15:27:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-16T18:34:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-14T20:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-15T17:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-03T17:24:00.000-07:00

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.