Buffalo Wings: Serendipity with The Shepherds

It has been a very long time since Duncan and I have encountered The Shepherds on our walks so I was surprised this morning to come face to face with them once again, only this time the outcome was completely unexpected.

We were playing fetch on the shady side of the park, staying under the tall elms that grow above the lower soccer field. The morning was hotter than usual and Duncan was feeling it, panting and laying down to roll in the grass clippings. He lost interest quicker than usual and instead became fixated on sniffing out the goodies leftover and discarded in the grass from yesterday's sun-worshippers. Just as I laid down next to him I noticed The Shepherds not far away. We have been respectful and courteous to each other since our showdown that dark night several years ago, keeping far away from each other, nodding politely and leashing our dogs as we pass one another. I leashed Roo and stood up to move away but Duncan, always far wiser than me, turned and trotted right in their direction. When I pulled on his leash and said no, he bore down against me, flashed me a look as though to say, "trust me," and pulled me after him. I was nervous but he has yet to steer me wrong so I followed, reeling in the leash and commanding him to heel as we approached the man and his two dogs.

"Good morning," I called.

Mr. Shepherd leashed his dogs, one of them a dark puppy with enormous feet and a too-big tail, fluffy and black and longer than his body. "Good morning," he replied tentatively. After all, none of our conversations have been positive and he was as nervous as I was.

We made small talk for a bit and I asked about the puppy. All those years ago there had been two mature shepherds but Enzo, the male, died just before Christmas and Bodi, the puppy, was a new gift to his wife. Bodi was playful and loveable, nipping at Duncan's ears and rolling in the grass at his feet, but Jay, the large female, was still aggressive and unsure of our presence.

I don't remember exactly how it came up but Mr. Shepherd said that he'd just returned from Buffalo where he was born and raised.

"I'm going there in a few days!" I exclaimed. He asked if I was from there so I explained about Kevin's father's memorial service and meeting his family and how I'd only passed through Buffalo on a train twenty years ago on a trip to visit April in Boston. He asked if we were planning to visit Niagara Falls, which is where his family now lives.

"Of course!" I said. "We're really excited about it!"

"Oh, that's great. It's a pit, a real shit-hole on the American side," he said, "But you have to stop and eat at Viola's! They have the best sandwiches! Don't get anything except the double steak and cheese. You'll thank me later. And if you have time, go to The Como! They have the best Italian food you'll ever eat!"

"Viola's and The Como," I repeated. "Got it!"

"And be sure to try beef on a weck. And don't shy away from the horseradish!"

We talked for nearly an hour about Buffalo and Niagara Falls and then about our dogs, all of whom were laying in the grass, Duncan minding his own business, Bodi still struggling to latch onto one of Roo's ears, and Jay batting at our shadows on the ground. We laughed and exchanged stories and shook hands when it was time to go. I still didn't get his name but I'm sure we'll meet again, next time under far better circumstances than in the past.

It felt good walking home afterward, grinning ear to ear, which puzzled Ken, who was sitting on the patio sipping his coffee and watching us when we arrived home. I explained the story to him and we both marveled at how The Universe has a way of giving us what we need exactly when we need it. Forgiveness, like feathers, come in the most surprising shapes, at surprising times.

A Marked Man

I was late getting home. First I had my boot camp class right after work, then I was forced to stop by the store to grab the pack of Nutter Butters I've been craving all week, and then, because I didn't go yesterday, I had to run to Hero's to pick up food for Duncan. By the time I got home it was dark and Duncan was more than ready to walk.

It was a lovely night, warm and windless. The sky was deep purple, tinged with city-light orange on the horizon but clear and starry deep in its middle where it counts most. The elms, white and stark, and almost completely naked, rose up around the park's perimeter like giant skeletal hands pointing out the lowering Dipper and returning Orion. Far to the north, and just beginning to peek over the western mountains, is the front that brought sleet and snow to southeast Idaho this morning, the same one that will make tomorrow cold and wet. But tonight was perfect and even though my legs were already stiffening up and I desperately needed a shower, I didn't mind an extra long walk with Roo around the baseball diamonds, up to the lake, and then back down to see the bunnies.

Not long into our walk, though, we ran into The Shepherds, who have formed an alliance with every other shepherd and their companion who walk the park. They travel in an enormous pack, sometimes exceeding six or seven dogs, not all shepherds but almost all of whom are big and off leash. So far none of the other dogs have been hostile, but I still feel nervous when our paths cross, especially since it's obvious they've all been told who I am.

The pack split up, but one shepherd and a poodle remained. They trotted up to us and immediately leaned into me when I knelt down to pet them. Duncan sniffed each in turn while both dogs happily licked my face and hands, sniffed my pockets for the organic wild boar treats I keep in there, and doted on me. Roo paced nervously around us, trying to step in, trying to win back my attention, but when that didn't work he did the only thing he could thing of: he raised his leg and pissed all over me.

Not them. Not the cinnamon shepherd who smelled like lavender and wanted nothing more than to press herself against me while her companions watched. Not the black poodle, who kept thrusting her Frisbee into my hand in the vain hope that I would toss it for her to chase after.

No, Duncan stood right next to me and let fly with a hot stream of urine, which zigged up my rib cage to my neck, zagged across my arm and chest, and then dribbled down onto my legs.

Both dogs instantly backed away and Duncan moved right in, rolling into me, pushing his face into my legs and sliding as much of his body against the dry side of me as possible.

He is not mine. We are not each others.

I am his.

Point made.

