Dear Diary,

Let’s get one thing clear before we go any further: people think being a dog walker is idyllic.  “Your so lucky doing that!”  They imagine me gliding across sunlit meadows, hair flowing in the breeze like a low-budget shampoo advert, surrounded by obedient dogs who trot along politely as birds sing in perfect harmony.

Reality?

Try 35 years of mud, 12 types of drizzle, and knowing exactly which dog has farted without even turning around.

I have spent more time ankle-deep in mysterious substances than most archaeologists. I can identify a suspicious stain at ten paces. I have shouted the words “Don’t pee on his head” more often than I’ve said “I love you.” I have negotiated with everything from timid terriers to Labradors who believe personal space is just “a suggestion.”

I’ve been walking, training, rescuing, refereeing, emotionally supporting, and occasionally ducking flying objects from dogs who believe enthusiasm is a weapon. I’ve run a dog walking company for over 20 years, employing brave, optimistic humans who thought,

“How hard can it be?”

Two weeks later, they understand things. They’ve seen things. They’ve been changed.

Meanwhile, I personally take on the “special characters.”

You know the ones:

• The dog who thinks fences are optional.

• The dog who believes puddles are portals to another world.

• The dog who looks you dead in the eye as he steals someone’s picnic.

• The German Shepherd who is convinced the universe is a conspiracy and you are the only trustworthy witness.

• The dog who sees another dog in the distance and immediately appoints himself Head of Security, despite nobody asking him to.

Most days are delightfully predictable. Twenty bags of poo collected. Three mystery bags discovered in hedges (never mine, I swear). One lead misplaced. One ball mourned. Every single creature wet. Myself included. Somehow, I will still end up apologising to a stranger for “the incident,” even when the incident was 100% their fault and involved a squirrel initiating hostilities.

And yet…

There is always that one Labrador who decides today is the day he falls in love with a stranger’s mobility scooter. Or the spaniel who sprints heroically into the distance because he briefly mistook a plastic bag for a pheasant. Or the bulldog who flops down mid-walk because “his legs are decorative.”

This diary chronicles events that genuinely happened. Some unfolded over years; others were squeezed into a single afternoon that added at least ten years to my biological age.

Most names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and those who really should have known better. The dogs and cats, however, insisted on using their real names and threatened legal action if I didn't.

Expect:

• Romance (between dogs who DEFINITELY shouldn’t be romantically interested).

• Betrayal (mostly ball-related).

• Suspense (what is in their mouth?).

• Drama (someone is always “starving” despite just eating).

• Horror (fox poo).

• And enough mud to start my own pottery studio.

There will be thrills.

There will be chaos.

There will be sadness.

There will be suspenseful moments involving sausages.

And always — always — poo.

Welcome to the glamorous, high-octane life of a professional dog walker.

Fasten your seatbelt.

Grab a mop.

And for the love of biscuits, don’t leave your sandwich unattended.

It’s going to be a journey.