The job I have is an unconventional one. That’s the best way to lead with it. A lot of people in New York have a dog that’s old or sick or dying, and more often than you’d think, they don’t know what to do with it. Some can’t afford to put it down. Some think it’s murder. Some have inherited the dog in already bad shape and don’t know how to cope with it. Some just get tired of them. That’s where I come in. 

These people are rich and spoiled and are moving onto the next thing. They leave the country for a break and I dog sit their house and watch the dog slowly die. They don’t come back into the country until I text them: “Your dog died.” I don’t use the name and I don’t explain how it happened. Then I bag up the dog.

I try to make the dogs’ remaining days comfortable. I do the treats. I do the walks. I let them lay on the couch with me. But there’s an unmistakable odor of death in the house. A malaise of impending eternity. The dogs know. They always know. 

I was staying in a Brownstone in Park Slope. The place was a staircase on top of a staircase and so the dog stayed on the main floor. It was gray and large and lumbered around blind in its age. It moved slowly and pained. Its ears didn’t flick to sounds anymore. His mouth barely opened. I gave him a week. 

Its owners were at their summer house in Calabasas and I remember wondering what they were doing. I imagined them drinking on a man-made lake. I imagined them doing cocaine. A father, his trophy wife, their two attractive kids. They’ll never want for anything. They were probably already picking out some purebred or fancy mix. 

I went down to the cellar and got beers from the fridge. I imagined having a fridge just for beer. It was a nice thought. I came back upstairs and started settling in. I watched the dog move around like a Roomba. It’d lay down. It’d get up and shuffle somewhere else. It started to smell the air. 

It happened when I was watching TV. They had this giant couch and projector. One of those Firesticks. I was drunk on Coors Lite when I heard the crash. Shit, I thought. I must have left the cellar open when I went to get a beer and the dog went down the steps. What a way to go, I thought. Tangled and broken in a heap in a cellar. Falling down in the darkness, cut up against rusty nails. The last breaths being dust and cobwebs. I almost didn’t want to look. 

When I got to the top of the steps I heard it. I was looking down and could just make out the dark shadow of where the dog landed. I tried to see if it was breathing.  

There was a low deep growl. But it wasn’t from the dog. It was from something else in the cellar. 

I stayed put. I just listened. And then the deep growl spoke to me. 

“Your dog died.”