Things happened very quickly after that phone call. I, of course, called to accept and, thereafter, began applying for loans and financial aid opportunities. I started looking at apartments near campus and investigating part-time jobs that might help subsidize living costs and whatever tuition wasn’t covered by student loans.
I decided, easily and definitively, that despite what my clients and colleagues said, I could not—would not—continue walking dogs simultaneous to getting my degree. Of course, as soon as I started sharing the news of my acceptance with my immediate dog-walking community, offers started pouring in. To run the business side of a colleague’s operation. To continue on with a few select clients at better pay. To take a part-time job at a newly opened doggie day care.
I had to laugh at the irony. Where was this bounty a mere month ago? Nevertheless, I felt convinced that my number one priority had to be school and my studies. That door had opened, and I needed to close this one firmly and for good.
My mom came out to help me apartment hunt, and we signed the lease on an idyllic little studio a mile from the school. It was an in-law unit that backed up to an organic garden maintained by my new landlords. The deposit in hand, they said I could move in just as soon as I was ready.
My professional sendoff was unexpectedly sentimental. As focused as I’d been on extricating myself from the mess of my chosen profession, I’d overlooked the fondness my clients might feel for me, their animal nanny, fairy godmother to all their pets’ many and obscure needs.
The greyhounds’ owners gave me pillowcases screen-printed with pictures of Flannel’s and Salvador’s disembodied heads. The shelties’ mom gave me a bottle of Beano and Discus–branded wine, the label a photo of the dogs looking wistful, their fur windblown. On my last day of walking Foxy, the owners left a note with a box of chocolate, reminding me that their offer of continued employment stood should I ever change my mind. The grandest gesture, by far and away, was the Montblanc pen engraved with my name that my colleagues at the pet-sitters’ association chipped in to buy me in thanks for my services as secretary.
Random as many of these gifts were, they were such fitting tokens of my time as an animal nanny. Each represented in its own weird way the significance of earning my colleagues’ and clients’—and their beloved pets’—trust, symbolizing the rare privilege of being allowed to participate in the terrifically unique and always deeply personal relationship between parent and fur baby. However outlandish or uncomfortable the details had gotten, it had been an honor.
Still, after two years of making my own issues and priorities secondary to those of the dogs and birds and cats and their owners that I’d catered to, I was looking forward to an entirely different life landscape. The challenges I might face in grad school, living on my own, and pursuing this relationship with Patrick would likely feature far less fur and fewer feathers, not as much getting locked out of places, and (hopefully) not as many creative approaches to shit collection. Whatever the demands, however devious and unexpected the obstacles, I was ready. I had, after all, done my own self-employment taxes. Twice. Surely that alone prepared me for the worst life might throw my way.
On my final day of dog walking, after I’d returned all the clients’ keys and hung up the last leash, I uncorked the bottle of Beano and Discus wine. We raised our glasses, Patrick and I, to what I was leaving behind, and all that lay ahead.
A fellow dog walker I’d contracted for bought my client list after all, employing some formula for walks per week over rate I charged by length of patronage or some such method to determine the price. It was a humble amount, but that sum, coupled with Ian’s and my recently returned and divided security deposit, was enough for a plane ticket.
Patrick had had a change of heart, and, instead of inviting me to a family dinner, he’d asked me to join him and roughly thirty of his relatives for a family reunion in Tuscany. A better way to celebrate the end of one era and the beginning of another, and to spend the spoils of two years’ work, I couldn’t imagine.
So I said yes.
