Ah, Gabe. A man of formidable physical prowess, a true titan of the tarmac, a marathon runner whose strides could put gazelles to shame. In the hallowed halls of Buff Loft, he’s known for his steely determination, his calm demeanor and his uncanny ability to make a 10K look like a leisurely stroll to the fridge.
But beneath that veneer of athletic invincibility lies a secret, a whispered tale from his collegiate past, a saga so steeped in canine chaos and... well, deposits, that it continues to elicit cackles and knowing glances whenever the subject of "side hustles" rears its head -- or when one of us is tasked with walking the boss' dogs in West Hollywood!
Picture it: A young Gabe, brimming with youthful optimism and the perennial student's need for extra cash. He wasn't one for flipping burgers or stocking shelves. Oh no, Gabe sought something that aligned with his very being, something that would leverage his natural gifts. And then, like a divine revelation (or perhaps a particularly persistent flea), it hit him: a dog-walking service!
It seemed, at the time, like the ultimate win-win. He could get paid for two of his greatest loves: running and, naturally, dogs.
"Easy money," he reportedly mused to anyone who would listen, picturing blissful jogs through sun-drenched parks, surrounded by a coterie of well-behaved canines, tails wagging in rhythmic approval -- especially in Beverly Hills where even dogs have a certain upper class to their behavior.
Little did he know, he was about to embark on a journey that would redefine the very meaning of "shitty job."
Gabe, bless his ambitious heart, didn't dip his toe into the dog-walking waters; he cannonballed. Rather than starting with a single, manageable chihuahua -- or even a dog he knew beforehand -- he envisioned himself as a veritable canine Pied Piper, a multi-dog maestro. He'd confidently book two, sometimes even three, furry clients for a single outing.
"More dogs, more money!" he likely reasoned, failing to account for one crucial, utterly fundamental variable: the sheer, unadulterated, often explosive, reality of canine gastrointestinal output.
The first hint that his entrepreneurial dream might be less "easy money" and more "dogged determination" came in the form of a particularly enthusiastic canine "pooping spree."
One fateful afternoon, Gabe was navigating what he thought would be a standard, breezy walk with his trio of charges. The sun was shining on that beautiful SoCal day, birds were chirping, and then, without warning, the floodgates opened.
Muffin, the miniature poodle, squatted.
Then Brutus, the bulldog, felt inspired.
And finally, Lola, the lab mix, decided to contribute her own substantial offering.
All within the first five minutes of the walk.
Gabe, ever the prepared professional (or so he thought), reached for his trusty roll of poop bags. He had five. Five. Five bags for three dogs. Not unreasonable, right? Wrong.
"Five bags," he later recounted, his voice still tinged with the trauma, "wasn't enough for one walk." Let that sink in.
Five bags, a veritable arsenal in the mind of an amateur dog-walker, rendered utterly useless by the synchronized defecation of three otherwise adorable animals. It was a scene of escalating horror, a veritable minefield of freshly laid landmines.
Gabe, a man who prided himself on his integrity, found himself facing an ethical dilemma of epic proportions. To leave it? Unthinkable! To clean it all with his bare hands? Abhorrent!
In the end, cornered by a rapidly diminishing supply of plastic and an ever-expanding array of organic matter, Gabe had to make a choice. He became "that guy." The guy who walks away from sidewalk dog shit. (And isn't that illegal? We hear the whispers still, even now. The shame, Gabe, the shame!)
But the indignities didn't stop there. Oh no, the canine cosmos had only just begun to unleash its full comedic fury upon our unwitting protagonist. As if on cue, the dogs, seemingly invigorated by their recent, generous contributions to urban landscaping, would transform into hyper-kinetic bundles of fur and muscle.
The leashes, moments ago neatly separated, would instantly become a Gordian knot of interwoven nylon, wrapped around Gabe's legs, his waist, and naturally, his dignity.
