What happens in the dog park stays in the dog park. So the saying goes.
Not so much in my neighborhood. Here, dogs are akin to the precious cows that roam the streets of India. Only, ours are on retractable leashes wearing trendy T-shirts and bright fall-colored Ralph Lauren rain coats as soon as it starts to drizzle.
Here, dogs are adored, adorned, elevated and celebrated. We may not know each other’s names, occupations or hobbies, but we can be identified by the fur, approximate age, likes, dislikes, disabilities and abilities of our fine, furry family members.
“Daisy’s dad is at the door.” Daisy is a 9-month-old black Lab who eats wasps, slurps out of the community water spout, and loves golf cart rides and deer dung.
“I just ran into Winston’s mom at the post office. She says, ‘Hi.’” Winston is a 23-pound Norfolk terrier who wears a diaper and is on a strict daily diet of half a carrot, a third cup of kibble and a shot of insulin. He absolutely loves Dateline, his monthly dental chew and scary movies — but is terriffied of thunderstorms. Go figure.
Beau’s mom wants you to call her.” Beau, short for General Beauregard Lee, is an 11-year-old, 40-pound Bichon Frise. He is large for the breed, but the vet says his BMI is a-okay. Though Beau has a tough time walking up stairs, it doesn’t stop him from stealing newspapers, flip flops, car keys and cat poo.
I can only imagine what they say about us.
There goes Atlas and Jules’ mom. I think she may be a writer. Why else would she wander around outside in her bathrobe?”
Atlas is known around the ‘hood as the Rat terrier who pees on other dogs’ heads. He struts his stuff but cowers at falling leaves. He barks at crickets, pine straw, unoccupied vehicles and sudden gusts of wind. Jules is the Jack Russell with poor social skills. She is a grass eater, a flowerbed poo-er and squirrel chaser. Chef, the Chiweenie, is one of those “designer breeds” who never wears the same thing twice in one week and has a licking problem. You can spot us strolling down the street a mile away; a cacophony of howls and growls amongst tangled leashes, swinging mutt mitts and chaos.
Back to dog parks — we actually have one. It is THE place to see, be seen, meet, greet, run, tumble, cocktail and generally hang out. So you can only imagine when a gigantic hole the size of a small meteor crater appeared under the oak tree, everyone was up in arms — as in throwing up their arms and saying it sure wasn’t their dogs because rule No. 6 clearly states no digging allowed — holes cause canine in juries; No. 12 outlines dogs with poor behavior can be banned indefinitely; and No. 44 spells out that the owner is legally and financially responsible for damages.
My friend Alicia’s Rottweiler has a bionic knee, so I know how much they cost. I don’t want to pay to replace one for a neighborhood dog who fell in a hole. I want to send my kids to college instead.
It’s been a month and no one has fessed up, though it is still a topic of discussion around the dog park at Pinot time. I don’t worry about anyone thinking one of mine could be the culprit because all three of them can fit inside of the darn hole and still have room to catch a Frisbee. We stay clear anyway because Rat terriers are bred to dig. We certainly don’t want to encourage any whispers.
There is another old saying out there that good fences make good neighbors. This may be true, but there is one thing no one can deny
Dogs make good neighbors, too.
