I moved to New York in 1992 to be an artist and fell into walking dogs for a living when my half-sister, Moira, convinced me it would be more interesting than washing dishes or serving coffee, the only kinds of jobs I’d ever had. Moira taught me everything: leash and walking technique, analyzing canine body language and breed characteristics, cleaning up after them. It was all new to me.
Moira was in a unique position to help. She was a well-respected dog trainer and ran a pet-care referral service over the phone from her apartment in Manhattan’s West Village. She added my name to the list of available walkers, and when new dog-owners—referred by local veterinarians or word of mouth—called her, seeking training advice or a list of trusted walkers in the area, I was suddenly in the pet-care business. I initially thought of it as a job like any other: a stop-gap solution to the question—“What’s the least stressful, most leave-it-at-the-office way to earn a living while I make my art?” Of course, it’s more than that now, in part simply because of how long I’ve been at it. Laboring against my genuine fondness for the dogs I’ve come to know and love, however, is the job’s inescapable cultural symbolism as a service-sector position that does not, to say the least, confer great status—something about which I feel considerable ambivalence.
In the beginning, Moira procured every job for me, and by necessity, I took them all—even if it meant working for volatile personalities like her friend Eva, whose teacup poodles Brownie and Silver I walked for several months while I was learning the ropes. Eva was a sour, demanding person, the type who seeks power because having it is her only insurance against unreserved rejection by the world. Her disagreeableness wasn’t limited to withering put-downs; she dabbled in casual exploitation, too.
Once, after babysitting Brownie and Silver and her two cats while she was out of town for her father’s funeral, Eva returned and refused to pay me. I’d stayed at her apartment many times before, and always as a paid arrangement. It was a job, after all. But she’d somehow got the impression that my admittedly shabby living situation was so unenviable that substituting her relatively palatial and luxurious accommodation for mine was remuneration enough.
Feeling used, I wrote and hand-delivered a bridge-burning letter, the only line of which I can still recall is: “You make me feel like a cog in a machine.” Considering that, by hiring me, Eva was doing a favor for my sister (who was doing one for me), my lack of gratitude did not sit well with her. We spoke by phone that evening. “I DON’T EVER WANT TO GET A LETTER LIKE THAT AGAIN,” she yelled into the receiver.
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