Wednesday, February 20, 2008

A Day at the Dog Park

One of my friends is an avowed animal lover. She lived with me for about 6 months after she got her first cat and her parents wouldn't let her bring him home. Shortly after she moved into her own apartment, she got another cat to keep the first one company. Since then she has also adopted a guinea pig from the veterinary office where she works, set up a fish tank, and taken in a third cat, a stray who stays mostly outside. This young woman can't seem to get enough of animals.

About two months ago she added Terrence to the mix. Terrence, or Mr. T as she likes to call him, is the cutest, most full-of-energy Jack Russell terrier mix. He has changed the equation quite a bit because for as small as he is, he is indefatiguable. He runs and leaps and hops incessantly. He never seems to stop. He is undeniably adorable.... and constantly demands an outlet for all that energy.

So my friend has gotten in the habit of taking Terrence to the dog park pretty much on a daily basis. I went along this week just for fun, and, my, what a scenario! My frame of reference for a "dog park" was something along the lines of a public park or school grounds known to local residents as sort of a gathering spot for dogs and their owners. What I discovered is that "dog park" is a much more official term these days. It's a special, large fenced in area with no grass at all, just a gravelly surface. You enter through double gates with a buffer area in between to avoid any escapees. Dispensers of special biodegradable doggie doo-doo bags are located conveniently around the place, and official park signs list the rules for using the facility. A couple durable-looking picnic tables and a few old balls and toys strewn around complete the picture.

When we arrived around 1:00 p.m., there were 3 women and about 10 or 12 dogs already there. Two of the women were clearly dog-sitters, overseeing several dogs each. The dogs perform quite a welcoming ritual when a new dog arrives involving a lot of barking, jumping, and sniffing until the newcomer is accepted into the group. Then everybody goes about their business. The little shelty goes back to running around and around the lone tree, barking and yelping at the imaginary squirrel high in the branches. The sweet, older black lab lies down in a spot of gravel off by herself, rolls around, and flops out. Some dogs patrol the place, and others hang close to their human looking for love even though they are here to run around and play with their dog pals.

A friend of Terrence's arrives, a surprisingly timid female German Shepard who cowers through the welcoming procedure, shackles raised. She is visibly happy to see Terrence, and even happier once she locates her special ball. She carries the ball around as if it evokes the courage she otherwise lacks. The dogs are a mix of shapes and sizes: an English sheepdog, a doberman, a border collie mix, an older Golden Retriever and a couple younger Golden puppies, and several small dog breeds, too. Everybody seems to know all the dogs by names and quirks.

What struck me about this whole scene was how drastically times have changed with regard to having dogs, taking care of dogs, interacting with dogs. I've known this, of course, but experiencing the dog park dynamics was a graphic reminder. Dogs appear to be fully integrated members of society, with a whole subculture of dogs and their owners or caretakers alive and thriving. It also struck me how easy it was to appreciate and accept differences in dogs. The obvious influence of breed and 'personality' make it a no-brainer to forego judgement about their behavior. If only we could remember to do this with people, too.

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