November 1, 2007: When "Issues" is Spelled M-U-S-H-U

Where to begin? Some people call her the "candy lady." Some people just call her "her." It turns out that she is named Maureen. And she is a dominant figure at our dog park, not by any magnetism of personality mind you, but by sheer force. Maureen cuts an imposing figure as she lumbers up the pitch of grass at one end of the park. She wears tight sweatpants and has enormous, how do you say, hindquarters, though she is otherwise seemingly athletic. She has also suited up with a fanny pack brimming with doggy treats, apparently giving rise to her Candy Lady alias.

Maureen's dog is a white, male, 20 pound Shitzu named Chopsticks that bounds up the hill beside her. In keeping with her anglicized dog theme, Maureen has attached a red plastic pig to one end of the leash she has draped around her neck. The pig's name? Mushu pig. Once Maureen has ascended the hill and joined the rest of the dog parkers, she begins her evening ritual. First, she starts slowly swinging Mushu pig back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as if trying to hypnotize any dogs in her immediate vicinity. She then breaks out the "candy" and starts giving doggy biscuits to the surrounding pooches.

And then, as if a switch has been flipped, Maureen starts berating the dogs, accusing them of trying to steal Mushu pig. She also questions their sincerity and lambastes them for only coming to her for the treats - opposed, I assume, to surrounding her because they all really enjoy her company. I have two hypotheses about this behavior. One, Maureen doesn't want the other dog parkers to feel badly that they aren't the ones surrounded by dogs, and so she flips the switch in an effort to explain to everybody why the dogs have flocked to her even though it is completely obvious. Two, she is crazy.

Stay tuned for more on Maureen and Chopsticks...

October 28, 2007: Dogs Riding Hogs

We went to the Doggy Halloween Pawty today and the Hells Angel to your left was clearly the crowd favorite. His owner - wearing similar getup - arrived on a Harley with an attached trailer containing his dog's miniature Harley. When the woman wearing the pink shirt in the picture asked him if he had registered his dog for the costume contest, the owner condescendingly scoffed, "We don't compete anymore."

Ocotber 25, 2007: Retiree Rose

Rose is a ten-year old Chihuahua who, like an increasing trend of boomers, has moved to the city for her golden years. She is spunky grandmotherly-type who disappears in her red knit sweater and throws her entire body into tiny guttural barks. Melissa, a late twentysomething speech therapist, has outfitted Rose in a blinged-out pink rhinestone harness and matching leash clearly intended for a dog half Rose's age.

Before moving to the city, Rose spent her time at Melissa's parents' home and backyard in Hershey, PA, and this sheltered existence is apparent in at least two aspects of her current behavior. First, she barks incessantly at black people (including, according to Melissa, black people on TV) and spends most of her time at the park barking at an African-American woman who seems amused. Melissa is not amused. She is overly embarrassed as she seems to think Rose's reaction reveals something deeper.

Second, Rose has quite an appetite for homeless peoples' food. This is proving to be something of a dilemma for Melissa who is trying to encourage Rose to interact with the other dogs in the park. So, on three occasions today, when Rose stopped barking at the African-American woman and ventured into the park on her own, the following pattern repeated itself: First, Melissa, like the mother of socially withdrawn child hoping the phase will pass, became visibly excited at the prospect that Rose's ten-year stay in her parents' house might not have irrevocably stunted her sociability. This excitement, however, quickly changed to concern as Rose continued past the other dogs and made a break for the half-eaten bucket of chicken next to the napping homeless woman stretched out on a ragged blanket surrounded by all of her worldly possession. This initial pang of concern is followed by Melissa sprinting to capture Rose before she makes off with the homeless woman's dinner. Unfortunately, Melissa is slow to intercept Rose on the third such attempt, which results in Rose getting her nose into the bucket; the homeless woman bitterly complaining, "I guess I can't eat hear anymore!", and Melissa and Rose making a quick departure from the dog park.

The Case of the Missing Thong

As promised . . .

After Ned and his now ex-girlfriend first consummated their love (on their second date), with Max looking on, she could not find her thong. She, not knowing Ned very well, accused him of being a pervert who had stolen her underwear (and, she alleged, several other women's underwear) as some type of conquest souvenir. ed, protesting his innocence from his hands and knees, frantically searched for the thong as his date dressed and stormed out, slamming the door for good measure. Ned's subsequent search efforts were no more successful. However, on an early morning walk two days later, Max solved the mystery. At first fearing that part of Max's small intestine lay in the fresh pile of dog poop on the sidewalk in front the dry cleaners, Ned knelt down to inspect the flesh colored strand and realized that Max had in fact produced the missing thong from the depths of his bowels. Still hoping he could salvage his reputation, if not the possibility of a relationship, Ned picked the shriveled, faded, partially disintegrated undergarment from the warm pile and quickly placed it in his coat pocket, hoping that no one had witnessed his excavation. He then rushed home to hand wash the thong and later called his date to explain the situation. Tbe future ex-girlfriend apparently decided this effort merited a second date and the rest, as they say, is history. The moral of the story? I have no idea. But a pretty good story nontheless.

October 20, 2007: Dog/Parent Relationships 101

Ned is a mid-thirtysomething struggling mortgage broker with thinning hair he has attempted to camouflage by growing to his shoulders. He sports Prada eye glasses, an untucked button down shirt, and the precursor of a paunch; he also off-handedly comments that he is too much of a wuss to ask another dog parker for her phone number. Max, on the other hand, is a muscular, lean, regal looking animal who is clearly the reigning stud of the park. This coupling is a prime of example of my first theory of dog/parent relationships: people select dogs that fulfill some void they feel in their lives.

In talking to Ned, I learn that he has recently broken-up with his girlfriend after covering three-quarters of her mortgage and her daughter's tuition for the duration of their relationship. Apparently sensing that she hadn't quite sucked the bone dry, Ned's ex also demanded that he shell over an additional $500 to cover the "damage" (Ned's quotes not mine) (and by quotes I mean air quotes) Max's leg-lifting caused to one quarter of her back lawn. Although he won't quite come out and say it, it's clear Ned paid the $500.

In exchange for paying this final tax, however, Ned now feels free to regale dog parkers with the story of the missing thong, which I will detail in my next Dispatch.

October 20, 2007: Introductions

After moving into our new apartment, Mia, my one-year old Boston Terrier, and I made our first trip to the neighborhood dog park today. And having surveyed the resident dogs and their owners, it is clear that these overlapping packs deserve careful study in their native environment.

Although my Dispatches will focus on one set of canines and their parents, posts from your dog parks are welcome and encouraged.

Stay tuned . . .