Spread a Little Thin This Week

I switched the dogs’ food, so they have had some pretty rank gas.  Their poops are solid but I just wanted to let you know just in case it is a little runny or soft.  Thanks!

–Regina

I stood in the kitchen with the note in my hand, unsure whether to burst out laughing or throw up in the sink.

After a little bit of both, I looked Aiden and Maia in the eye, which was hard, because Maia was twitching across the living room and Aiden was flossing his teeth with the mail.

Well, that was Thursday.  The week had kept moving, but it was a strange movement, like if a clown on acid passed you on the street doing cartwheels.

But this week was different.  I went off the grid.

“I need you feed my cats while I’m fly fishing,” Fred said.

I drummed my fingers on my desk, not sure if he understood the full brunt of what he was asking me to do.

“You’re no client of my pet-sitting agency, Fred,” I replied, looking cautiously through the slats of my blinds that were too short for the window anyway, making me completely visible.  “I don’t know if I can pull this off.”  One of my other clients had shipped off to another country for a week of sunning herself or learning about plant life or whatever it is people with the money to do that sort of thing do when they feel spontaneous.

“They need to be fed twice a day,” he continued, throwing my paranoia aside like yesterday’s banana peel.  “It doesn’t really matter when, but I try to space the feedings apart 12 hours.”

Fred’s got a nice house; nicer than mine, mainly because Fred’s house is a house, not the speedily constructed apartment above a Cricket.  After several confusing minutes in the cold attempting to unlock his neighbor’s door by mistake (on the other side of which there may have been a terrified family watching the door knob rattle with increasing intensity and rage), I opened the door and spotted both the felines.

Ollie tends to hide when he hears the door or the wind or the voices in his head telling him to eat your hair.  But Ramma sat square in front of the door and stared at me.

Silence.

“Hello,” I said, finally.

And then he quacked.

My god, I thought.  There’s a quacking cat in here.

I walked up the stairs and Ramma followed, quacking again and again every time he leapt onto a new step.  I watched him with one eye brow arched the whole way.  I had seen “Planet Earth.”  There’s not a lot of “quackers” out there.  Should I have been recording this?

I put my interest aside to get the job done and get out of there.  God only knows if I’m being tracked by the agency by now.  Or if they’d implanted a recording device into one of the cats, causing him to emit a sound that no other cats make naturally…

Eying Ramma suspiciously, I considered holding his mouth open and taking a peak for a small camera.

“Don’t do it, Justin,” said the cartwheeling clown on acid.

So, I didn’t.

Today, as I held the piece of paper with instructions on how to react to different volumes/consistencies of dog feces, I thought, “Hey, maybe all this too much coffee, not enough sleep, severe cold, and slap-happy gusts of wind are getting to me.  Maybe if I’m seeing clowns and robot cats, it’s time to dial it back a little.”

Aiden started coughing in that way that means he had a shoe for lunch, and I took a deep breath.  Reality was here.  Time to show it whose boss.

And He Was Screaming It From a Speeding Garbage Truck

“I’ve been to prison!  I HAVE BEEN TO PRISON!” screamed the garbage truck driver.

Riding a bike in Philly is one thing; one challenging, deathtrap of a thing.  But now that’s cold all the time, you become much more aware of how outdoors you are.  The cars are whizzing and cursing past, and they all look like hot little mobile rooms where people sing along with their favorite tunes, as I struggle sadly in the bike lane, wondering how every street in the city is an upward 180 degree incline and why my throat tastes like it’s filling with blood.

I just finished biking across town.  It was like fighting through a warzone while gradually turning into a statue.

With that magical voyage under my belt, I’m thinking about last week.  It was…

• “Guess he’s got eight hours of piss stored up in him,” said the old man in the elevator with me and Chauncey, unprovoked.
• “Timber, get the candy wrapper out of your mouth.”
• “Timber, get the piece of dead bird out of your mouth.”
• “Timber, get what I can only assume is part of a human tooth out of your mouth.”
• KEYS.  The word exploded inside Justin’s head.  WHY DON’T I FEEL ANY KEYS?  his brain demanded.  The door was locked behind him, and Maia was already giving him that “Just WAIT until you see how much poop I’ve got stored up” look she gets after a pretty successful expedition into her owner’s show closet.  Locked out with two aggressive, whimpering boxers, it was unclear how Justin’s afternoon was going to be anything close to a positive experience.  Then the rains came.
• “That’s not how Cesar Milan does it,” said another old businessman on the street, also unprovoked.  Justin wondered silently how “Old Men with Strange Comments Day” had managed to sneak up on him for another year.
• “I’m a dog walker,” Justin said.  “You’re an adult what?” the girl asked over the music.
• The only thing funnier than putting a comically oversized stick in Timber’s mouth for him to play with is the success with which it gets girls to come talk to me.
• “Timber, get the comically oversized stick out of your mouth!  And stop choking.  He’s fine, folks.  He’s, uh… just fine.”

