Where do I work? Depending on my mood, such an innocent question could garner a variety of responses from me. Gushingly, “I get paid to play with puppies all day! Sweet, soft, warm, wonderful dogs, dogs of all different shapes and sizes, full of unconditional love and adorable quirks!”
Or, sardonically, “I get paid to pick up poop all day. Disgusting, warm, stinky poops, poops of all different shapes and and sizes, full of various household objects and undigestable matter!”
Or, simply, “I work at a doggie daycare.”
I’m a 22-year old writing student who spends most of my days chasing down unruly boxer puppies, trying to scoop up a mess before a certain Rottweiler does it for me, showing up to my internship covered in golden retriever, praying for a ritzy Chihuahua or Yorkie to eat her owner’s expensive jewelry and “deliver” it to me the next morning, sweeping up the ubiquitous white cotton fluff of a Great Pyrenees, and attempting (in vain) to play tug-of-war with a pit bull. But I also get to spend my paid hours oohing and ahhing over lanky, clumsy, goofy puppies, deciding which dog would be what high school archetypal character (Bette the Bull Mastiff would be the cross-eyed fat girl in band, for sure), and in general being nuzzled, licked, hugged, goosed, and loved by hundreds of dogs. What can I say? I deal with poop for a living, but I also play with dogs, all the while with a neurotic monologue streaming through my hyperactive brain. It’s a dog’s life, I suppose.