Anna Garsten Photo
Lucca (at right) greets his cousin, Sora, another Italian water dog, who arrived at the park with her “grandmother.”
On the way to the dog park one recent afternoon, I watched a speeding car hit a highway barrier and spin in a 360-degree revolution. The driver, one of many daft people at the wheel of late, managed to total only his sedan and not any eyewitnesses. Then he crept off to the exit on his rims, smoke billowing from the hood, and succeeded in reminding all of us how close we come every day to profound misfortune
On the way to dog park one early morning, the first November frost became apparent. And at the park itself, this caused a stir among those of us who figure, if our calendar math is correct, it will be a long time until the spring of 2022 without even the prospect of flying to Florida on Avelo, the new airline that saved Tweed from irrelevance.
On the way to the dog park one late afternoon, I snapped off the news on the radio, frustrated by the bunkum coming out of the nation’s capital, and by general American mendacity. As much as Covid-19 became a pandemic, so did the disease of rampant hostility. Even a reader of this very news site can see the enmity in some reader comments under many pieces.
But at the dog park on these days and so many others, I see a different society. No sooner do these four-legged creatures get to the gate, when they demonstrate their devotion to living in the moment, shutting out the past and future. Finding in every fellow creature delight and adventure, and nothing else but now.
It’s as if they all heard the recent Colin McEnroe show on WNPR on the subject of nothing. And the power of nothing. Unless it’s something. Or some such, if I understood anything.
“What are you so happy about?” I yell to Lucca. But he does not respond. He is in a state of constant pleasure at any of the parks we visit, even when a ruffian – and there are a few of these – knocks him over or nips at his floppy ears or humps him, which, after all, is only fair as he has become something of a master at that public obscenity.
My fault, of course. My failure as a trainer. Actually my wife’s failure. (Just kidding, Dear.)
To be sure, I do admonish this little Italian pooch for such behavior. But he doesn’t sulk. He doesn’t decide, in that muffin-shaped noggin of his, “Boy, have I had it unfairly lately. Meals cut from three to two each day on the advice of my veterinarian, and having her stick that stupid light into my ears to see if they’re still infected.” Lucca doesn’t threaten to bring a lawsuit complaining that I throw the ball for him to fetch only 925 times a day instead of the preferred 1,000. He just plays.
The playmates are legion. I would list the breeds, or the mixtures, but I am a novice at this canine stuff, getting a dog, by the evidence, only once every 77 years. What I do know is rampant joy when I see it. And I have to go to the dog park to find it.
Lucca’s master’s footwear, redesigned by … Lucca.
Lucca runs as if he is a thoroughbred, though he doesn’t measure up compared to some quicker dogs. As the cranky but quotable 1950s manager of the Yankees, Casey Stengel, used to say about a slow player, “He runs too long in one place.”
Meanwhile, back in the human sector, the dreaded Covid business has gone to our heads, has cramped us, has knocked us off our stride.
Losing our access to art and reason, we have also mislaid a sense of common humanity amid political insanity responsible for the loss of tens of thousands of lives.
I have tried, with little success, to argue that America has seen inanity and revolution before and survived. Most of my peers are convinced, and for apparently good cause, that it is better now to be an old person – and suffer the demeaning forces of aging – than to be among those youngsters who will inherit our mess.
In the crazy world, only our pets fear none of this.
In Lucca’s head there is only, “I’m hungry, but maybe the tongue of this shoe will sate me,” and “Let’s go to the dog park.”
Unlike me, he doesn’t have to drive three times a week to cardiac rehab, on the way perhaps being stung by a driver whose license should have been stripped years ago, or having to endure the endless posturing of evil men and women in “public service.”
He is just Lucca, who has dozens of pals and no fear of the future.
As a Russian spy in a John LeCarre novel replied, when asked if he is worried about what will happen to him when he is found out, “Worry? Would it help?”
I admit here that I’m showing my own intolerance even as I argue for less of it. But then, as in other measures, not all intolerance is equal. Some is intended to rip us apart, to undermine the values that make our form of government, economy and way of life possible.
And while I’m at it, I’ll admit too that canines, for whatever their merits, have never developed lifesaving vaccines or created great art.
What they have done, however, is remind us of the value of carpe diem.
So, today, go out to the people park. Breathe the bracing air. And say something tolerable to someone. Tomorrow can wait.