Imagine the tableau: Gabe, bent over, wrestling with a single, overflowing poop bag (the one he miraculously managed to deploy), while simultaneously attempting to untangle himself from a canine cat's cradle. His three charges, now revved up like miniature rocket launchers, bounced around him, pulling him off balance, threatening to send him sprawling headfirst into a particularly fragrant pile.
It became a public spectacle, a one-man circus of struggle and ignominy. Pedestrians would pause, some openly gaping, others struggling to suppress snorts of laughter, as the poor bastard wrestled with his bouncing, barking and increasingly malodorous charges. (If any of you ever witnessed him years ago in Beverly Hills and captured it on video, we'll pay any price for the footage. ANY price!)
The dogs, in their exuberant post-poop euphoria, would then trounce through the remaining, uncollected piles, spreading the love (and the mess) with every joyful bound. Gabe, meanwhile, would be getting pulled in three different directions, almost tripping, his face a mask of escalating horror and embarrassment.
And then there was the barking.
Oh, the ceaseless, cacophonous barking. Every passing jogger, every stroller-pushing parent, every other dog on the block became an immediate target for Gabe's canine chorus. The dogs, apparently mistaking their walk for a territorial dispute, would launch into a barking frenzy, attempting to lunge, strain and generally make Gabe look like an incompetent amateur, wholly unable to control his supposedly "well-behaved" clients.
Add to that their collective refusal to walk in one coherent direction – one pulling left, one straining right, the other deciding that this particular lamppost demanded extensive olfactory investigation – and Gabe’s "leisurely jogs" became a full-body workout in chaos management.
It didn't take long for the cold, hard calculus of capitalism to hit Gabe like a particularly dense dog biscuit.
At $10 per dog per walk -- yeah, he did it for 10 bucks! -- it seemed like a tidy sum. But when you factored in the cost of industrial-strength poop bags (because regular ones clearly weren't cutting it), the mental and physical toll of wrestling three Tasmanian devil-dogs, and the sheer, unadulterated hassle of it all, that $10 started looking like pocket change. It wasn't worth his time, his sanity or the supplies. The profit margins, much like Gabe’s patience, were rapidly evaporating.
But the dog-walking woes were only half the story. The venture quickly morphed into an impromptu dog-sitting service, a grim epilogue to the daily walks.
Owners, often delayed, would sometimes be unable to immediately retrieve their freshly walked (and often still somewhat agitated) pooches. This meant the furry fiends would often have to extend their stay at Gabe's humble college apartment for an hour or two, waiting for pickup or for Gabe to drop them off at their own homes.
And what happens when three dogs, still high on their post-walk zoomies -- often with crap-crusted claws -- and perhaps a little confused by their temporary new digs, find themselves in an unfamiliar apartment? More bathroom action, naturally.
Gabe's once pristine (or at least, college-student-level pristine) floors soon became new canvases for canine creativity. Accidental puddles, strategically placed "gifts," and the lingering aroma of "eau de wet dog" became the apartment's signature scent.
His living space, once a sanctuary for studious pursuits (or, more likely, Netflix binges), transformed into a temporary, accidental kennel, complete with all the attendant olfactory delights and floor-cleaning obligations.
Needless to say, Gabe's ambitious dog-walking venture, his "easy money" scheme, lasted about as long as a squeaky toy in a pit bull's mouth. Approximately one week. It was, by all accounts, a truly shitty time.
And while Gabe has since moved on to greater professional triumphs and marathons that don't involve untangling leashes or dodging landmines, the legend of his brief, but supremely embarrassing, foray into the world of canine entrepreneurship lives on.
It serves as a hilarious cautionary tale, a reminder that sometimes, the "easiest money" comes with the highest cost – typically, in the form of dignity and a whole lot of wasted poop bags. Next time he’s looking for a side hustle, we hear he’s considering something with fewer legs and considerably less… output.
Fast forward to present day where our bosses have two of the most-behaved dogs you could ever walk. They don't pull, they don't piss, they don't pounce. They mean business when they walk. Just to give a not to Gabe's barkind-mad past: the bosses offer him $9 per walk, to undercut him by a dollar of his previous asking price!