I Pretended to Be a Dog Walker to Impress My Crush – I Got Trapped in My Lie with Six Dogs and Zero Experience

Most people take up dog walking for the exercise or extra cash. I did it to impress my neighbor, and ended up ankle-deep in fur, lies, and a very judgmental dachshund!

Let me preface this by saying that I did not set out to lie. It just... happened. It was one of those impulsive, heart-palpitating moments when your mouth acts before consulting your brain, which, in my case, happens way too often.

It all started three months after I moved into the Pine View Apartments, a peaceful, dog-friendly complex filled with charming retirees, overstimulated toddlers, and, of course, Riley.

Riley was a fellow resident who wore forest-green windbreakers, and most of the time, her fists were wrapped with leashes. It was clear she had a huge soft spot for rescue dogs. See, she was a dog trainer who also ran a successful dog-walking and training business called "Paw & Order."

I was always in awe of her when she'd walk several dogs like she was leading a yoga retreat instead of a slobber-fueled stampede. I saw her every morning at 8:15 sharp, her hair in a ponytail, earbuds in, and dogs somehow not tangled into a living knot.

And then there was me: Theo, 30, failed startup founder, occasional freelance copywriter, and current couch-blanket burrito. I was currently nursing a bit of a bruised ego from my startup going under, and now I freelance from home.

When I wasn't trying to find work to survive, I was ducking and diving, trying to dodge calls from my mom. She kept trying to set me up with her dentist's daughter. I wasn't budging because I have a phobia of dentists, and just hearing that her father was one put me in a panic.

Of course, confessing this to my mother had no bearing on her efforts. She insisted that she'd look for someone else who'd be more suitable. Every once in a while, she called me, asking about my likes and dislikes, hobbies, and such.

I worried she'd create an online dating profile behind my back, but I let her be.

By the time I'd moved into my new apartment building, I'd nearly convinced myself that social life was for people with stronger Wi-Fi and better vitamin D levels.

But something about Riley, maybe the fact that she looked like she could survive an apocalypse with nothing but a tennis ball and a dog treat, made me want to break my self-imposed isolation and speak up about my crush.

And one fateful morning, as she and I crossed paths at the mailbox, it happened.

"Hey, you're Riley, right? I'm Theo," I said, pretending I hadn't been stalking her for weeks since moving in.

Old Mrs. Nettie, my overly observant neighbor who owns three Pomeranians, was the one who told me everything I know about Riley, including her name.

My object of affection turned around without a smile and looked like she was about to ask how I knew her name. So, my stupid mind panicked, and my mouth blurted, "I live here, too. I'm a dog walker."

I regretted the lie immediately.

"Oh, you walk dogs too? Strange how I've never seen you around," she commented casually.

Now, if I were a normal person, I might have said, "No, I actually used to do it part-time, but stopped for work reasons. But I still love dogs." That would've been a lie, but it would've sounded more humble, relatable, and safe.

But no. My brain short-circuited, and I blurted, "Oh yeah, only part-time, and mainly mornings."

Part-time. Mainly mornings!? I had never held a leash in my life! My only experience with dogs was watching YouTube videos of border collies herding sheep better than I manage my inbox.

Riley's eyes lit up. "Seriously? That's perfect! I'm drowning in clients. Can I send a few your way?"

I nodded, trying to play it cool. "Sure, sure, send them over. The more the hairier."

Did I mention I panic-joke when I'm nervous? I'm lying again. I panic-joke even when I'm not nervous!

By 10 a.m., my phone buzzed with dog bios. Riley had assigned:

Tuna, a bulldog with the resting face of a disappointed gym coach.

Pickles, a dachshund with an overactive libido and zero shame.

Mochi, a Shiba Inu with the attitude of a celebrity in hiding and a deep distrust of mailboxes.

Biscuit, Gravy, and Larry, all Mrs. Nettie's synchronized ankle-biters.

Mrs. Nettie, by the way, was 70, sharper than a hawk in bifocals, had a spy-level awareness of the building's social ecosystem, and was absolutely convinced I'm a secret agent! She once accused me of hiding a drone in my mail slot, and her dogs wore tiny sweaters that said "Bite First, Ask Never!"

Kevin, my 16-year-old nephew who loved coming over on his free days and weekends, immediately became my unofficial shadow. He was a lover of all things social media and a walking meme factory, always filming something, shouting things like "YOLO" and "POV: you're Theo and you just stepped in dog poop."

