THE DOGWALKER

I have promised bizarre stories from my past and not delivered. Well, today, is the day for one of them. I always wonder how much of these things to tell... Personally, if the story is good, I want it all. So, here goes. Well, this took place in 2000. Yeah, it was a long time ago. I was living in a 2br condo alone and started having dreams about this puppy. I was convinced I was meant to get said puppy. Anyway, there was this guy I would see walking a greyhound in my complex. Since, I was contemplating getting a dog, I stopped one day to ask him about how the dog thing was working out for him. It was fine, great, wonderful, etc. So, I became determined and eventually found my dream dog in Aiken, SC, at Animal Control. She was six weeks old and precious. You can click here to read about her and/or see pictures.


The problem was that she was only six weeks old and I was working full-time. It turns out that the fellow who owned the greyhound had similar issues. However, he worked second shift at one of the local hospitals in the ER (not as a doctor), so the scheduling could be mutually beneficial in terms of dog walking. We agreed to walk the other person's dog. He took my dog out during the day and I took his out in the evening. It really seemed like a good plan. Of course, I did have to give him a key to my place, but then he had to give me a key to his place. How else could you get to the dog?

This went on for ~ I don't really remember how long ~ and it seemed to work out well. The first indicator that there was a problem was such a small thing, but it really threw me for a loop. I remember it vividly. I was standing in my bathroom washing my face. In my mirror I could see the towel rack (which was beside my shower) behind me. My washcloth was just looped over the bar. It wasn't folded in half and then placed on the bar. It was just spread out flat and hanging there. I NEVER did that. I always folded it in half and then placed it on the rack. Always. I remember walking over to it and staring at it in disbelief. I touched it. It was ever so slightly damp, but I had used it that morning, so that was possible. The thing that I can't remember is if I pulled it off the bar and tossed it into the dirty clothes. In my history rewrite, I pull it off the bar and toss it into the dirty clothes. In reality, I just don't know. I only hope that I was freaked out enough that I did.

I do remember having a conversation with myself while I was standing there staring at the wash cloth that went something like this: "You are being ridiculous. You are the only person who lives here. Do you think a ghost is playing with your wash cloth? I really think a ghost would have better things to do. Obviously, you did it and were so tired that you just don't remember doing it." I also recall being unconvinced by my own arguments. Although, I wasn't overly compelled by the ghost theory either. I was just stymied.


It wasn't long after the "wash cloth incident" that everything unraveled and became clear. At that time, I was fairly new to the Internet and computer stuff in general. I had a desktop that was hooked up to cable, but my navigation skills were poor, at best. I could do email and liked to play cards on yahoo. That pretty much covered my skills. I turned the thing on after I got home from work and a new icon appeared on my screen. I was like, "What is this?" It was a link to some porn site. I know because I clicked on it. And I found out that if I'd had a dial-up connection I would have been charged something like $90.00/minute for access to that site. Since, I didn't have dial-up, that site couldn't be accessed. I hit the freaking ceiling. It took days to peel the blood and hair out of the stucco crap that they use on the ceilings.


I called a friend who knew more about computers than I, and asked how to get that sh*t off of my computer. We went through the add/remove process. She then asked if I knew how to access my Temporary Internet Files. What? What's that? She was dealing with a computer moron. When I got those, I was peeling myself off the ceiling again. That little bastard dog walker had been at my house EVERY DAY looking at porn for two months and I had a listing of every site he'd been to with times to prove it. Meanwhile, my poor baby had to pee and had been stuck in her crate. Suddenly, the computer was the LAST thing on my mind and the washcloth was the FIRST. I hit my bathroom at a RUN. I guess Mr. Pervert Dogwalker wasn't any more computer savvy than I, and couldn't get the computer icon removed, so he knew the jig was up, because....


This time he didn't even try to hide the evidence. He left a wet towel in my dirty clothes and MY wash cloth hanging askew on the towel rack. It only took about three seconds to figure out what he needed my washcloth for and then I hit blastoff. Ewww. I then had another ceiling to pick blood and hair out of for the next few days. Meanwhile, my mind rocketed into overdrive. What else has that pervy little bastard been doing in here? Oh yeah, I washed everything that might have appealed to him with bleach. That, of course, was after my uncle and I went to Lowe's and bought a new lock for my front door. You know, I think I still walked his dog that night. Not the dog's fault that his owner was a big ole perv, but I left a note on his door that I no longer needed his dog walking services and returned his key. I didn't ask for mine back.

Mr. Pervert ended up getting rid of the greyhound. There was a peeping tom incident in the complex not too long after that and the guy just disappeared "into nowhere." I told my next door neighbor that I would bet money that it was Mr. Pervert and he "disappeared" into his backdoor when he was spotted and being chased. Did I mention the part that they lost the peeper right around the area of Mr. Pervert's backporch? It was never proven that he was the peeper, but it didn't happen again. About three months after Mr. Pervert got rid of the greyhound, I was out walking Shelby, and I see him out walking a puppy. Oh great. Mr. Pervert's got a new dog. He moves in for conversation with me. It goes something like this:

Him: I got a new dog.

Me: I see that. (It looks a lot like my dog, only it's brown and white, but it's a border collie mix.)

Him: She's very well behaved.

Me: That's nice. (Realizing I am being mean to a dog and it isn't the dog's fault, I decide to try and be nicer.) She's cute. What did you name her?

Him: Shelby.

Me: (I would be on the ceiling, but we are outdoors, so there is no ceiling. I just really want to punch this guy.) Really? Shelby? (I realize I am speaking through gritted teeth.)

Him: I couldn't think of anything else.

Me: Well, we've got to go. (You have a very limited imagination and I would like to help you out by knocking your brain around some for you. So I better leave.)

For the record, I have never actually hit anyone. And there are very few people that I have wanted to knock out. Mr. Pervert is on a very short list.