Dogs Change Everything

I've been working on two other, more important, blog stories for the last few days, but I just had to stop and tell you this story while it's still fresh, so to speak....

In the 19 years (!) that I've been walking in the park across the street from my house, I've learned some fairly reliable protocols about social interactions. I find these conventions fascinating, and I rarely deviate from them since I'm a rule-following sort of girl. Here's how it works, at least in my park:

• The first time you pass someone on the large circle around the soccer field, you may make eye contact and smile. If they also make eye contact, you may mutter, "Good morning" or "Hello." If they pretend they don't see you, you just smile self-consciously and stay silent.*
• On the second and perhaps the third passes with the friendly people, you smile at each other without speaking. After that, it isn't rude to avoid eye contact if the smiles become tiresome. 
• If you pass the person who ignored you last time, you feign an intense interest in the soccer practice, the basketball game, or the sunset. 
• If you pass the same person on three or four different days, and they seem to recognize you, you may smile and also nod. 
• If you pass the same person on ten or more different days, you may pause next to them and say, "Good morning, how are you?" in a voice loud enough to actually be heard. They will say, "Fine, thank you." 
• If you see one of these familiar people after a long absence, you may say, "Good to see you again." And that will be true. There's something so comforting about the seeing the same familiar faces each morning and evening.
• After the 20th time or so of nodding and smiling or exchanging pleasantries, you may ask the person's name. It's okay if you don't remember their name the next time, because they probably won't remember yours either. 
• If you've greeted each other by name a few times, you may even fall into step with them for a ways and start a real conversation.

*It may be only me who feels self-conscious. Yes, probably. 

All of these rules work very well to help create just the right combination of solitude and human connection. BUT... 

A dog changes everything.

I've noted that if you walk a dog, people will stop and talk to you. Children will ask to pet your dog. Adults will ask you about the breed, the age, the weight. Just like that, you will find yourself having a real conversation with someone you've never seen before.

If both parties have dogs, the conversation can go much deeper while the dogs play, especially if the dogs are well-behaved enough to be trusted off leash. When that happens in the evening, a dog party might ensue. Dogs of all shapes and sizes will chase each other around and roll in the grass while their humans chat about dogs and who knows what else. Laughter will echo in the air over a backdrop of insects' songs. 

Up until recently, I'd never been able to fully join those dog parties, though I hovered wistfully around the fringes and asked about dog names and breeds. One very kind lady--whose name I've forgotten--with an amazingly obedient Dobermann named Matisse always welcomes me in. She teases me about getting a dog, but when others ask why I don't have one, she explains, "She's a cat person." 

As you can imagine, when I got to watch Allyson's Husky, Archer, the week before last, I was quite eager to take him to the park on my nightly walks. I was not keen on picking up poop, so even though he would only be with me for a week, I bought an ingenious poop scooper that is totally contactless. It clicks onto the leash and comes with a compartment for dispensing the bags.

Archer on his first stay back in February

If you've been reading a very long time, you may recall how excited I can get over poop scoopers. After about eight years, I haven't changed a bit, at least in that regard. I must admit that I was rather disappointed when I had no occasion to use the scooper, night after night. I was even more disappointed that there was no sign of a dog party, although several kids did ask to pet my dog and one father admired his beautiful blue eyes.

On his last night with me, I got to join the dog party. Matisse's owner was thrilled to see me with a dog, but Matisse shocked me by snarling at Archer. Up until then he'd seemed to have an affinity for dogs of every size and type. Archer didn't react strongly, but I thought it wise to leave the party early.

Perhaps that encounter had scared the crap out of Archer, because a couple of minutes later, I got to use the new poop scooper for the first time. It was amazing! I unfurled a little bag, opened it wide, and stuffed it into the jaws of the scoop, wrapping the rest of the bag around the outside. Then I just scooped that turd right up, Pacman style. There was no warmth, no squish, and best of all, no smell. At the nearest trashcan, I tied up the ends of the bag, pinched the scoop open, and dropped the bag in.

It worked so well that I even contemplated getting a dog of my own. But then, Archer almost yanked my arm out of socket as he drug me into the brambles chasing something, probably a rabbit. "No!" I shrieked, pulling back on the leash with all my weight as I cast my eyes about for snakes and poison ivy. 

