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

The Three Bs

The iconic hotels of Los Angeles were the landmarks that guided me on my route that morning. The Beverly Hilton was my first left turn of the morning. The flamingo pink Beverly Hills Hotel was my second. And at The Chateau Marmont, I made a sharp left, passing the valet parking kiosk to head up into the Hollywood Hills. It got confusing up in Nichols Canyon where the rustic hillsides, bends in the road and 1960s houses all looked the same. It took some trial and error to the find the steep right hand turn close to the top of the hillside that would lead me to the Zone diet breakfast debris on Reese Witherspoon's patio.

I had always been terrible with maps so the tattered and furry Thomas Guide tucked beneath Bonnie's driver's seat is almost useless to me as I struggle along on my afternoon pick-ups. I have to pullover countless times to turn the maps and orient myself. I finally break down and call Kay-Ann who knows the whole route. She can't recall street names but tells me that Louis, the Belgian Shepherd, lives just beyond the famous cemetery in Westwood Village where Marilyn Monroe is buried. She tells me which street to take to the all the way to home of Twyla, the blonde Labrador who lives just a few blocks east and south of Louis.

It takes me hours to pick-up the dozen or so dogs in Westwood, Rancho Park and the Pacific Palisades. My last stop is the home of the Basenjis, Ed and George. Lucas can barely control himself as I enter the gate code and the oxidized copper gates draw open. The front door is unlocked and inside I make the very happy discovery that there is a bathroom off the foyer.

Ed and George are lounging on the plump living room furniture. They stare at me curiously as I call their names. Finally, they recognize me from the afternoons when I met Bonnie at the park. When I open the front door, they run straight to the car. Ed hops right into the back of the car with the other dogs but George balks. He prances to the front passenger door and makes eye contact with me. When I pull it open, he props his front paws on the frame of the car then waits for me to boost him in. I lean down and put my hands around his hind quarters to lift him and he snarls at me as he jumps into the car.

As we descend to the base of the canyon to the trailhead, a few of the dogs start barking. All of them are farting. Lucas barks the loudest right next to my head, causing a ringing in my right ear. I park illegally and hop out of Stinky. I am sick with worry knowing there is no procedure for unloading the dogs. The only way is to have my poop bags at the ready, then throw open all the car doors and step out of the way. I have to trust they will all know where to go.

Most of the dogs are blonde and cream colored retrievers and black and tan German Shepherds. Except for two female Australian Shepherd mixes who I know from the park, I can't distinguish the dogs. Today, there is no time to admire the sublime beauty of the trees along the trail. As I watch all of the dogs run down the first steep hill, I feel like the conductor of a runaway train.

By the time I get home, I am too tired to shower or eat. After feeding Lucas, I fall asleep with my work clothes still on and my feet up on the coffee table. As I drift off, I am reminded of my childhood. Every night my father came home from work at the autobody shop with flecks of solder and Bondo dent filler on his hands, uniform and and work boots. He would eat dinner, shower, then doze off on the couch watching television.

After graduating from college, I had found an entry level job in the music video department at a record label with an office in trendy Sunset Plaza. My next job in the story department at The Zanuck Company was in Beverly Hills. I had always been proud of having made a quantum leap. In just one generation my family had gone from hard physical labor to an office in Beverly Hills, just blocks from Rodeo drive. Ironically, now here I was hustling just like my father had.

Each day of working for Bonnie is impossibly hard. I become familiar with the dogs and have an easier time remembering the logistics of each house but the traffic and race against the clock is always the same. At mid-day, I cross paths with the Dr. Soda delivery truck as we move in opposite directions over the 405 freeway. Every afternoon, George snarls at me as I help him into the car. At the end of my day, I see the same housekeepers and nannies waiting for their respective buses on Sunset Boulevard.