the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 482, March 30,
2004
Tuesday’s good
“Clevinger was dead. That was the basic flaw in his
philosophy.”
—Joseph Heller, Catch 22
Dirtying
the water
I admit
I am not the most moderate of people. Storms pass through my psyche as thunder
rolls over the prairies.
It’s no
excuse, mind you. Nor is it a reason for the deliciously vile way I treated the
woman in the park this morning.
As many
of you know, being sort of criminal is a preoccupation of mine. My record
squeaks all by itself, it is so clean. But underneath its blank exterior lies a
sordid world of creeping rot that, if not completely healthy, is certainly a
hell of a lot of fun.
In the
spirit of this, I take my dogs to Loose Park to run with those of other
dissenters who believe a dog should be free to explore galaxies of brown stars
and poop in the woods as the Pope is said to do. My doggies are a friendly
bunch that sniffs those neighboring luminaries (and their own) as if the very
breath of life emanated from those holy orifices. And if they were to find the
Pope in Old Seth Ward’s grove of pin oaks, they would gladly socialize in the
accepted position.
But not
all dog owners feel the same about their dogs. One woman walks a German
shepherd every day in the park on a short, tightly bound leash. It’s obvious
how her animal feels about sniffing ass and shitting with the Pope. But when my
dogs, who only want a little whiff, come within 30 yards, she yanks her poor
dog’s leash and screams, “My dog’s not friendly.”
The dog
sits, tail a-wag, waiting for the moment the woman will let go. It never comes.
She drags the dog away, as she jerks and yells about how unfriendly her dog is.
Now,
all this is fine. Her dog may, in fact, be unfriendly. But I think she has
misidentified the unfriendly party, and she’s using the dog as a defense
against other, friendly dog owners, whose animals are sniffing and pooping and
chasing like mad around the park.
So,
this morning, my pack of three and I are finishing up a little runabout when
they catch wind of the allegedly unfriendly German shepherd on the short leash.
What follows is a verbatim account of what happened, with pertinent
description:
Patrick: “Nina. Nina. Come here. Come on.”
I
was walking toward our car, and was about 20 yards from Nina, the labboxermutt.
Nina laid down about 20 yards from the woman and her German shepherd, whom she
had already begun to rein.
Patrick: “Nina. Nina. Come on. Come on, Auto.”
Auto,
the shepherdhuskymutt crouched in the stalking position (pointed on Nina) about
30 yards from Nina and 40 from the woman’s shepherd. Nikita, our weird, lesbian
husky, was licking Auto’s pee off a tree 100 yards away.
Patrick: “Come on, doggies. Let’s go. It’s time
to go home.”
Woman,
emerging from trees:
“Mister, call your dogs.”
Patrick: “I did.”
Woman: “Control your dogs!”
Patrick:
“I am.”
I
continued to walk toward my car, parked on Summit Street at 54th
Street. But my dogs didn’t move. They really wanted to sniff that butt. The
woman’s shepherd wanted to be sniffed.
Woman: “You need to get your dogs under
control.”
Patrick: “Oh, shaddup.”
Woman: “What did you say? You can’t talk to me
like that.”
I
continue walking.
Woman: “Put your dog on a leash. …My dog
bites.”
Patrick: “So, it shouldn’t be in the park.”
Woman: “I said my dog bites.”
Patrick: “So go the other way.”
Nina
and Auto were sniffing a beagle, and the beagle sniffing them, on the walking path
about 20 yards ahead of the woman.
Woman: “Why should I go a different direction
because you can’t keep control of your dogs?”
I
didn’t say anything. Buddy, the Labrador, showed up in the Chevy SUV with owner
Betsy behind the wheel. Chessie, the black lab, brought her owner Bill in their
Toyota. Jackson, the insane, squirrel chasing Brittany showed up in a new
XTerra with Shelley. All the dogs bounded over the paddock.
Nikita
was in the van by now. Nina, too. Auto was fiddling around with Buddy and had
Chessie in the corner of his eye.
The
woman with the shepherd rounded the bend in the sidewalk.
Betsy,
grabbing Buddy by the collar:
“Oh, no. There she is.”
Betsy
looked panicked.
Patrick: “I told her off. I told her to shaddup.”
Betsy: “Patrick. She’ll call Animal Control.”
Woman,
as she passes, jerking her dog, who’s trying to sniff at all the others: “You people need to keep your dogs under
control. You all need to put your dogs on leashes. That man there said I had to
go the other way because he can’t control his dogs.”
Betsy,
turning to me:
“Patrick!”
Patrick:
“That’s a little out of
context.”
Woman: “Don’t lie. You said that. My dog bites.
Why don’t you teach your dogs to behave?”
Patrick: “Oh, shut up and why don’t you teach your
dog to be nice and friendly? Why don’t you learn to be nice and friendly?”
Woman: “I am nice and friendly.”
Betsy,
quietly: “Patrick…”
Bill: “Yeah! Pat.”
Patrick: “You are not either. Every morning
you’re mean and nasty, and you use that poor dog as an excuse.”
Woman: “Every morning I have to deal with your
aggressive dogs.”
Patrick: “I’m not here every morning. My dogs
aren’t aggressive. But every morning I am here, you’re a pain in my ass.”
Now, I got Auto into the
van and thought about the excess emotion I’d just indulged in. I had broken the
leash law, so she was right and I had no leg to stand on. Regardless, it felt
good to say those things to that woman, to tell her she is unfriendly and that
she uses the dog in extraordinarily antisocial ways.
Oddly,
as I thought about it, I had to admit I admired her. She’s in the park every
day I’m there. She’s lost a lot of weight over the last year, and she walks her
dog—which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of dog owners do.
So
whence the impulse to grind it in, to want to see someone get upset like that?
The
answer was easy. I was just like she. A reasonable person would have gotten the
dogs away from her. And she, being reasonable, would have gone the other way.
But neither of us was like that. She had to lash out at someone she understood
to have more freedom than she. I had to get away with something. Both of us had
to be right.
As it
is, I don’t care much anymore. I would have gathered those dogs up, and I
tried. But when the yelling started, I chose not to apologize. I chose instead
to be fascinated with the way the wound twitched when I stuck my finger in it
because the wound was so much a part of me. I could have power over it, and it
felt good to hurt so bad.
By
Lee Ingalls
It’s
true, my friend.
The
Universe—that hard thing
I’ve
also heard you call Life—
is
playing you like
any
of a billion other fiddles.
But
those are your strings
and
you are the only song
they are singing.
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