I’m ending 2023 much the same way I began it: watching other people’s dogs.
During the first couple months of the year I pet-sat for friends and acquaintances in exchange for free places to stay in New York, waiting what felt like forever for my UK visa to get processed. It was a quiet, peaceful, sort of lonely and disorienting time. But I grew to love all the dogs I took care of as if they were my own.
As my long bout of unemployment plods on, I’ve started seriously wondering whether I should finally abandon the sinking ship that is the media industry and work with animals instead. In the new year I’m planning to take a one-day course on dog grooming specifically for owners who want to learn how to groom their pets at home; it’ll save us from having to pay groomers every six weeks for the rest of Gus’s life, at least. And who knows—if I enjoy the class, I might consider going for a professional certification.
As soon as Lynette, Gus and I finally made it to Liverpool late last month, I signed up for Rover, having seen a bunch of people on social media turn dog walking and boarding into a successful side hustle. Our new 2-bedroom house is less than 1,000 square feet, but coming from a tiny dingy flat in Preston it feels like an absolutely luxurious amount of space—just enough to squeeze in another dog or two.
Yesterday we said goodbye to sweet, mischievous, droopy-faced Mylo, a 7 month old beagle. Upon reflection, jumping into dog boarding with a puppy twice Gus’s size was a chaotic move, but Gus held his own and had a lot of fun as well as, I’m sure, some frustration mentoring his young charge. We ended up chasing poor Lynette off to the office—she mostly works from home—because all the barking and running around was doing her head in. I definitely was not paid enough for four nights and days of dutiful vigilance, but I’ve kept my rates low for my first few clients so I can build up my reviews. And Mylo’s parents, a young couple who booked him in with us so they could take their four-year-old to Disneyland Paris, were so lovely that I didn’t really mind.
It’s very strange, being at a point in my life when so many people who are younger than me are parents to real human children. Young parenthood seems particularly popular here in our working class neighborhood in a working class city; the less affluent tend to have kids earlier and in greater numbers than their wealthier counterparts.
I’ve never felt further away from having a child, even as more and more friends and what seems like every straight person from high school and college are debuting new babies on Instagram. Though I’ve tended to vacillate wildly between desire and doubt, for most of my life I’ve wanted children. The more people I know and love crossing the threshold into parenthood, the more curious I become.
But Lynette and I have been through so much over the years. We just moved into our first house, and I think we deserve to enjoy the childfree time and independence we have, for as long as we have it. Maybe forever??? At almost 32 years old, I’d love to just decide either way on kids, to know. Though of course we can never really know anything.
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