In June of 2022 I was at what might realistically be described as the nadir of my life. The pandemic had robbed me of my travel and events writing career, my short-term foray into the entertainment realm as a nonunion background actor was clearly a bust, and I had just dropped out of graduate school (again). There didn’t seem to be a place for me in this world, other than walking dogs. So that’s what I did.

I was on a dog-walking app for barely a month when Dumpling came into my life. I hadn’t realized when I accepted her owner’s request for a “multi-day walk” that I would be walking Dumpling four times a week through the entire summer and eventually, for four whole years. It became one of the most loving, grounding, and healing experiences of my life.

At our first encounter, Dumpling met me at her door like the lady of the house. She practically showed me where her leash was. She wasn’t a puppy (maybe about 8 years old?) and looked like an American Bully - somewhere between a pit bull and a Staffordshire terrier. She had a blue-gray coat, enormous brown eyes, and her ears were cropped. I later learned that she was a rescue and that’s how she arrived to her owner, Academy Award-winning short documentary film director Ben Proudfoot. Ben could see that Dumpling and I forged a bond immediately and so that is how I earned the privilege of becoming her long-term dog nanny.

The heat of that first summer was almost unbearable. Thankfully, our scheduled walks were at 10:30am so the sun wasn’t as blazing. But it was still hot. My standard wardrobe consisted of shorts, loose tank tops, sun hats, and my dog-walking bag overflowing with green plastic baggies, an alarm keychain, spare keys, and lots of sanitizer. Actually, not much has changed in that department, truth be told.

As the months went by and the weather cooled, strolling in Dumpling’s neighborhood became as much of a joy for me as it clearly was for her. She and I would purposefully walk for miles, pausing only for Dumpling to snort about and do her business. Sometimes she’d plop down and wiggle around so the dry grass could give her a nice back rub. In those instances, I couldn’t get my phone out fast enough to take a video.

Once I brought Dumpling back from a walk and there was a confused man dressed in pajamas who didn’t speak English on the front lawn where she lived. He looked relieved to see Dumpling, but I thought he was a trespasser. (I mean, I had no idea anyone was staying there, and he was in his damn pajamas!) When I called Ben on the phone to elucidate, I learned that the man was Vidal Merma, a Peruvian journalist, documentary filmmaker, and environmental defender known for investigating the human impacts of large-scale mining operations in the Cusco region of Peru. His story was chronicled in an Oscar-shortlisted documentary called Wings of Dust (2023) by Giorgio Ghiotto.

Communicating with our phones, Vidal explained to me that he woke up and didn’t know where Dumpling went. I tried to put into words that I was her walker. “Soy la paseadora de Dumpling,” my phone told him. Vidal still seemed confused, but eventually things became clear, even though I still felt a little foolish at the misunderstanding. Actually, I cringed for a whole week.

Soon, Dumpling was lucky enough to get a wonderful mom, Ben’s now-wife, Elizabeth. I continued to record the routes on my Apple Watch and took a picture of Dumpling every time, compiling all the stats in a group chat that came to be known as the Bullytin. Somewhere around this time Ben earned his second Oscar as co-director of The Last Repair Shop (2023). I came by the morning after the Academy Awards to walk Dumpling and marveled at the statuette just casually standing on the kitchen table. “You’re a Hollywood doggie,” I told Dumpling once we were outside, but she didn’t seem to care. She could just sense joy and responded accordingly.

Dumpling relied on me to walk her, and I relied on her to show me plants and flowers in people’s gardens. I learned their names, just as I learned the calls and species of different birds that would fly around the neighborhood - mockingbirds ganging up on crows, and crows ganging up on hawks. Once, after the fires, I heard a bird call, “C’mere,” only to look up and stare straight into the beady eyes of a stray parrot.

Another time we passed by a pile of gorgeous, large, raw crystals that someone had evidently discarded in haste on a patch of grass. Dumpling somehow communicated to me not to touch them, so even though I love crystals, I left them alone. They were all gone by the next day.

Occasionally, as a treat, I would sit down for a couple of minutes at a picnic table in the nearby park and I’d lift heavy-ish Dumpling so she could sit in my lap and I could hold on to her from behind in order to give her the biggest hugs. Often those were the only hugs I’d have in months.

Dumpling stepped in and became my reason to get up every day. It was a small job in the eyes of the world, but to me, it was as serious as programming train tracks or giving someone an appendectomy. She provided structure, support, affection, the goofiest smile, and the most easygoing company.

But eventually, Dumpling started to lose energy, and her muzzle started to turn grey. Our long walks turned into slow-paced “sniffing safaris.” She became less willing to move, and would often just stand there stubbornly. I began to feel like Atreyu and Artax in The Neverending Story, where one of the main characters is trying desperately to get his horse out of the Swamps of Sadness, but the sad horse just keeps sinking. I’d try to fake run so she’d pick up her pace. I’d try to give her treats to motivate her. I never, ever wanted to pull her. But no matter how I tried to get her to walk, it seemed all she wanted was to be back home, cozy in her bed.

In the end, it wasn’t the Swamps of Sadness that took Dumpling - it was just the passage of time. And so last Sunday, in an afternoon-long fit of ugly crying, I went over there to say goodbye. I hadn’t walked her in three weeks, and Ben said it was time. As a memento, he gave me the extra-thick leash I would always use to walk her. It feels strong and supportive in my hands, as if the object is somehow drawing out my suffering and reminding me of my own strength and resilience that I recognized and embraced during my irreplaceable time with that incredible dog.

Through my years with Dumpling, I facilitated some deep emotional healing and began to see myself through her eyes - as a caring, kind person who loves living creatures and whose love extends beyond my physical body and into the hearts of those around me. Thanks to Dumpling, I eventually stopped bedrotting and hiding from the world. I started to go out more, and most importantly, I started writing again. The murky haze of my existence began to clear, and I began to see a future for myself once more, not just a vague fog of uncertainty.

Dumpling taught me how to be present and in the moment, and to appreciate the colors of the flowers, the screeches of the birds, the frantically waving tails of the squirrels, the gentle breezes, the light rains, and yes, even the scorchingly sunny days.