I smell like shit. Dog Shit.
If yesterday felt like a wake-up call, today was a full-on reckoning. When Tom told us we were heading to “practical training,” I assumed we’d be learning how to use specialized equipment—maybe something related to my environmental science background, like water testing or ecological restoration. I should’ve known better.
The van ride was quiet, aside from the usual conversations in Spanish among the other guys. I sat in silence, staring out the window, trying to mentally prepare myself for whatever was coming. When we pulled up to the dog park, it was already swarming with people—morning joggers and dog walkers. We weren’t given much instruction, just handed our equipment for the day.
Tom went around assigning tasks, and I found myself stuck with two things: power-washing the walkways and dredging trash from the riverbank. It didn’t sound awful at first. Power-washing was at least a machine-based task, something that seemed technical, if not mind-numbing. The dredging? That sounded gross, but manageable.
I started with the power-washing. The machine was loud and unwieldy, kicking up a mist of dirty water as I went. At first, I thought I was doing something productive, watching the grime strip away under the powerful spray. But the deeper into the job I got, the more I realized that I wasn’t just cleaning dirt—I was washing off layers of dog urine, old spills, and things I didn’t even want to think about. The mist that had seemed harmless at first now coated my arms and legs, carrying the stench of whatever had been caked onto those paths for months.
When it came time to rotate i thought what would be worse than this really? Well, i got a bucket and a sponge. And was told to wipe down the bases of lamp posts around the park.
Tom handed me a dirty bucket, a rag, a spray bottle, and a sponge and told me to wipe down the bases of the lamp posts. You know, because the dog piss corrodes the paint. So there I was, on my knees, scrubbing dried, baked-on urine off metal poles while joggers, dog walkers, and happy couples strolled past.
At one point, a woman walking her dog right next to me let her golden retriever piss on the lamp post while I was cleaning it. She saw me there. She didn’t even hesitate. I stopped, stunned, watching the fresh stream hit the metal while she scrolled through her phone, oblivious.
And of course, because this was a public park, people were watching. I could feel their eyes on me as I worked—some curious, some indifferent, a few openly judgmental. A jogger sipped from her water bottle as she passed, barely sparing me a glance. Another dog owner wrinkled his nose and stepped around me like I was just another part of the filth.
It was bad enough just doing it, but then came the ultimate humiliation.
A woman walking her labradoodle stopped next to me. She barely even glanced my way before—plop. She dropped a tied-up dog poop bag right into my bucket like I was just part of the scenery. I froze. Looked at the bag floating in my dirty cleaning water. Looked at her. She didn’t even register me, just walked off, earbuds in, living her best life.
I reached in and fish the thing out with my gloved hands, then walk over to the trash can to throw it away like it was just part of the job. And I guess it was.
By the time i finished doing every lamp post, my knees hurt, my hands smelled like disinfectant and ammonia, and my dignity was somewhere back on that sidewalk, next to a lamp post coated in evaporated dog piss.
Before you know it, they’re already soaked in piss again
Tom called for us to rotate again. My next task? Dredging trash from the riverbank. He handed me a pair of communal waders—yes, communal, as in, shared between thousands workers before me. They smell worse than the dog piss and seems like they were never washed. They were damp when I pulled them on, and I tried not to think about why.
The river was murky, with a thin film of who-knows-what floating on the surface. I stepped in slowly, feeling the squish of mud beneath my feet. The job was simple: wade in, use a rake-like tool to scoop up debris, and dump it into a bucket. At first, it was just plastic bags, beer cans, and the occasional fast-food wrapper. But the deeper I got, the worse it became. I pulled out an old, bloated shoe, its laces tangled in river weeds. A rusted shopping cart, half-buried in the silt. A baby doll missing an arm, its plastic face warped and discolored.
Then came the smell—something putrid, rotting. I hesitated before raking through the debris, only to reveal a mass of soggy, decomposing organic material. Whether it was a dead animal or just years of compacted waste, I didn’t know, but the stench nearly made me gag. I forced myself to keep going, but every second in that water made my skin crawl.
By the time we finished, my uniform was soaked in sweat, my gloves covered in grime, and I reeked of stagnant water and whatever horrors had been lurking beneath the surface. I wanted nothing more than to go home, to scrub off every trace of the day, to pretend for a few hours that I wasn’t here, that this wasn’t my life now.
By 4 p.m., we were finally released. I climbed into the van, silent, drenched in sweat, and unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. I’d never felt more judged, more exposed, or more out of place in my entire life.
This was my life now. Cleaning up after dogs. Cleaning up after strangers. Scrubbing out stains left behind by people who’d never even think about the guy scrubbing them, and a trash picker looking like a hobo.
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