The irony wasn't lost on me as I knelt in Sarah Thompson's backyard, scooping up her golden retriever's waste into a biodegradable bag. Just three months ago, I was debugging cloud monitoring systems at New Relic. Now, I was debugging... well, let's just say different kinds of logs.
It happened on a Tuesday. The calendar invite came through with that ominous title we've all learned to dread: "Important Company Update." As I sat through the all-hands meeting, watching our CEO explain the "necessary restructuring" and "strategic realignment," I felt a strange sense of calm. Maybe I'd seen too many tech layoffs in the news lately, or maybe I'd secretly been waiting for an excuse to try something different.
When my manager's message came through right after, asking for a "quick chat," I knew. Fifteen minutes later, I was former New Relic employee #4721, joining the ranks of thousands of other tech workers who've found themselves suddenly untethered in 2024.
The first week was exactly what you'd expect. I updated my LinkedIn status, reached out to my network, and started applying to other software engineering positions. But something felt off. Each job description I read felt like a copy-paste of my old role. Each coding challenge felt like a chore rather than the puzzle it used to be.
I found myself spending more time walking my neighbor's dog, Charlie, than leetcoding. There was something wonderfully straightforward about it. No standup meetings, no conflicting pull requests, no product managers changing requirements mid-sprint. Just a happy dog, fresh air, and... yes, poop.
It hit me during one of these walks. I was watching other dog owners juggling bags, trying to maintain their dignity while performing the least dignified part of pet ownership. Many of them were busy professionals, just like I used to be. That's when I saw it: an underserved market hiding in plain sight.
I spent that evening doing what engineers do best – research. The pet waste removal industry (yes, that's a thing) is worth over $500 million in the United States alone. My city had only two professional services, both with mediocre online reviews and websites that looked like they were built in the GeoCities era.
I'm not going to pretend the transition was easy. Telling my parents I was leaving software engineering to pick up dog poop professionally was... interesting. My dad, ever the pragmatist, asked if I'd considered therapy. My mom just sent me job listings for three weeks straight.
But here's the thing about hitting bottom in your career – it forces you to examine what really matters to you. For me, it wasn't the prestige of working at a well-known tech company or the ability to drop terms like "kubernetes" and "microservices" into conversation. It was about building something of my own, providing real value to people, and yes, having a job that wouldn't be replaced by AI anytime soon (at least until Boston Dynamics creates a poop-scooping robot).
I approached this new venture the same way I would approach a new software project. I mapped out the MVP (Minimum Viable Poop-scooping), created user stories ("As a busy pet owner, I want my yard cleaned regularly so that my kids can play safely"), and even built a proper tech stack for scheduling and customer management.
The startup costs were surprisingly low compared to launching a software product. A few basic tools, liability insurance, and a simple website I built myself. No venture capital needed, just a willingness to get my hands dirty (through multiple layers of gloves, of course).
I called it "ByteScoop" – a little software humor for my former colleagues. My first customer was Sarah, the golden retriever owner. She found me through a neighborhood Facebook group where I'd posted my services. Within a month, I had ten regular customers. By month three, I had to start a waiting list.
The work is physical, yes. Sometimes, when I'm out there in the rain, I do miss my climate-controlled office and Herman Miller chair. But there's something incredibly satisfying about providing a tangible service that makes people's lives better in an immediate, measurable way.
Here's the real kicker – I'm making more money now than I did as a software engineer. Not from the poop scooping itself (though that pays the bills), but from the software I built to manage my business. Other pet waste removal services started asking to license it. Turns out, writing code is a lot more enjoyable when you're solving a problem you personally understand.
I don't know if I'll be scooping poop forever. But I do know that getting laid off from New Relic was possibly the best thing that could have happened to me. It forced me to think differently about my career, my definition of success, and what it means to build something valuable.
So if you're reading this from your own "Important Company Update" meeting, remember – sometimes the best line of code is the one you don't write. Sometimes it's the line you draw in the sand, marking the beginning of something entirely new.
And yes, my LinkedIn profile now reads "Chief Waste Officer at ByteScoop." The recruiters don't quite know what to make of that one.
