Taking a break with doggie day care job
The doggie workplace, as it is portrayed in movies and television shows, sings a siren song to those seeking an antidote to the poisons of office politics. On-screen it's one tail-wagging, ball-throwing, sun-kissed, dizzyingly meeting-free good time.
Back when I held sometimes tedious but comfortable office jobs, the idea of working with dogs was only a daydream I entertained on particularly bad work days. Then I accepted a new job in what turned out to be a severely dysfunctional marketing department. The manager fired good workers at will, screamed at employees until they were in tears, and otherwise snapped and snarled at her reports.
I quit without another job. It was the first time I had ever been without a financial safety net, and I couldn't believe my luck when I quickly landed a doggie day care position.
Unlike at my office jobs, I was immediately welcomed into the pack -- no months of bonding over bad projects or water cooler gossip required. There also was no awkward period of trying to figure out the un written rules of the office dress code. I threw out my nylons, stashed my heels, and came to work in T-shirts and jeans, and not even Pia, a Lhasa apso and the most fashionably coiffed dog there, gave me a second look because of it.
Best of all, my work stories were suddenly populated by characters named Bisco, Gabby, Vegas, and Chewey. And instead of clarifying anecdotes with something like, "you know, that EVP in charge of finance," I'd say "you know, that humpy Boston terrier."
Although I loved all my charges, Gretyl, an athletic German short-haired pointer, led the bunch. Whenever I arrived, she rushed past the other employees to greet me, ball in mouth and ready to play. Each workday ended with Gretyl curled in my lap.
Even when cleaning pee off the floor, I found myself thinking, "This is still better than office work." A puddle of urine is straightforward, requiring nothing more than a mop and disinfectant to check off the to-do list. Most white-collar projects, on the other hand, seem to drag on indefinitely, with their endless paper trails, shifting deadlines, and empty corporate speak.
It was enough to make me swear I'd never work in an office again. So when harried owners -- arriving straight from the office to pick up their pooches -- said I must have the best job ever, I answered confidently, "Yes, I do."
This response remained automatic and unstrained until I agreed to cover a hectic morning shift instead of the serene closing hours, during which nine or 10 worn-out pooches would doze until their owners arrived.
As I approached the yard, I heard a dull roar. The screened chain-link fence shook and quivered under the assault of 25 straining, hairy, panting, barking bodies.
"Tuck all straps in your pockets! Don't make eye contact! Move quickly through the gate!" the employee on duty shouted as I braced myself to enter.
"This must be what visiting prison is like," I thought, as I pushed my way through the jumping throng into the yard. "Only a prison where the inmates are allowed to paw and slobber on the visitors."
Obviously, such behavior would never be tolerated, at least publicly, in any respectable office.
Within the corporate hierarchy, people tend to look out for their own interests. Not so dogs -- and not in a good way. That day, each and every dog seemed hell-bent on self-destruction. The 10-pound Boston terrier relentlessly tried to hump a disgruntled 90-pound Rhodesian ridgeback. A beagle slipped his leash and led a merry three-hour chase through a nearby swamp. An anxious Marmaduke-sized Great Pyrenees whined incessantly and got trapped trying to slither through a one-foot hole under the fence.
Only Gretyl had my back. More loyal than any co-worker you could ever wish for, she obediently followed me everywhere, looking (to my eyes) sympathetic and bemused.
For six months, I came home from work each night covered in fur and reeking of dog, my blood pressure, by turns, dramatically raised or lowered. For every workday that ended with a blissful group snuggle, there was another that featured a heart-pounding escape attempt or a homesick dog that no amount of petting could placate.
Eventually, my mortgage meant I had to leave the day care for a better-paying office job.
On my last day at doggie day care, there was no card, cake, or goodbye party. I certainly hadn't expected anything like that; they were dogs, after all. Anyway, I've always hated office farewells, with co-workers awkwardly holding plates of cake and making well-meaning, but meaningless, promises to keep in touch.
Also unlike at any previous office job, I spent my last day training my replacement. She was sweet, and I cheerfully introduced her as the "new me" to owners. But an unexpected blow was watching my pack of regulars play fetch with her as if I was already gone. The surge of jealousy both surprised and embarrassed me. I fought it back as best I could, reminding myself they were only dogs.
Gretyl hung back from the crowd, waiting for me to throw the ball. When I did, she bounded gazelle-like to the far end of the yard, caught the ball on a bounce, skidded -- and barreled straight past me to my replacement.
The girl cooed when Gretyl dropped the ball at her feet and, without hesitation, threw the ball for Gretyl again . . . and again . . . and again.
I always wondered if I was quickly forgotten upon leaving a job, if I am indeed all too replaceable. Each time Gretyl breezed by me, a bright orange ball wedged in her dog-honest grin, she seemed to drive this point home.
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