He also treated every visit like he was directing an indie film, and that's how he approached our dog-walking adventure when I told him what we were doing that day.

Now, as someone who's never walked a dog, let alone six of them all at once, I knew I couldn't pull this off. So, I tried coming up with a plan to get out of it, but just before I could speak up, Riley called again.

"Hey, Theo, would you mind bringing the dogs with you to my dog-owner social at the park around 12? I'd like to introduce you to other dog owners. They already know about your side hustle."

That woman had some powerful control over me, because instead of canceling, I said, "Sure, I'll be there."

But let me be the first to tell you: getting there was... chaos.

Pickles attempted to romance a fire hydrant for three full minutes. Tuna flopped down and refused to move like he'd just finished a marathon, and the Pomeranian trio nipped at me like I owed them rent!

I tried to bribe them with peanut butter treats, which backfired spectacularly. Instead, they banded together like a tiny furry mafia, demanding more, or else! Larry even staged a sit-in by flopping dramatically in the middle of the sidewalk!

We eventually made it to the meeting spot in one piece, and I met everyone. Things went well until the get-together concluded and everyone went their separate ways. I was trying to get a hold of all the leashes when Kevin suddenly leaned in to show me a video on his phone.

The distraction allowed Pickles to break away!

Kevin, the little devil, laughed while holding his phone up, recording the chaos as I tried to keep the other dogs in check.

I was forced to cut my first dog-walking efforts short to go look for Pickles before Riley found out. So, I sent Kevin home. I didn't want him distracting me further, and I called my friend, Tom, to come assist.

I asked Tom to take the dogs back to Riley and Mrs. Nettie. I texted Riley explaining that I was giving extra attention to Pickles because "he seemed sad," and went to look for the escaped mutt.

Luckily, I managed to find him and bring him back without anyone finding out, or so I thought. I was quite disgruntled about continuing with the dog-walking lie, and the incident that day didn't help, so I considered telling Riley the truth.

But then she texted, "Well done today, Theo! You really impressed me! I had my doubts about you, but I loved how you went the extra mile with Pickles. Some people can't stand or manage him. Same time, tomorrow?"

"Same time," I replied with a smile, too smitten to say "no."

The funny thing was, Riley's message made me rethink things. So, I committed myself to learning all I could about dogs and taking care of them. I studied dog-walking tutorials and read training guides while I continued walking my gang.

I made the mistake of trying to jog with them the next morning. I got 20 steps before Tuna plopped down like a beanbag, Pickles launched himself at a jogger's shoelace, and the Pom trio split off in three directions like angry popcorn!

By the third day, I had upgraded to knee pads and created a spreadsheet titled "Dog Situational Risk Log." My only entry so far was: "Pickles, serial humper. Avoid yoga pants!"

Despite the canine chaos, something unexpected began to shift. Tuna started recognizing me and offered a grunt of approval instead of his usual lawn-ornament act. Pickles, the horrible little flirt, actually sat on command once!

And the Pom trio stopped treating my ankles like chew toys and started treating them more like territorial markers. Progress!

The real breakthrough came when I attempted my first solo trip to the dog park. I arrived with all six dogs hitched to me. Parents clutched their toddlers, and one guy dropped his smoothie as I passed, whispering, "Godspeed, man."

I unclipped the leashes one by one and braced for impact. But instead of pandemonium, something remarkable happened: they ran! Not away from me, but with a kind of controlled joy. It was like they were saying, "Fine, Theo. You're not entirely useless!"

This win lasted all but seven minutes. Then Larry peed on someone's Birkenstocks, and we had to flee the scene!

One thing that I noticed worked was talking to my group like they were my coworkers at the start-up. "Tuna, you need to get up. Work waits for no man," or "Larry, you know we need to hustle, my dude."

That night, I lay on the couch icing my shin (courtesy of a surprise squirrel ambush) and flipping through the dog bios Riley had sent. I realized I was starting to remember their quirks. Like, Tuna snored like a small tractor, Gravy hated wind chimes, and Biscuit growled at garden gnomes.

And I realized something that hadn't clicked before... I cared. I really, genuinely cared.

The next morning, I woke up early, voluntarily. I prepped my route, packed water and treats, and even wore two socks that matched. I met Riley in the lobby, and she raised an eyebrow. "Look at you. You're practically glowing with anticipation."

