Gigi, one of the late-afternoon dog walkers of the 110th dog run, greets me as we both find ourselves standing at a streetlight and trading Smiles of recognition before falling into synced steps. Some people get competitive, but I don’t mind Gigi. She’s cool. She’s wearing her City College sweatshirt underneath her open winter coat. Most dog walkers in this area are college students or what I like to call Aspirers. (People who moved here to pursue comedy, writing, theater, TV, and need to make ends meet every month until they make it big or move back home.)

“I already dropped them off. I’m just going home to change and then headed back to school.”

“School? It’s almost six!”

“FATE has strict extracurricular requirements,” I bemoan. “Class doesn’t actually end when the four p.m. bell rings. The computer labs and art facilities are open until, like, eleven. It’s dystopian.”

“Jeez,” Gigi says, not even bothering to hide her disgust. “No wonder all those little bundles of privilege go on to rule the world. Present company not included.”

Oh, make no mistake: I fully plan to rule the world, Gigianne. The Haltiwanger dynasty is a House on the rise.

“Is that a new T-shirt?” she asks, pointing.

“Maybe?” I shrug. “I, um, I have a box of them. They don’t pay us well, but they keep us well stocked in swag.”

She suspiciously narrows her eyes but keeps focused on her own set of leashes. Gigi likes to triple-book her dogs, which is too dangerous for me. The Berjaouis would have a heart attack turning a corner to find Buddy entangled with other dogs.

“God, I have to get my toe through those Uptown Updogs doors,” Gigi continues as we keep walking toward the Wyatt, my apartment building. “My best clients got priced out of the neighborhood, and I’m not going to freaking Queens. Did you tell them about me?” Gigi presses, and I start to feel bad. It’s not the first time she’s asked me.

“I did,” I lie. “The boss isn’t hiring at the moment. Says the pile of prospects is yay high.”

“Yeah, the website says they’re full. You lucked out.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you when I can,” I say, turning toward the Wyatt’s lobby. “I promise!”

Sorry, Gigi. There’s no central Uptown Updogs office. The entirety of Uptown Updogs exists on my laptop.

You see, for all the Mrs. Poneches of the world, people still love the safety of a faceless corporation, as opposed to a random kid on Craigslist—especially when it comes to their dogs. And I say this as a former random kid from Craigslist who could barely rub three dogs together.