dogwalker

I saw a long-time frenemy this weekend, A. the dogwalker. He lives in Ottawa, my former home, and he is a harried, insane dogwalker. Since I've known him (1991), he's been a university dropout (English lit), a hairdresser-in-training (for 2 years-kept skipping classes), a knife salesman, a student (social work, actually graduated, but then decided that dealing with other people's problems wasn't his thing), a financial planner, and then a dogwalker for about the last 3 years now. And in between all of these career changes were many bouts on welfare or unemployment, housebound with agoraphobia, and one week-long stay in a mental hospital after a very scary manic episode. Now he's 40, and obsessed as ever with his weight, aging, and his hair, which he has dyed a strange topaz colour. It had gotten longer, though, which was a definite improvement. If you're 40 and have a nice full head of hair, you might as well take advantage.

We had brunch, and he showed me the antibiotic ointment he was taking because he had gotten a bacterial infection from picking up all the bags of dogshit while out with his charges. I recoiled in disgust. As another friend says, about wanting a dog, "having to pick up shit with bags is, unfortunately, the deal breaker".