Acknowledgements
It sure takes a village to get down this path to publication, and there are scores of people responsible for getting me here. Ms. Frost, Mrs. Pugh, Professor Williams, Dr. Craig, and Ms. Fink, you maintained belief in my ability to churn out words that other people might want to read, even when I myself had no faith. To my mentors Pam and Jerry, thank you for your tutelage, and for trusting me to walk alongside you. I surely didn’t deserve your investment in me, but I’ll appreciate it forever. C, B, B & AJ: You truly adopted me, minus the legalese. You’re my second family and I love you always. My professors and fellow writers at Mills saw the earliest attempts, and I am forever indebted to them for the direction they offered. To the inimitable Chris Baty, you are the reason I was ever published in the first place. Thank you for your encouragement, and for introducing me to the best agent I could ever hope for. Lindsay Edgecombe, your patience and prescient guidance has been invaluable to me. To my writing partner of many (many) years, Elizabeth Gregg, I am so grateful we kept dragging each other out into the bars and cafes of Oakland to hack away at our slowly evolving projects. To my editor at Seal, Laura Mazer, you’re a dream to work with. The pleasure of publishing with you and your colleagues at Seal has been entirely mine. My family at National Novel Writing Month, colleagues and participants alike, have provided incomparable inspiration. You are my heroes—every one of the many hundred thousands of you. To the best Jen and Mark, Nora, and my cousin John, you were the first and only readers of the original final draft so many iterations ago, and you never once laughed in my face. I can’t thank you enough for your time and kindness and praise. Sister mine, you have been championing my words from the time I was writing wallpaper books and publishing poems in the Fernbank newsletter. Thank you for being my biggest fan, since before I understood what that meant and how invaluable it would ever be to me. I am yours right back. And as the dedication states, I would be lost if not for the endless love and gentle prompting from my exquisite parents. I only wish Dad were here to hold this book in his hands. He was passionate about seeing it published and he very narrowly missed getting to see the finished product. I intentionally saved this book’s MVP for last. Pat, my love, my BFF and prince husband, you have supported me at every twisty turn along the way, and this book simply wouldn’t have made its way into the world without you. Thank you for believing in me and doing everything in your power to make my dreams come true. It’s your turn now.
© TIM CARR
About the Author
Lindsey Grant is the former program director for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.org), a nonprofit organization that encourages writers of all ages and backgrounds to pen the draft of a novel during the month of November. She co-authored the writer’s workbook Ready, Set, Novel! (Chronicle Books) and holds an MFA in creative nonfiction and English from Mills College in Oakland, California. She lives in Zurich, Switzerland, with her husband and their cats, where she writes, tries to speak German, and blogs about her attempts to assimilate.
Selected Titles from Seal Press
Cat Women: Female Writers on Their Feline Friends, by Megan McMorris. $14.95, 978-1-58005-203-0. From a tale about how rescuing a stray cat ended up saving a friendship to an unapologetic piece by a confirmed—and proud!—crazy cat lady, this collection of essays ranges from thought-provoking and heartrending to laugh-out-loud funny, delving into the many ways these often aloof little divas touch our lives.
Gawky: Tales of an Extra Long Awkward Phase, by Margot Leitman. $16.00, 978-1-58005-478-2. Tall girl Margot Leitman’s memoir is a hilarious celebration of growing up gangly, a cathartic release of everything awkward girls are forced to endure, and a tribute to a youth that was larger than life.
Woman’s Best Friend: Women Writers on the Dogs in Their Lives, edited by Megan McMorris. $14.95, 978-1-58005-163-7. An offbeat and poignant collection about those four-legged friends girls can’t do without.
The
Quarter-Acre Farm: How I Kept the Patio, Lost the Lawn, and Fed My Family for a Year, by Spring Warren. $16.95, 978-1-58005-340-2. Spring Warren’s warm, witty, beautifully-illustrated account of deciding—despite all resistance—to get her hands dirty, create a garden in her suburban yard, and grow 75 percent of all the food her family consumed for one year.
Why We Ride: Women Writers on the Horses in Their Lives, edited by Verna Dreisbach, foreword by Jane Smiley. $16.95, 978-1-58005-266-5. Verna Dreisbach collects the stories of women who ride, sharing their personal emotions and accounts of the most important animals in their lives—horses.
Follow My Lead: What Training My Dogs Taught Me about Life, Love, and Happiness, by Carol Quinn. $17.00, 978-1-58005-370-9. Unhappy with her failing love affair, her stagnant career, and even herself, Carol Quinn enrolls her two Rhodesian ridgebacks into dog agility training—and becomes the “alpha dog” of her own life in the process.
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