The Dog Walker 

by MARTIN CAVER

Today’s List 

8:00am: Tracy Dingell, Old Roommate #1. Leaves for work by 7 to catch the L. In  finance now. Wiley bit you three separate times, once requiring stitches. Offered to help pay for the ER (a week’s worth of walks). Never followed up when you texted a copy of  the bill. A few weeks later: “I think Wiley’s getting better at holding it.” People never  change. Not much in her minimalist palace, but go to the walk-in. Grab the jewelry box  with the twirling ballerina. You two were really ballerinas once. Pink key. 

9:00am: Phoebe Caldwell, Old Roommate #2. Husband Tim isn’t around during the  week, consultant. Goes for yoga and coffee with the gals after school drop-off. Imagine  Phoebe sending her kids where you two went to school! Put your mask on, cameras  everywhere. Bring treats for little Cookie, otherwise she’ll bark. In the main hallway: two  smaller canvases, one looks like a fucking Kandinsky–maybe 5k. In Tim’s office: hard  drive, there’s crypto and a video of you and him for insurance. Write the door code on your hand. 

10:30am: Vikki Lijewski, hook-up. Met her out with Mike last summer, and she spent the  night. Teaches 4th grade, needed a walker during the school year. Fun, but clingy. Let Jojo out, check under the sink. Grab her stash if it’s still in the tackle box–300 bucks or make some friends wherever you and Mike end up out west. Blue key. 

Noon: Trey “Grad Student,” last real client. Regular routine. Walk Samson and give him  a pill with peanut butter. Text Trey a couple photos of Samson getting belly rubs.  Venmo request for a month’s advance. He’s working on an MSW and interning at a high  school. Maybe he’ll come through. Remind him he’s been getting him a discount. Gold key. 

1:00pm: Walt and Mindy Kirkpatrick, first real clients. Mostly wanted company, were  always there when you walked Roxy. Mobility issues, but they’ve also got a big  backyard. Mindy: I’m like that girl in that song, honey, my hips don’t lie! Problem is  they’re saying “We’re stiff!” Gave you a key for checking mail and watering houseplants  while they went south during winter months. Walt: “Grandkids and cruises, our two  favorite things–guess which is mine!” Maybe one day you and Mike will go on a cruise.  Snatch the gun Walt keeps behind the toilet “just in case.” American flag key. 

2:00pm: Lainey Poplin, The Ex. You were broken up for over a year when Luca went  downhill. You were there every day, carrying him outside. Took him to the vet yourself the morning you found him struggling to breathe. She barely made it from work in time.  Looked at you in her typical way that said leave and stay at the same time. You lost five clients. She never paid you, and you never asked. She got Rosie, her French Bulldog, from a mill only a few weeks after Luca—had you house train her. Can never say no. Take her out this time and drive away. Mike knows a guy in Iowa who will pay 4 grand.  Purple key.

3:00pm: Mike’s work, computer repair shop. Leave the car running. His idea to hold it  up–“Will be hilarious!” Wants to see what the guys do when you come in masked, gun in  the air, shades and a hoodie screaming, “Get the money from the safe, motherfuckers!”  There’s no safe. They don’t keep cash. It’s all an epic joke. Mike thinks Tom will pee  himself. Take Mike hostage. “Keep it spontaneous. It will be funnier.” Get their wallets  and a few laptops. Mike will have the codes; sell them online, 3k at least. 

6:00pm: The farm. Mike will deal with your parents. He can lay it on when needed. Your  mom called him a little shit when you took him for dinner last year, but he kept her  laughing. Your dad was distant; what’s new? Mike will amuse them with Rosie. They’ve  learned not to ask many questions. When you leave, he’ll have talked them out of a  couple hundred–“A fresh start.” While he’s inside, go right to the sixth fence post on the  backside of the house, the one that looks straight up at your bedroom window. On either  side of the post, east and west, dig up the old mason jars like two Egyptian urns: a  shrine buried long ago. The one is full of wildflower seeds, an offering to whatever god  might shepherd Ruby-dog into the next life. The other is filled with her crimson fur. The  last time you brushed it, it came away like layers of old paint. My beautiful girl. My  beautiful, beautiful girl. Scatter the seeds, then put your lighter to Ruby’s fur. Inhale and  brush the smoke over yourself. Exhale into the setting sun. Back on the highway by  dark. If they come out to wave goodbye, roll down the window and shout: “Sorry guys!  Just pretend I was never here!” No one will remember it’s your birthday.