I was a child labourer, starting my first job at the tender age of seven as the neighbourhood dog trainer. “We teach and train your dogs” was written in large letters on the ping pong table, propped on its side under the shade of the lemon tree. There was no “we” as I was a sole trader back then and the only experienced dog trainer in the area as far as I knew. Getting customers wasn’t easy for the first two hours after I had put out my shingle. Then the penny dropped, literally. I had to tout for business. So off I went, door to door like a travelling salesman, with my best mate Jacko following loyally behind, ready to “sit, roll over, shake hands and bark” at my command.
Curiosity eventually got the better of my neighbourhood mates and they came, one by one, paying their 5 cents, to see what tricks I could teach their canine companions.
After an inconvenient start, when one of the Swift twins got pricked by a thorn from the lemon tree and ran home screaming because it drew blood, the money started to slowly roll in.
I was chuffed and I think Jacko was too. He always loved being the centre of attention.
Yep, I thought to myself, as I looked at the growing pile of 5 cent pieces, there’s a lot of Choo Choo bars and Redskins for a lucky girl in that lot.
Until Geoffrey, the biggest boy in the neighbourhood, turned up, determined to test my credentials. And I didn’t see it coming.
“Make my dog talk,” he said.
The silence that followed was broken by the roar of a jet engine with those words thrashing around and around in my head.
I was defeated. My dog training career was over.
Geoffrey got his money back and the other kids, emboldened by Geoffrey, took theirs too.
But kids are resilient, especially when they’re seven going on eight.
That night, as I was about to fall asleep, my new career came calling.
I was going to be a secret agent. And Jacko, who didn’t know it yet, was going to be my Deputy Sheriff.