The email arrived on a Tuesday. It was sterile, corporate, and stripped my professional life down to a single, devastating paragraph. I had been laid off. The silence that followed the click of my laptop shutting down was the loudest sound I’d ever heard. My apartment, once a cozy refuge from the hustle of my creative agency job, suddenly felt like a cage. For days, I existed in a gray fog, my world shrinking to the four walls around me and the endless, numbing scroll of other people’s perfect lives online.
My only companion in this self-imposed exile was Barnaby, my three-year-old Golden Retriever. Barnaby, whose entire worldview consisted of squeaky toys, unsanctioned naps on the couch, and the unwavering belief that every walk was the greatest adventure of all time. While I was drowning in uncertainty, he would pad over, rest his heavy head on my knee, and look at me with those deep, brown eyes as if to say, “It’s okay. The world is still full of good smells.”
He was my anchor. His routine became my routine. His need for walks forced me out of bed and into the sunshine. His goofy, uncoordinated attempts to catch a ball in mid-air were the only things that could coax a genuine laugh out of me. I started taking pictures of him, not for anyone else, but for me. It was a way to focus on the one pure, uncomplicated source of joy in my life.
A Digital Scrapbook for an Audience of One
One afternoon, I captured a photo that felt different. Barnaby had fallen asleep on the living room floor, his favorite worn-out tennis ball tucked under his chin, one floppy ear flipped inside out. He looked so peaceful, so content. In a moment of impulse, driven by a need to create something, anything, I opened Instagram. I created an account: @BarnabyTheGoodBoy.
There was no strategy. No goal. My only intention was to build a digital scrapbook, a small, sunlit corner of the internet dedicated to him. It was a place to park the happy moments, to shield them from the gloom that had settled over everything else. The first posts were simple: Barnaby with his head cocked to the side, Barnaby covered in mud after a trip to the park, Barnaby staring longingly at my sandwich.
My first followers were my mom, my sister, and a couple of friends who knew I was going through a hard time. The comments were sweet and simple. “What a cutie!” “That face!” Each notification was a tiny ping of connection in my quiet world. For the first time in weeks, I was sharing something not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I was rediscovering a flicker of my old creative self, writing captions that tried to capture Barnaby’s imagined inner monologue—a mix of profound thoughts on squirrels and dramatic laments about the emptiness of his food bowl.
Slowly, something shifted. I started following other pets on instagram, and they started following me back. A Corgi in California. A trio of cats in the UK. A rescue Pitbull in Florida. We were a strange and wonderful community, a global network of people who understood that a pet isn’t “just an animal.” We spoke a common language of paw prints, head tilts, and zoomies. Commenting on their photos and celebrating their milestones became a part of my day, pulling me further out of my own head.
From Goofy Photos to a Growing Community
The account grew slowly, organically. Ten followers became fifty, then a hundred, then a thousand. I found my rhythm. I realized the photos that resonated most weren’t the perfectly staged portraits, but the beautifully imperfect, authentic moments. The video of Barnaby trying to figure out how a sprinkler works. The photo series of him “helping” me do laundry, which mostly involved him stealing socks and parading them around the apartment.
I was telling our story. A story of quiet days, of finding joy in the small things, of the unwavering bond between a lost human and her very good dog. My captions became longer, more personal. I wrote about how Barnaby’s schedule gave me structure when I had none, how his presence calmed my anxiety during sleepless nights.
The turning point came on a rainy Saturday. I was feeling particularly low, and to cheer myself up, I decided to bake. Barnaby, ever my loyal supervisor, sat on the kitchen floor, watching my every move. I accidentally dropped a dusting of flour, and it landed right on his wet nose. He sneezed, sending a puff of white into the air, and then looked at me with an expression of pure, comical confusion. I grabbed my phone and filmed him as he licked the flour off his nose, his tail thumping against the cabinets.
I edited the clip, set it to a jaunty piano tune, and posted it as a Reel with the caption: “Head baker is taking his quality control duties very seriously.” I thought nothing of it and went about my day.
The next morning, my phone was buzzing uncontrollably. The video had gone viral. It had tens of thousands of views, then hundreds of thousands. My followers had jumped from two thousand to ten thousand overnight. My DMs were flooded with messages from people all over the world. “This made my day.” “I was having a terrible week, and this made me smile so much.” “Barnaby is a star!”
I sat on the floor, reading the messages with tears in my eyes, while the subject of all the adoration snored softly at my feet. It was overwhelming and incredibly moving. My small, personal project had touched people. The joy I found in Barnaby was now a shared joy, radiating out into the world. It was no longer just my digital scrapbook; it was a community built around love for a goofy, flour-dusted dog.
The First Taste of Success (And Organic Dog Treats)
With the new followers came a new kind of attention. A few weeks after the video went viral, I received an email with the subject line: “Collaboration Inquiry for Barnaby.” It was from a small, family-owned company that made organic dog treats. They loved Barnaby’s account and wanted to send us a package of their products in exchange for a post and a few stories.
I was stunned. And, admittedly, a little suspicious. Was this real? Was I “selling out” my dog? I spent an hour researching the company. They were legitimate, with stellar reviews and a mission I believed in. Their treats were made with ingredients I’d happily give Barnaby anyway. The thought of earning money—even in the form of free products at first—from something that had started as a form of therapy felt both thrilling and terrifying.
I said yes.
When the box arrived, I felt a surge of professional pride I hadn’t experienced since my layoff. This was a creative brief. A project. I planned the photoshoot with the care of a seasoned art director. We went to Barnaby’s favorite park at golden hour. The photos weren’t just of a dog with a bag of treats; they told a story of a perfect afternoon, of reward and happiness. I wrote the caption with honesty and care, making it clear that this was a product we genuinely loved.
The brand was thrilled. A week later, they offered me my first paid partnership: $150 for a dedicated post. It might as well have been a million. Holding that check in my hand was a validation I desperately needed. It wasn’t just money; it was proof that my creativity had value. It was income I had generated on my own terms, through a project born from love, with my best friend by my side.
That first deal opened the door to others. A durable toy company. A beautiful, handcrafted leash maker. An orthopedic dog bed brand. I was selective, turning down more offers than I accepted. The rule was simple: if I wouldn’t spend my own money on it for Barnaby, I wouldn’t promote it. The account’s authenticity was its heart, and I was fiercely protective of it. The side hustle grew, not into a fortune, but into a steady, meaningful stream of income that covered all of Barnaby’s expenses and then some. It gave me a financial cushion and, more importantly, it rebuilt my shattered confidence piece by piece.
More Than Just a Side Hustle
It’s been two years since I created @BarnabyTheGoodBoy. I have a new job now, one that I love, but the Instagram account remains my passion project and a cherished part of my life. It’s a side hustle, yes, but that term feels too transactional for what it truly is.
It’s a testament to the healing power of a pet’s love. It’s a community of kind-hearted strangers. It’s a living portfolio of my creative skills, reborn and reshaped. Most of all, it’s a celebration of my bond with Barnaby. Every photo, every video, every caption is a love letter to the dog who sat with me in the dark and patiently waited for me to find the light again.
People often ask me for tips on how to grow their own pets on instagram accounts, how to go viral or land brand deals. I tell them the truth: I don’t have a secret formula. The magic wasn’t in an algorithm or a hashtag strategy. The magic was in a goofy, flour-dusted dog and a human who needed to remember how to see the joy right in front of her.
The side hustle wasn’t the goal; it was the beautiful, unexpected consequence of sharing that joy with the world. The greatest reward was never the paycheck. It was, and always will be, the weight of a heavy head on my lap, reminding me that the world is, indeed, still full of good smells.
