The Unleashed Life of Brenda Barkley

Brenda Barkley was Kamloops’ one-woman dog-walking empire, part chaos coordinator, part canine therapist, and 100% personality. She moved through the world with the confidence of someone who had already wrestled a Saint Bernard into a bathtub and lived to tell the tale. She was a walking force of nature in neon pink socks and sandals and a reflective vest, powered by espresso, sarcasm, and an unshakable belief that she could handle absolutely anything.

Her hair was a mass of unruly chestnut brown curls that seemed to have their own opinions about humidity, gravity, and personal space. She had the kind of presence that entered a room three seconds before she did: a booming laugh, the kind that sounded like she’d just downed a shot of whiskey and smoked a pack of American darts, jangling keys on her hip, arriving in a cloud of coconut-scented dry shampoo. Her wardrobe was a riot of color—tie-dye leggings, a fanny pack big enough to smuggle a corgi, and a T-shirt that said “Leash Leader, Treat Dealer.”

Every morning, she climbed into her beloved van, the Loops ‘n Leashes Express, a slightly battered, decal-covered, windowless Ford that smelled like equal parts wet dog, optimism, and beef jerky. The side doors stuck, the stereo was permanently tuned to a 90s hits station, and the air freshener had given up years ago.

Brenda didn’t drive the van. She commanded it—one hand on the wheel, the other holding an iced coffee the size of a fire hydrant. She’d roll up to each stop, honk twice, and yell, “All aboard the Bark Bus! Let's roll out doggies! Bus is leaving!” Dogs of all shapes and sizes piled in like kids on a field trip from heaven and hell combined. By 9 a.m., it looked like a fur-covered clown car, and Brenda loved every minute of it.

Brenda’s clients were a breed of their own. There was Linda, who made Brenda tell her Shih Tzu daily affirmations.

“You are powerful. You are loved. You are not fat, just fluffy,” Brenda would recite, deadpan, in front of judging neighbors.

Then there was Bob, who spritzed his Great Dane with “moon water charged under Virgo energy.” Brenda just shrugged and said, “Whatever keeps him from peeing on my tires, Bob.”

Her favorite was Gladys, an 82-year-old widow who paid Brenda in banana bread and conspiracy theories about cats running the government. Brenda kept the banana bread and nodded respectfully.

One warm Tuesday morning, Brenda pulled up to Centennial Park with her pack of eight: seven dogs and one chihuahua named Zeus, who had the self-esteem of a prizefighter and the body mass of a croissant. The morning was perfect—sunny, calm, and full of promise. Then came the shouting.

A scream cut through the morning air like a fire alarm. Down by the riverbank, a woman in yoga pants, in a sheer panic, was sliding helplessly through the deep mud. One wrong step on the slick edge and splash—she was in. The Thompson River was running wild from the spring melt, full of grit, glint, and a current that could drag a moose off its feet — or at least a very unlucky yoga enthusiast. The sinking woman’s arms flailed as the current yanked her downstream. Her hat spun off and vanished. She gasped, clawing at the water, eyes wide with pure, cold fear.

Joggers stopped mid-stride. A couple on the beach froze with matching Frappuccino's halfway to their mouths. One guy pulled out his phone—because of course he did. Everyone stood rooted to the spot, mouths open, brains buffering.

Everyone except Brenda Barkley.

Brenda didn’t freeze. She didn’t think. She didn’t even put down her iced coffee. She tossed it to the ground, yelled “Hold my treat pouch!” at a bewildered Sheppard, and took off like a one-woman rescue squad in tie-dye leggings. Her sneakers slapped the dirt path, mud splattered her calves, and her curls bounced like battle flags. “Oh for crying out loud,” she muttered between breaths, “it’s barely 10 a.m. and I’m already saving lives in Crocs with socks.”

When she reached the river’s edge, she didn’t hesitate. Years of wrestling uncooperative Labradoodles had prepared her for this moment. Brenda grabbed her tangled bundle of leashes, clipping them together into a makeshift lifeline with the speed of a rodeo queen. “Hang on, lady! The Loops ‘n Leashes Rescue Division is on the way!”

Then she planted her feet, leaned back, spun the leash lasso around her head three times and let it fly. Rodeo-style. With a dramatic flick, she hurled the leashes out toward the woman, who grabbed them just as the dogs on shore started barking like they were in a motivational montage. Biscuit the retriever pulled. Doug the bulldog grunted moral support. Brenda dug in her heels, leaning back and yelling, “Don’t you let go, sweetheart! I didn’t pay for this sports bra for nothing!”

By some miracle—or possibly just Brenda’s sheer force of will—the drowning woman made it safely to shore. People cheered. Zeus barked like he’d done the saving himself. Muffin the poodle celebrated by immediately trying to bury Brenda’s sandal. Paramedics arrived to find Brenda drenched, her curls inflated to twice their normal size, holding a coffee cup full of river water and saying, “See? Not all heroes wear capes!”

That day, Brenda Barkley became a local hero. The paper ran a photo of her, dripping wet and grinning like a maniac, under the headline: “Dog Walker Rescues Woman with Leash Rope.” The city loved her. Kids waved when they saw the Loops ‘n Leashes Express coming down the street. Someone made a Facebook fan page called “The Leash Lady of Kamloops.” A local bakery even released a new pastry in her honor—the “Barkley Bun,” - cinnamon and chaos in equal measures.

Brenda didn’t let it go to her head. She still showed up every morning, wrangling dogs, sipping her iced coffee, and yelling, “Let’s move our mutt butts! Mama’s got biscuits to earn!” When people asked her why she kept doing it, she’d shrug, flash a grin, and say, “Dogs are easy. It’s their owners that’ll drive you to drink.”

And with that, she’d crank up Spice Girls, gun the Loops ‘n Leashes Express down the street, and head straight into another day of barking, chaos, and heroism—Kamloops’ loudest, funniest, and most lovable dog supporter.

Credit: Thanks to "Heidi the Westsyde Dog Walker" who was the inspiration for this story.