Today, I Made a Friend

I feel like it is my responsibility to fill everybody in.  Fletcher went a little crazy marking his territory yesterday, so to avoid such a statement again, I figured I might as well just tell you that a lamp post, a potted plant, and a garden gnome on North 25th street are all the property of Fletcher, the Australian cattle dog.

I’ve started a habit where I just shove carrots in my pockets and eat them throughout the day.  It was during one of these periods that I walked into a convenience store following the daily Fletcher/Macy rodeo.  The woman behind the counter was older and spoke with an accent I did not understand.  As she handed me my bag, she casually glanced out the window and saw a man parking a large, creepy van across the street.

“So…that’s vhat he looks like,” she growled.

The accent was something in the middle of the Eastern Hemisphere, but she pronounced her “O’s” with a Philly nuance.

It sounded like she was doing an impersonation of someone else every time she said “so” or “over.”

She went on to explain how this man had been parking his van in front of her store, blocking customers, and costing her business.

“He goes to City Hall, vonce a year, and pays 50 dollars for a license to allow him to park there.  I do not like to get in people’s face, but I write him a very nasty note next time…”

I stared, wide-eyed, at her story, the crunch of my pocket-carrots being chewed the only audible sound.

“…and he will regret it.”

I looked at the van.  It had a very un-gentlemanly bolt lock on the back door.

“He’s basically got a license to kill,” I replied.

She nodded.  ”Yes.  And the spineless man will not come in here.  He will not confront me.”

Smiling, she handed me my bag.  ”He is wise not do this.”

I tried to smile back, but was concerned at what sort of whimper would come out of my mouth if I made any sort of adjustment.

“Thank you,” I said, and walked out of the store.

She stood at the front window and wrapped her sweater a little tighter around her shoulders.  I tracked down my bike and realized I had gone out to get stamps but was going home with a plastic bag full of Guinness.

Don’t talk to strangers, kids.

Get Your Street Meat

Philly’s not kind after it rains.

Whatever’s lurking just out of the smellosphere comes bursting forth, and the entire city smells like it’s been rolling around in the garbage.  Soaking, stinking, sopping wet trash populates some street corners with odors so foul you almost want to hand over your wallet.

Chauncey and I were heading on down 20th Street today when we came upon this little scene:

Like everybody else, you’re looking for an explanation, and like everybody else, I don’t have one.

That’s a couple of hunks of meat, sitting on a storm drain.

“Oh, someone just dropped a sandwich last night,” I thought.

Nope.  There’s a ton of food there.  If that all came from one sandwich, there’s a giant walking around somewhere, feasting on an entire barnyard full of farm animals in one meal.

It smelled terrible, and it was right outside a restaurant, so to be safe, don’t eat anywhere on 20th Street.

You’re welcome.

And so, as I listen to the rattle and crash of my recycling outside being strewn all over the street from gale-force winds, I can’t help but realize how this neighborhood is assaulted by trash.  Clearly, we need a better solution if our current methods have our recycling spread out over a 20 block radius overnight and our meat escaping into the sewers. Maybe it’s time for a re-evaluation of our strategy.

Or we could just ignore it until the trash becomes self-aware and kills us.

This Is Where Rational Thought Comes In Handy

I’m still getting to know Chauncey.  We’ve only been walking for about a week, and I thought he was pretty simple:  Bark, bark.  Wait for leash.  Go outside.  Be old.

He’s friendly, but he’s not in your face about it, which is nice.  I’m discovering quickly that he’s got this curiosity about him that’s probably going to cost him his life.

Every time we’re in the elevator in his building, he stands there normally until the very second the doors are about to close.  Then, he becomes extremely intrigued at what’s going on in the doorway.  I’ve stood there and watched in disbelief as several times in a row he’s halted the progress of the elevator by sticking his face in it.