Despite these misadventures, and the piles of hair that he shed around the house, I readily agreed to watch Archer again this week. 

On our first walk last night, I noticed that he was far less reticent about pooping away from home. We'd scarcely reached the circle when he assumed the stance. "Oh, you're all about pooping in the park now, aren't you?" I said, but I wasn't worried since I'd remembered to clip the poop scooper to his leash. I soon found, however, that squishy poop isn't so easily retrieved. The novelty had already worn off.

On tonight's walk, he had other plans for livening up my evening. As we crossed the bridge over the babbling brook that leads to the park circle, I admired a sweet family. The mom held onto a stroller and looked down on her husband and two young children who were throwing rocks into the water from the bank. Absorbed in this heartwarming scene, I forgot to take up the slack on Archer's leash on our approach. 

At the last moment I recognized his intent to sniff the lady and tugged on the leash, but I was too slow. The woman stood with her back to us, in a partial crouch, probably checking on her baby. Without hesitation, Archer plunged his wet nose right up... where the sun don't shine!!

The woman let out a little shriek and stumbled backward--away from the edge of the bridge, thank God. She whirled around to see who had goosed her just as I yanked Archer away.

Our eyes locked on each other, both of our jaws lowered in horror and shock. Time seemed to stand still for a few moments. 

"I-I'm sorry!" I squeaked at last.

She just stood there, still speechless. And then we both burst out laughing. Her husband, who was climbing up to the bridge, joined in. The three of us shared a belly laugh, gasping and snorting. "I'm so sorry," I managed to splutter.

"Cute dog," she replied. 

As I walked away, I kept laughing, so hard that tears were rolling down my cheeks as I passed a man coming from the circle. This was only the second time I'd ever seen him, and we were not even at the head-nodding stage, but I forgot all about the protocol. 

I could see his curiosity over my maniacal laughter, so I stopped next to him and said, "I just have to share the laughter. See that lady over there?" I gestured with my head toward the family, who were still laughing behind me. "My dog just sniffed her butt. He just put his nose right up there," I said, forming a crack between my thumb and fingers and pressing the fingers of the other hand forcefully into it. "Oh my gosh," I said, shaking my head in disbelief and breaking into fresh giggles. 

He smiled and laughed, and went on his way. I felt decidedly self-conscious and rather wished I'd stuck to the protocol. Surely he must think I was crazy.

One minute later I forgot my embarrassment when Archer crouched in the same spot along the circle from the night before. This time, he shuffled around and made three squishy piles. "Archer!" I groaned. "Stop moving around." 

As he danced around, pulling against the leash looped around my wrist, I wrestled out a bag with one hand and clumsily wrapped it around the scooper, wrinkling my nose at the noxious fumes rising into the hot air of the summer evening. As I crouched to scrape up the first pile, I felt him lunge behind me and realized he must be sniffing another hapless stranger. "No!" I yelled as my phone dropped into the grass dangerously close to the poop and I fought to keep my balance.

"I'm sorry," I said to the person behind me. But then I heard familiar laughter. It was Allyson, coming out to meet her friends Morgan and Jacob. I sighed with relief. "Will you take Archer while I..." I gestured to the remaining piles. 

"Sure," she said, taking the leash.

"Unless you want to pick it up."

"Nope," she said decisively. 

"But he's your dog." 

She just shook her head. 

The job took two bags, and there was a lot of smeared residue on the grass that I just had to leave there. "I did my best," I said ruefully as I took back the leash. 

I was just thinking how happy I'd be to give Archer back to Bill when I passed someone familiar: the man I'd told the butt-sniffing story to. He nodded and smiled at me, chuckling audibly.

The second time he passed me, he smiled and asked, "How many more do you have?" 

I figured he must mean how many laps. "This is my last," I replied. "Have a good evening."

"You too," he said warmly. 

As I walked the short distance to the house, I admired the gorgeous sunset and beamed over the memory of the laughter I'd shared with three strangers, and over the way a dog can accelerate you past days or weeks of polite encounters, straight into connections that make you smile and forget your cares. 

Maybe I do need a dog... or at least I should borrow one now and then.

Archer and Arwen last night, breaking the ice with a salesperson who came to sell me solar panels

Doesn't he look angelic?