Opening in New York & LA on April 22nd.

In Danish with English subtitles. Not rated. 104 min.

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Dog Walks Can Turn Treacherous

Walking a dog is risky. Getting yelled at by strangers is unpleasant and it happens surprisingly often. One sunny afternoon, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Buddy James, and I were enjoying a stroll. My iPhone rang. It was a client. No sooner had I picked up when a middle-aged man came charging up to me, sweat flying off his brow,

“Hey lady, clean up your dog’s crap!” The man’s arms flailed about as he gestured toward a clump on the sidewalk. “GET OFF YOUR PHONE!” he yelled. Hurriedly, I said to my client, “Sorry, gotta go. Ran into a loon.” That client is a fellow New Yorker, and a dog owner, so she understood my predicament immediately—no questions asked.

Dog Walkers Are Sitting Ducks

“What happened to, ‘Excuse me, Miss?” I bellowed at the rabid stranger. He yelled louder. That’s when I lost it. I jutted my face right up to his. We were nearly nose-tip to nose-tip. I shouted, “You f@$#ing psycho!”

Suddenly, he looked terrified and scurried away. I heard him mumbling, “People on their goddamn phones.” I retraced my steps and found the sidewalk clump of evidence of my alleged crime. Upon inspection, it was clear Buddy had not left the mess on the concrete. A mother can discern these things.

I wanted to scream at the vile man but it was too late. And anyway, my loss of composure felt jarring. You see, I only yell once or twice a year. Standing still for a moment, I focused on breathing slower but was Interrupted by a noise. Looking up, I saw two workmen across the street laughing, clapping, and cheering, “F@$#ing psycho, f@$#ing psycho.”

That lifted my mood. With Buddy’s green leash still looped around my wrist, I sent the guys two thumbs up. Just as I was getting ready to walk again, I spotted an older woman in curlers. She was leaning out of an apartment window, right above CVS. “Rude sonovabitch had that coming!” she said.

I retraced my steps and found the sidewalk evidence of my alleged crime. Upon inspection, it was clear that Buddy had not left the mess on the concrete. (A mother can discern these things.)

I just can’t win.

If Buddy goes on a tree, I’m barked at by nature preservationists. Due to my own code of ethics, I make sure Buddy doesn’t go too close to a parked car or bike. Other dog owners let their little darlings lift legs onto flowerbeds. I couldn’t live with myself if I let Buddy do that. If Bud lets loose on a curbside garbage bag, garbage collectors chew me out. The only socially acceptable options left are fire hydrants and the rare, bare spots unoccupied street.

During one stroll towards Madison Park, Buddy stopped to tinkle at an empty bus stop on Fifth Avenue. With forehead and neck veins a-popping, a man with a van drove right up next to us and yelled in my ear, “That’s nasty!”

Not knowing how to respond I said, “I’m sure when you go, it’s nasty too.” But why should I have to defend myself? I’m more courteous than most.

I walk with bottle of water to splash any untidy spot left by Bud. I should be commended on my environmental conscientiousness—I cut grocery bags down into 3 strips for my pooper scooping to reduce use of nondegradable plastic.

In addition, I carry my empty soda bottles outside to leave for those who collect on their five-cent refund. After I place them lovingly into a corner trashcan, I reuse the plastic bag they were carried in for proper public pooper scooping.

Unlike others, I never let my Bud pull me all willy-nilly. We don’t zigzag down the street. I religiously follow Manhattan’s unspoken rule on the sidewalk; sticking to the right side so as not to clog up pedestrian traffic.

I’m not opposed to the pooper-scooper law. It seems fair. However, I vote for a new law to be strictly enforced — a ticket should be issued to anyone who verbally abuses a pooper-scooper.

Written for NBC’s Petside

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