I don’t know if he thinks it’s funny, or interesting (or none of that; I mean, he is a dog), or what, but when those doors are about to slide shut he gets this insatiable curiosity about where they come from.

Anything can be a death trap if you stick your neck in it, Chauncey.

Can’t wait to explain this one to the owners on dog walker stationary.

Hey!

So, you’re probably wondering why Chauncey’s leash is stuck in the elevator doors, and also why the elevator is out of order.  The answer is that I have no idea!  I showed up to walk Chauncey today, and the doorman told me I was no longer welcome in the building There was a fire in only your apartment Your dog tried to swallow the elevator to have a nice day!

Anyways, I’ll need that check by Friday!  Thanks.

Your Dog Walker,

Justin

Squirrel Therapy

Don’t get me wrong, the squirrels are definitely asking for it.

But there aren’t any squirrels attached to my arms.  Instead, there are two boxers, both of whom enjoy a good “terrifying lunge.”

If the occasional passerby knew they were merely in for an aggressive snouting, rather than the thorough evisceration that seems imminent, they may be less likely to flee in terror when Maia or Aiden (But usually and definitely Maia) lurches toward them hungrily.

Usually it’s just for attention, but sometimes she has a good reason for doing it.  Like, if there’s a kid walking by.  Or a tree or a leaf.  Or a car.  Or Aiden.

Whatever it is about Maia’s day that stresses her out before her time with me, it’s really got her boiling over with tension and paranoia.  Maybe someone keeps calling the house and breathing heavily into the phone.  But like, in a way that’s offensive to dogs.

Needless to say, when a squirrel darts up a tree, it gets Maia’s attention in all the wrong ways.  She goes from being a snorting, hyperactive powder keg to the exact same thing but bouncing up and down in the air.

Today, there were some crafty asshole squirrels making that awful sound squirrels make when their trying to mate or about to explode or whatever.  It’s high pitched and sounds like it’s the only noise that can wake Dracula every 100 years.

EHHHHHHHHHHH I'M A SQUIRREL EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SQUIRREL SQUIRREL SQUIRREL

“Today is the day,” I thought.  ”Today is when we start to make progress.”

I sat her down.

“Maia,” I breathed, trying to speak only in calm, soothing tones.  ”There’s some squirrels up in that tree.  Go ahead and look.  I know you’ve probably seen them already.”

“Look, they’re going to agitate you.  You know that.  You know that when we walk by, they’re going to say something or do something that makes you want to rip out their throats.  And that’s okay.  That’s a perfectly natural thing.”

“We all have those urges sometimes.  But I need you to behave yourself, because I am tired of having to restrain you just because you have a problem with movement in general.”

“You’re not gonna catch a squirrel, Maia, no matter how far up the tree you can hop.  Just… just stop it.  Sit down.  The squirrel is not impressed by your feeble attempts at athleticism.  And neither is anyone else.”

“So, then.  There’s no reason to turn this into a production.  There’s no reason we can’t make it past this tree without barking, or growling, or  running around it and accidentally strangling ourselves in front of confused strangers.  Right? We can do this.  Okay?”

Well, obviously she couldn’t do that; she went after him, he scrambled out of sight, gaining more and more confidence that he’ll be able to get away next time, too.  Just another factor in the manic world of a boxer that stands between a dog and it’s brain firing on all cylinders.

I’d settle for most of them at this point.

Liberally Thrown “Wolf” Accusations

Meet Chauncey.  He’s a new five-days-a-weeker.  He’s so old he tried to pee five times today and nothing came out.

Of course, the more curious thing about Chauncey (more than phantom piss?!) is that somebody walked by him today and muttered to the person next to them, “Geeze, I thought that was a wolf.”

Let me just say, first of all, that Chauncey looks more like a teddy bear than a wolf.  And I don’t mean “because he’s so adorable,” it’s just what he looks like.

Also, he is adorable.  But it’s not really relevant here.

Secondly, DOGS AND WOLVES LOOK ALIKE, PEOPLE. They’re in the same genus.  Or family.  Ask a biologist and they’ll clear it all up for you.

My point is, why is it apparently so rampantly thought that there’s people in Philadelphia with a pet wolf in their homes?  There’s a lot of deaths in this town, sure, but not so many that nobody’s going to hear about the inevitable wolf attack if that were the case.

