i just read the life and death business of being a dog walker by r. woodson and the moment i finished i got a message from harry oh to read it. he got started by his sister like i did. one dog got killed and my heart falters just thinking of it. when i look back i've written some harrowing things and i'm grateful the deaths were simply by old age. i wonder how many dog walkers stay dog walkers for life. i think i will. is it simply that i've settled into the life and i hate change? or is it a calling? it still seems i'm dreaming and my skill set is stubbornly rudimentary. but often i feel that in my imperfection is a kind of art. i like to think that, but more, i like to feel it, and when i do i think the animals come to me like dreams into flesh and subsistence, and in a kind of wistful elemental contact i adore and cherish, though we have struggles withal. i would like to read a book by a dog walker like me, just a medium length memoir of the things a dog walker thinks of and the dogs that come to grace his ordinary life.