Dogs in the park
A dampish, muggy morning, the dew on the lawn soaking our feet, the sky overhead cloudy and cool. Despite the wet month, the grass is taking on that late-summer look, with a gold tinge under the green. Where it has been cut, it smells musty, like hay. A good day for a dog walk.
And there were plenty of dogs this morning. We met a pup named Walt, a long legged and friendly soul who wagged his tail frantically and went into the play bow with a wary Riley, who sniffed and circled but didn't bow back. And then after Walt had gamboled away, all legs and tongue, Riley stared after him, recognizing, I think, an opportunity lost.
We watched a woman jog past with her puppy, who clearly had absolutely no idea what the leash meant or what jogging meant or HI! Hi! Hi! what it meant to go in a straight line or Hi! Hi! Hi! not zip this way and that, greeting everyone, suddenly being whipped around by forward momentum Hi! Hi! Hi! and rocketing forward again only to see another dog or another squirrel or another Hi! Hi! Hi!
The woman jogged gamely on. Surely the puppy would eventually tire.
And we saw a woman trudging along the path, sensible shoes, sensible ponytail, sensible knee-length denim shorts, pulling behind her a small red wagon, in which lay, in splendor, an ancient sheltie. The woman walked briskly, looking straight ahead, and the sheltie lay in the folds of a soft beige blanket, head up, eyes bright, looking around.
She glided regally in her litter, looking oddly like Queen Victoria. Maybe it was that lavish fur ruff around her neck.
At the curve in the path, a fellow walker passed by and made a comment that I couldn't hear, and the woman said, in a friendly way, "She can't walk," and trudged on, the wagon rolling smoothly behind.
Dog walks have always seemed to me to serve a number of purposes: they give the dog exercise; they let the dog relieve himself; they allow the dog a chance to sniff and play. This dog, in her wagon, couldn't do any of those things, and so I wondered--why the walk at all?
But then again, why not? It was, as I said, a lovely morning.
Across the bridge, we stopped and watched a red-tailed hawk soar and loop and glide. Not the giant fat one we'd seen in July--that one has been gone for weeks--but a new, sleek one, a young one, I think. The roses around the Schiller statue glowed deep pink against the gold-green grass. A beagle trotted by, on a leash. And then we rounded the bend and headed for home.
Book related news: If you haven't already seen it, click here to read the interview with me that was posted this week on the Nieman Storyboard at Harvard. She asked great questions.
