Pretty much everyone’s had a “fuck this job” moment. Most of us suck up the stress, clock back in, and keep grinding: obedient, unhappy cogs in the bloodthirsty capitalist machine. But not Ryan Lund.
Lund was pulling down close to $200,000 a year in a tech-bro sales gig, spending endless days chasing clients who didn’t need the products he was selling, and lying through his teeth to hit quotas. One day, he just quit. Now, he runs a dog poo removal company called Pup Poop Patrol. And they’re franchising.
Naturally, I had to talk to the guy who ditched the white-collar grind and found paradise scooping steaming mounds of excrement off people’s lawns.
When we spoke, Lund was at home in Texas, wearing light-up cat-ear headphones. “These are my serious headphones,” he informed me, before launching into a story about the strangest thing he’s ever found on the job. “We found a dildo one time in a backyard. And the weird part? It wasn’t on the porch. It was three-quarters of the way into the yard, just lying there like it belonged to the dog.”
VICE: So, who are you and how did you end up picking up dog poop for a living?
Ryan Lund: I’m Ryan Lund. Before sifting through dog yards, I was in SaaS—selling software, tied to Slack and dashboards. I was making nearly $200,000. I quit because picking up dog shit sounded like a better gig.
Walk me through the moment you decided to jump.
I had hit quota the month before—I was actually over, but at that company only managers ever hit quota because they got the inbound sales. The reps were left to grind. A week into the next month they told me, “You did good, but you need to do better.” Their solution was the C shift: more meetings. I’m thinking, I’m outperforming people with the good leads, why do I have to work harder? That was the last straw.
It wasn’t just the work, it was the audacity. I’d lock myself in a room all day, away from my family, trying to sell to tech people who didn’t want to be there. Directors who couldn’t sell got inbound leads because they were buddies with the CEO. I had to grind chasing people who weren’t decision-makers. If I didn’t hit quota, my job was on the line. At some point I thought, ‘Fuck this. I deserve better, and my family deserves better.’
You made nearly $195,000 at one point. That’s not small change.
That’s good money, especially coming from nothing. But money came at a cost. I’ve got five kids. I thought working from home meant I’d see them grow up. Instead, I was locked in a room all day, glued to the phone. Worse than my old AT&T schedule. Weekends weren’t weekends—I was still texting customers. I didn’t take a single vacation until after I quit. Two more kids were born before I allowed myself a break. I got depressed, agoraphobic, started doing therapy and EMDR, and was diagnosed with OCD. At my last company I took mental-health days and they nearly fired me. That killed it for me.
So how did you go from frustrated rep to poop-collection entrepreneur?
I saw a Facebook post from a guy claiming 140 poop clients paying $110 a month. I did the math: 12 grand a month. I thought, ‘Screw it—I gotta try this.’ Within 87 days I had 100 customers. By 160 days, 200. I bought junkyard [Ford] Crown Vics, spray-painted them, expanded into Austin, Houston, and College Station. Two guys work full-time for me now, they make good money and are home by six. That felt better than anything in sales.
Tell me about the first pile you picked up.
The first pile sucked. An old lady with four or five dogs. I’d been clever with a promo—“You get a free scoop.” I cleaned her yard, thought I made $25, then found out it was free. She just wanted the free scoop. Total scam. But that same day four other people signed up and I thought, fuck her—I made $400 in revenue.
What’s your longest, nastiest yard?
We’ve got one lady with 15 Great Danes. I swear she’s sneaking outside and adding to the piles because they’re huge. We go through two trash bags every visit; it takes an hour and a half.
People shit on the idea—“poop patrol”—but you’ve built an actual business. How do you explain that?
A lot of people laughed at first, but they’re the same people who email me asking how to start their own poop business. There’s nuance: some customers I cut deals for—older folks, people with mobility issues, residents in government housing who’d get in trouble if their yards weren’t clean. Some see it as hustle, some see it as a necessary service. Both are true.
Critics say this is just capitalism dressed as community service. Your take?
It kind of is capitalism with bags. I didn’t do it because I love it—I did it to pay the bills. If you’ve got something that provides for your family and builds something that lasts, why not? It’s honest work. You’re not screwing people over.
It’s interesting to hear you frame it as “honest work.” How does that compare to software sales?
In software, I was selling fluff a lot of the time—convincing people a product would change their GTM when it probably wouldn’t. It was squeezing a “yes.” Here? There’s no scam. I show up, I scoop, I take the trash. You can see the work. My team makes good money. We treat customers well. That’s better than being glued to a dashboard, missing your kids.
This gig isn’t glamorous. It smells a lot. But I feel free. And honestly? I’d rather talk about picking up poop than do another two-hour demo with a guy on ketamine with a god complex.
What about the mental health stuff you mentioned?
It helped. I still joke that “Ryan picks up dog shit,” and people laugh. But I bought a Volkswagen in cash, there’s an Audi in the driveway. More importantly, I’ve got time. The room that used to be my office is now my kids’ playroom. I’d rather step over toys than be chained to a quota.
How do you price it? Any surprising economics?
Pricing varies, but people will pay for convenience. The pet services industry has grown, but a lot of money goes to vet bills and premium food. The grunt work is underserved. A lot of folks assume it’s low margin, but with volume and some daily routes, it’s profitable. You can pay workers $20 an hour and still keep margins. And when you get recurring subscriptions, the model becomes reliable.
“I’d rather talk about picking up poop than do another two-hour demo with a guy on ketamine with a god complex.”
What’s next for Pup Poop Patrol?
Growth. More cities. Better systems. I want to be one of the big ones. People scoff now, but in some markets 2,000 customers is a drop in the bucket. The market is massive because everyone has dogs.
Any advice for someone miserable in a “good” job?
Do the math. Don’t romanticize quitting without a plan. But don’t treat your mental health like it’s expendable. I thought more money would fix things—it didn’t. I swapped a good paycheck for something that gives me time and sanity. That matters. If you’re chained to a job that robs your life, find a way out. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it.
The post ‘It Smells But I Feel Free’: Why This Guy Left His Tech Job to Scoop Dog Shit appeared first on VICE.
