A Quirky Column about Dog Walking Adventures in the City of Dog-Owning Love...

Fantasy Crushes and Used Condoms

Dog walkers are, in a way, akin to nannies or au pairs. We are invited into people’s homes, we are caregivers to the “kids,” we are often told, “Mi casa es su casa,” and we wind up helping ourselves to the last slice of cold pepperoni pizza in the fridge without pissing anyone off.

We sometimes run errands for uber busy professionals, drive pets to vets and kennels when “dad” leaves for a week-long business trip and, sometimes, we housesit for the owners. That's when we choose a side of the bed that seems natural to us, throw the sheets in the washer and dryer, leave our midnight-snack paper plates on the nightstands and forget to take our toothbrushes home.

Before we know it, we’re leaving messages on a select few clients’ cell phones complaining about the neighbor who instigated the dog.

“I just don’t understand the mentality of Bob next door. What a prick! I think he likes pushing Benny’s buttons. Poor Benny. He’s all riled up. I gave him extra treats to settle him down just so you know.”

It isn’t long before we’re talking to the “in-laws” and, suddenly, we’re sucked in.

But it’s a dangerous game when, in this dog walking business, we slip into a sort of let’s-play-house fantasy.

“Oh, hey, Sharon. It’s funny we’re running into each other. Good timing. Good to see you.”

One owner, who will remain nameless, was tapping the Mac/ATM on Locust Street just as I passed by. He was heading out on a trip and I was scheduled for a sleepover at his luxury loft apartment in Old City overlooking the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. There’s something about him that just draws you in, something compelling. He gets paid for that, legally.

With a new wad of cash in hand, he begins counting out $20 bills until he flips through more than $140 and hands it over. “Here’s some money for staying with Benny this weekend, and a little extra so you can get dinner. I’ll call when I get to the hotel. Do you think that’s enough?”

His demeanor is intoxicating and well, hell, I’m not used to being taken care of that way. Truth is, I was weak in the knees. I was going to collapse under his spell. I wanted to wrap my arms around this guy because he made me feel something I’m not used to feeling: safe.

“Uhhh. Okay. Thanks.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Duh! I mean, seriously. What a dork. Like this guy is really ever going to be into his dog walker. It’s not like I just walk dogs. Not that there would be anything wrong with that, but I exist in a different world. I’m not so femme. I’m not a social climber. I'm not a member of the Junior League. He probably likes all that stuff.

That night, I hung out with Benny, got a call from his owner who was checking in, turned the sheets down on the bed, and started watching Curb Your Enthusiasm on the flat-screen TV with surround sound. I washed the dishes in the sink and then began to feel like a wife, but a lonely wife with a husband who works long hours and is never home. Benny pranced over to me with a grunting dog toy in his mouth and plopped down on the kitchen floor as he let out an exhaustive, bored sigh.

“So, Benny. What do you wanna do?”

Benny got up and wandered into the powder room as I stuck my head in the freezer searching for a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. I pull out some Phish Food, grabbed a spoon off the drying rack and turned around to see Benny standing there with some kind of slimy, rubber thing hanging out of his mouth.

“Benny. C’mere. What is…..” [gasp!] “OH MY GOD! Is that a, CONDOM?! Oh my God. Benniiieeeyyy. Drop it. Drop it! Ewwwwww!"

I grabbed eight sheets of paper towels, picked up the used, ribbed, Trojan condom and deposited it into the trash.

My let’s-play-house fantasy faded as quickly as it developed. The condom snapped me back into reality and it hit me that Benny was doing me a favor, or tattling on his owner. Someone else was already playing house on a whole other level than me and if I had to guess, that someone was probably more femme, a socialite who threw cocktail parties to help the homeless and existed in a very different world altogether.

As I packed up my stuff Sunday afternoon, I remembered to take my toothbrush, I left a short, brief note about how the weekend went—sans the condom incident—and from then on everything was business as usual.

Moral of the story: Playing house while working in the dog walking profession is a dangerous game that can leave sensitive animal lovers feeling used up, rubbery all over and kinda slimy.

Photo by Maxusbangerm