20/03/2026
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1GBcbd64si/
They've put this so well 🙏🏻
So much more than the "walking the dogs" going on before I "start" and after I "finish" for the day.
People think being a dog walker is just sunshine, slow-motion park runs, and an army of happy tails wagging in perfect harmony.
And yes… sometimes it is.
But behind every perfectly filtered photo of twelve dogs sitting like angels for a treat is a slightly frazzled human calculating whether the van will pass its next MOT.
Ah yes, the glamorous life.
There’s the van — my noble, muddy chariot. It doesn’t just transport dogs. It transports sand, half a forest, mysterious wet smells, and at least one tennis ball permanently lodged somewhere under the seats.
The MOT date lives in my brain like a ticking time bomb. Insurance? Due yesterday. Tax? Also due yesterday. Fuel? Disappearing at a rate that suggests the van is secretly driving itself around at night. I fill it up, blink twice, and somehow it’s thirsty again.
And the tires — oh, the tires — wearing down faster than my patience when someone says, “You just play with dogs all day, right?”
Sure. If “play” includes scrubbing paw prints off the ceiling.
After the last drop-off, when the dogs are home snoring on sofas they did not pay for, I’m back at base. Emptying bedding. Shaking out towels. Discovering that someone has once again rolled in something that used to be alive. The van gets cleaned. Again. And tomorrow it will look like I drove directly through a swamp. Again.
Then there’s laundry. So much laundry. Towels. More towels. Coats in every size imaginable. Washing. Drying. Folding. Repeat. My washing machine works harder than an Olympic athlete. It has seen things.
Somewhere between loads, I’m restocking treats. Because apparently dogs can tell when you’ve switched brands. I buy them in bulk, convinced this time they’ll last.
They do not last. They vanish into enthusiastic mouths and suddenly I’m back at the pet shop explaining why I need enough snacks to sustain a small furry nation.
And just when I sit down with a cup of tea?
Ping.
“Hi! Just wondering if you have availability in six months for our new puppy?”
Ping.
“Can you add an extra walk tomorrow?”
Ping.
“Did Arlo poo today?”
Of course Arlo pooed today. Arlo always poos.
The messages don’t clock out at 3pm. They follow me into evenings, weekends, and occasionally into dreams. I respond because I care — about the dogs, about the owners, about doing it properly.
And then there are the invoices. The least cuddly part of the job. After a day of mud, slobber, joyful chaos, fuel receipts, treat restocks, and calculating tire tread depth, I sit down to send out polite emails that say, in essence, “Remember all that happiness? That will be £___, please.”
But here’s the secret part no one sees.
When a nervous rescue dog finally runs toward me instead of away.
When an elderly dog leans against my leg because the walk was just enough.
When a puppy learns recall and looks impossibly proud.
When I get a photo later of a dog asleep, belly up, clearly exhausted and content.
Behind the MOT reminders, insurance payments, tax, fuel costs, tire wear, endless laundry, treat bills, and midnight messages… there’s a quiet, scruffy kind of love.
It’s muddy.
It’s loud.
It smells questionable.
But when twelve dogs look at you like you are the best part of their day?
Honestly.
It kind of makes the full tank worth it.
