My Dog Years: For Every Year I Walk Dogs, I Age 7

ALAS

It was a slow moving Sunday afternoon in late October weeks after the attack on the World Trade Center. The television and newspapers were still inundated with timelines of the Al Qaeda terrorists' activities leading up to the morning of the attack, eerie videos of Osama Bin Laden training his soldiers in Afghanistan and disturbing reports on the human rights violations by the Taliban against women and girls.

Anthrax laced letters sent through the United States Post Office were killing innocent people and leaving others, who had unsuspectingly handled the correspondence, gravely ill. This mysterious domestic terrorism on the heels of the bombings highlighted how unpredictable life really was. I lay in bed at night clutching Lucas thinking this must be the end of days.

Companies all across the country were announcing major lay-offs so the phone calls and emails about freelance work that I depended on had stopped. Payments for copy writing jobs I had completed over thirty days ago were late. I had recently received word from the Australian advertising agency that Mercedes Benz Australia had decided not to air the campaign because of made fun of Americans.

All of this created an inertia that was hard to overcome so much so that when my landline rang, it startled me. It was a private number calling. The handset beeped as I pressed the button to answer it. A mature, professional, male voice very spoke to me from the other end.

"My name is Toffler. I am looking for a reliable and caring person to walk my dog that I adopted from the Lange Foundation. I am told that you are that person."

His formality made me sit up. I muted the television.

"Oh. What kind of dog do you have?"

"She's a little mix. Very sweet. We've had her for a couple of months now. She was emaciated when we got her and now our vet tells us she's too plump and needs long walks."

He paused for a moment then made a self-deprecating confession.

"It's probably because I take her to breakfast every morning and feed her bacon."

I was conflicted by taking a meeting with a potential dog walking client. I had a small group I walked in the mornings four times per week but it was not my calling. Every day I had one foot out the proverbial dog walking door. It didn't seem fair to meet with potential clients knowing I would abandon them as soon as a writing assignment, a freelance gig or the right full time job came through. Until that ship came in, I knew I needed to pick up any paddle that came my way.

"Well, I'd like to come over and meet her first."

"Of course. When are you available?"

"Um...do you want to meet today?"

"Certainly. If you're available."

"How about one o'clock?"

"One o'clock it is."

He gave me his address on what I knew to be one of the most exclusive streets in Los Angeles. They lived in the very first house on the corner so he also cautioned me to take the turn off of Sunset Boulevard onto his street very slowly otherwise I risked being rear ended as I pulled into their driveway.

The white Mid-Century modern house was tucked away behind formidable black iron gates. Two white sedans sat in the driveway. The only color on the property appeared to be a wild vine of Bougainvillea that looked as if it had fallen from the sky onto the flat roof of the house.

I buzzed the intercom and pretended not to notice the security camera hidden in the branches of the heritage tree that loomed overhead. He answered on the second ring.