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Rock and roll animal. Dog walk on the wild side.



An excerpt from GONE WALKABOUT: Confessions of a NYC Dog Walker ...



Andy Warhol, or so I’ve heard, once said that in New York City we have no stars in the sky—because, he supposedly said, they’re all on the sidewalk.


Though this does sound like something Warhol could have said, any seasoned dog walker, who spends more time on the pavement than just about anyone except homeless people, knows this isn’t entirely true. Heavenly bodies are, indeed, seldom visible at night—they’re eclipsed by reflections of the city’s own lights into the atmosphere—but star sightings of the earthly kind are even rarer life events. If this weren’t true, we’d probably yawn as they passed, which we do not. We wouldn’t become giddy schoolgirls at the approach of Richard Gere or Liza Minnelli, which we do. We want the rest of the world to believe we’ve seen it all but we haven’t, at least not yet. This is what keeps us here, paying outrageous rents for tiny one-room apartments and putting up with all the indignities: the outside chance of being brushed, once or twice in a lifetime, with stardust.


What were my chances of coming face-to-face with a supernova, my own boyhood idol, a bust from my personal pantheon—and being hired to walk his dog?


If they could see me now, I thought, that little gang of mine, rushing over on my bike to Lou Reed’s apartment for an interview with his rat terrier ...



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