I beamed. "That's just sweat. But I appreciate the illusion."

We walked together for an hour, chatting about dog names (she once met a husky named Potato), childhood injuries (I once swallowed a Lego), and dreams (hers: open a dog café; mine: survive this week).

We stopped at the corner, and she turned to me. "You know, you're not half-bad at this."

"Thanks. I've been trying not to die. It's very motivating."

She laughed and handed me a flyer. "We're doing a fundraiser next weekend. We'll have a panel, demos, all that. I'd like you to sit on the panel as part of the community pros. You in?"

I stared at the flyer. Dog Rescue Fundraiser: Featuring Local Heroes in Pet Care.

"Wow," I said. "I've never been a pro at anything. Unless you count Mario Kart."

"Then you'll fit right in," she grinned.

And just like that, I agreed! A week from now, I'd be speaking in front of actual people about something I had completely faked.

But at least now... I was only half faking it.

The week flew by. Between leash burns, surprise puddles, and a failed attempt to bathe Tuna (he escaped and rolled in compost out of spite), I barely had time to panic or overthink the fundraiser. But the lie was getting heavier by the day.

When the day arrived, I stood backstage in a button-up shirt that smelled faintly of liver treats. The turnout was massive! Booths, barking, families, and free samples of things I couldn't pronounce.

Riley found me pacing near the snack table and handed me a bottle of water and a biscuit—one item for me, one for Biscuit. I got them mixed up!

She grinned. "You ready?"

"Absolutely not."

"Perfect. You'll do great!"

She led me to the microphone and introduced me as "our newest star dog-walker, Theo!" People clapped. Someone whistled. I saw Kevin, whom I invited for moral support, mouthing, "Don't screw this up," as he recorded on his phone.

I stepped up and took a deep breath, and completely panicked!

"Hi, I-I'm Theo," I began. "Um, I'm not a real dog walker."

The tent went silent. Someone dropped a treat bag, and a Pomeranian barked judgmentally.

"I'm sorry, I lied. I said I was a professional because I wanted to impress Riley. I didn't even know how to clip a leash when I started, but the dogs didn't care. They just needed someone to show up. And eventually, so did I."

I snuck a glance at Riley. Her arms were crossed, and her expression was unreadable.

There was a long pause.

Then, laughter and clapping!

Riley stepped forward, took the microphone, and said, "You mean to tell me, you survived Tuna, Larry, and Kevin without any prior experience? That's more impressive than any résumé!"

Her lighthearted joke broke whatever tension in the room, leading to some very unexpected high fives from some of the audience members!

I realized in that moment that I was being welcomed into their fold, and the relief that set in helped me relax for the rest of the event.

Later, Riley and I walked side by side through the park. The sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow over the crowd.

"So... you knew?" I asked.

She nodded. "Not at first. But you asked if kibble was gluten-free. Also, you once referred to a harness as a 'dog vest.' Your nephew also exposed you on the very first day. He posted the video of Pickles bolting on Instagram with the caption: 'Theo: Dog Whisperer or Dog Disaster?' I only saw it 'cause it went viral, and my algorithm picks up anything dog-related."

I must've blushed in several different shades of red at that point! I didn't know that brat put the video up; he never mentioned it, and I wasn't much of a social media person, so I never saw or heard about it.

"Wow, I thought I handled that situation well and with stealth, while everyone was laughing at me online. Okay, but why let me keep going?"

She laughed, looking at me. "Because you tried, silly! And because I like you. I wanted to see if you'd come clean and love how much you actually care for the pups."

Reader, at that moment, I fell harder than the time I slipped on dog poop in front of the UPS guy!

We started dating officially a week later. Now we go for walks with just two dogs each, and we're completely honest with each other.

We are also the co-hosts of a podcast called "The Bark Side of Love." Kevin has a segment called "Kevin's Corner," where he reviews dog movies while Larry barks commentary. Mrs. Nettie is our most loyal fan and once baked us cookies shaped like the toy bones that dogs like nibbling.

And me? I finally adopted a mutt named Dennis. He bites my ankles every morning, but only with affection.

And no, I never lied again. Except that one time I said I liked kale.

Come on, we all make mistakes!

If you enjoyed that story, here's another one about a dog named Rambo who lost his owner and was abandoned by greedy relatives. Rambo struggled to let go of his dead owner until someone else took an interest in him.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.