“Looks like the killer mauled him to death and ate the meat off his bones.  Then he crapped on the carpet and scratched at the front door for awhile.  We’re assuming he escaped out the doggie door.”

“Why don’t we just let the drug dealers in this town wipe each other out?!”

In other news,

JESUS CHRIST ITS A CREEPY MANNEQUIN INVASION.

Everybody change into fashionable clothing and stand still forever, it’s our only chance.

The Short Answer is “No.”

I was walking Macy today when an old woman approached me and began admiring her.

“Is it a wolf?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m just taking my pet wolf for a stroll around the neighborhood. She’s getting hungry, though. Can you point me toward the nearest school?”

Look at the wolf.  Stoic and gentle, yet capable of atrocious acts of violence. That smile you see is the smile of a majestic beast, roaming the frigid plains of the north, with a stomach full of small rodents and fairy tale characters.  The piercing eyes of one of nature’s most cunning predators easily infiltrates your soul and makes you pray to God that there’s not a full moon, so as to avoid the spine-chilling howl of a pack on the hunt.

Look at Macy.  She looks like she’s falling asleep during a Calculus lecture.

I Won’t Set Your Dog On Fire

Someone respectfully submitted a carefully-altered version of my dog-walking ad seen here.  Let’s do a quick little Pro/Con check, for advertising purposes, shall we?

CON

Okay, for starters, that’s a picture of me and a dog being burned alive.

From the get-go, I’m going to say that’s going to put a negative spin on things.  Either I broke into the burning house and was unable to save the dog, or I was the one who brought him into the house, or we were both in the house when I started the fire.

Also, not only is there no description of my services, there’s no information as to how to reach me.  In fact, I might go so far as to say this is a thinly veiled threat against my life.

PRO

“Justin’s dog-walking is hot hot hot!”  is all I could think of.  But again, that’s not written anywhere.  So it does not really gel with the image of dog-walker I am trying to maintain.  For instance, I don’t want to burn anyone’s dog alive.  This ad, I feel, gives the opposite impression.

I was walking Timber today, when a girl came by and started petting him and asking questions about him and he put on his cute face and tried not to let it show that’d he spent most of the morning on an expedition to his own crotch.

“I’m a dog walker, so do you mind if I give you my card?’ she asked.

I froze.  Should I run away?  Destroy her?  Throw the dog at her; then run?

The answer, my friends, is E.)  Take the card thankfully,  add some wildly obscene terms to it, and change her slogan to “I am definitely going to hurt your dog.”  Make several hundred copies and place them on every front stoop in the neighborhood.  Reap the benefits.

But what really happened was that I laughed and said that I was also a dog walker.

“Oh,” she replied, and went into her house.

I looked down.  Timber was choking on a pine cone.  And the day just kept on going.

I Am Not as in Shape as I Hoped

A lot of people told me, and I wound up agreeing with them, that dog walking would really get me in shape.  Walking all those dogs, five days a week (and sometimes more)?  My god, that’s just like playing an entire soccer game.

It turns out, it isn’t.

“Fine,” I said.  ”So maybe ‘walking around outside because I have to’ isn’t a good enough exercise regiment.  I am going to go for a run today.”

Have you ever gone for a run?  It’s terrible.  You get about halfway through, and you’re like “Oh my god, what I am doing out here?  I’m so far from my house and the only way to get back is my legs, and they already feel like I’ve been paddleboating to Mexico.”

It’s reminiscent of when you realize that the deep end of the pool is just way, way out of the realm of possibility based on your height, and all you can do is wave your arms in the air and try to drown embarrassingly enough that the lifeguard sees you.

“What could people be gaining from this?!” I demanded, pretending to tie my shoe for the sixth time in a row.

The child with his mother next to me at the stoplight stared unapologetically, giving me a look that clearly said, “Seriously, dude?  I got it in, like, three tries.”

Today’s little energy outburst led to this beautiful display of the human body:

NOT PICTURED: An award-winning volume of human vomit.

I’m just going to have to walk a lot harder.  Good thing I just got two new clients.

UPDATES FROM DOG-WALKER HQ:

Apparently, they’ve gotten nonstop complaints from clients this week, and too many people are asking for time off. Someone actually went into one of their clients’ homes, stayed for five minutes, wrote a note saying they walked the dog, and left.

Always feels good to know there are lazier people than you out there!

Here comes Monday.