BILL'S DEAD

Author's Note: First off this is NOT about "Kill Bill" the movie. Secondly, sadly, this is ALL true.

--RING--
"Hello?"
"Bill's dead."
...

"What do you mean 'Bill's dead?'"
"I mean...Bill. Is. Dead."
"Whoa!"
"Yeah. Like Ministry says, he's 'The Dead Guy.'"

I own a dog walking company in New York City, the busiest “dog-city” in the world. It’s a small company but it pays the bills and it’s an enjoyable business. I’ve got 5 employees, including my wife, my sister, and myself.

Dog walking is an odd job. It's a ubiquitous thing in New York, like being groped in the subway, or a hot dog vendor selling $17 hot pretzels with mustard. It's everywhere. But for all its far-flung reach it's still a fringe profession. When you say you're a dog walker people look at you like you just said you clean windshields for a living or collect and eat cans for the fiber. And its main proponents don't help. They're mostly societal rejects - stoners, schizos, alkies, loners, losers, students, immigrants, retirees, animal advocates, and general freaks - essentially anyone who can't hold a job. It's not unusual to see a burned out dog walker being dragged down the street, spidered into a net of dogs like a screaming, barking, salivating dervish, cursing the god who invented $20 vials of crack and dog poop. And the clients aren't far behind. It takes a certain kind of person to hire a dog walker. Actually it takes 2 kinds:

1. The basic dog lover: This person understands and respects their pet and feels like they owe it to their dog to make sure that its needs are met. They've made a commitment to another living creature by taking it into their home and they have every intention of living up to that commitment. Fortunately, these are most of our clients. Then there's the other.

2. The freak-ass, co-dependent, needy, crazy-assed dog lover who's transferred the love and attention they would normally lavish on the radiant fruit of their loins onto a poor fuckin' unsuspecting shitzu, mostly because they can't find somebody equally fucking crazy to mate with: These crazy bastards make up the rest of them.

As you can imagine, trying to run a reputable dog walking business for fun and profit under these circumstances can be a ball. (read: Big Laffs!!)

And it's a weird thing to have keys to people's homes. You try to come and go quietly, disturbing as little as possible. The idea is to be a wraith, make it seem as though no one has ever been there and leave behind total peace when you go. That way no one ever feels like, “Hmmm… someone’s been here.” But it can be disturbing to see slices of people's lives. The things they own, the things they forget about cleaning up; the secrets we all hide from one another. When you first begin walking a dog, things are different. The owners are polite. They straighten up the rooms and put all their illegal substances neatly away. Dishes are done and dogs have pretty bows. There are few mysterious sticky spots on the floor. But before you know it the rooms get a little messier. Dishes begin to stack. Laundry trails out of the bedroom and finds its way to front the door. Pretty soon they become casual enough to forget that anyone comes during the day at all. That's when the fun starts. Little things begin to make an appearance. Dirty underwear. Porn. Joints and roaches in the ashtrays. Mirrors with razor blades and funny powder still sitting on them. Dildos, strap ons, and vibrators. Bank statements. Wads of cash. Open journals. Dead bodies.

Article Author: Star

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