Balls

I could have been killed--or at least seriously wounded--while my best friend pranced around gaily, his tail wagging as I floundered in the tall grass, my last breath spent calling for help.

The Run, that narrow strip of land at the back side of our apartment complex which borders the golf course, is not all frolicking dragonflies and dew-sprinkled purple flowers. The morning and evening sun is faint but sweet and the silence is welcome as I trudge along behind Duncan as he snorts through the thick hedges, chasing squirrels up trees and batting at the honey bees who hover over the wild daisies. It's a beautiful little spot which ends at The Glen, where we toss a tennis ball or lay on the hillside watching the clouds drift lazily by above the aspens, but it's more wild and dangerous than I'd ever considered.


This afternoon while Duncan danced against the side of an elm in search of a squirrel who'd only narrowly escaped his clumsy bounding, I stood off by myself, a leash in one hand, a doggy bag in the other, softly singing Nat King Cole's "Nature Boy" and watching the sun sprinkle across the whispy grass and knotted tree trunks. Just when I'd reached that part of the song about the boy being "a little shy and sad of eye but very wise," I heard a strange popping noise in the tree above my head, sharp and fast like a brisk knock at a door. I looked up, momentarily dazzled by speckles of sunlight through the thinning elm leaves and saw the source of the disruption.

I stepped aside as a golf ball ricocheted through the branches and landed heavily against a rolling root, bouncing once before pitching through the grass where it struck the toe of my shoe and finally came to a stop. Duncan immediately lost interest in the squirrel and scooped up the ball in his mouth. It was not the first he's claimed on our walks through The Run--I have a drawer full of the things despite the fact that I don't let him play with them. I reached for him but he danced away and I chased after, finally pulling the sloppy wet thing from his mouth and tucking it into my pocket.

A moment later a second ball crashed through the trees, this one landing directly where I'd been standing only moments before. Duncan lunged for it, but I'd leashed him and pulled him quickly away. As we jogged back home, a dragonfly hovering just over my shoulder, I thought of all the balls we've recovered over the summer, the ones we've stumbled upon without giving the slightest thought as to where they came from, as though garden gnomes dropped them in the wee hours of the morning with the hope that we'd find them. Or the mornings I've sat at my desk nursing a cup of tea while Bob Dylan, Neko Case or The Old Crow Medicine Show played on the stereo, the cats sprawled at my feet in the sunshine, our heavy and well-earned peace rudely broken by the sudden thump of something striking the building not far from my window, a loud thumps that scatters the cats and shakes my art, makes my hand tremble around my mug while Roo whines and peeks meekly out the window.

I thought Gil and The Shepherds were the most we had to contend with. Nope, now we have to worry about golf balls. Killer golf balls raining from the sky.

Rat Dogs & Fluff

I am not a lover of all dogs. Not by a long shot. I try, and every dog gets the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes even I have to draw the line. Take for instance The Shepherds who menaced us in the park last year, or The Hyenas who live right across the hall, an angry looking duo made up of a squat gray Dalmatian with red eyes, bowed fore legs and tall, wide shoulders, and her sister, a white Canaan, dwarfish and vaguely Shepherd-looking. Both growl and froth at the mouth each time they see or hear us coming, which is quite often. They moved in late last Spring and their companion––a man who is eerily friendly one moment and completely indifferent the next––and I have spent much of our walk time avoiding one another. They are the kind of dogs who squeeze their heads through the railings on their patio and begin yowling and foaming at the mere sight of anyone, or climb onto the low window sills to scratch and bark and smear the glass with spittle each time Duncan and I venture out late at night for one last bathroom stop. I've been told they're very friendly, but only after they establish dominance over every other dog they come in contact with. Needless to say, we steer clear.

More often than not, though, the troublemakers are the Rat Dogs and the small fluffy four-legged rugs who sniff and pull and yip excitedly. When we first moved here the complex seemed a big dog haven, with countless Boxers and Labs, a few Mastiffs, innumerable Goldens, even a Saint Bernard and a Great Dane. Now, however, I feel as though we've been invaded by rabid rodents and aggressive living things no bigger than the hairballs coughed up by my cats, toy poodles, Shiz-Zus and Chiuauas, Schnauzers, Pekingese, Maltese and Jack Russell Terriers, all whom strain toward us on their leashes as we pass, barking in the highest of pitches which echo and make a peaceful walk all but impossible. It is rare that a dog doesn't like Duncan and he loves almost every one we pass, but its become apparent that the big dogs, who are content to exchange butt-sniffs and begin the easy business of play are our friends, while The Rats and Fluff are not. They wear their Napoleonic Complexes of their collars and rush at us, jumping and lunging as though defying the laws of the universe which created them, eager to prove they are not just paper weights or dust mops imbued with precious life. They are angry little things and eager to share it and I am tired of watching my big-hearted wonderful dog get nipped at on the cheeks or throat as he attempts to maneuver around their insane and wicked dancing attacks.

Just this morning a woman somehow lost control of of her Dachsund, which chased after us, leapt into Duncan's face and nipped at his cheeks until he backed himself between my legs and hid behind me while I leaned down and scolded the obnoxious little brute. The woman, who was slow to approach us, actually seemed annoyed that I'd used my Grown Up Voice to reprimand her dog and stop him from attacking mine.

Obviously there are nice Rat and Fluff dogs out there, but it's been a very long time since we've encountered one on our walks, which only makes me work harder to remember that dogs are merely extensions of the time and love their human companions put into them.

Another lesson in patience, I guess. For both Dunc and me.

A Night So Big

This night was so big, the sky so vast and clear, the wind so gentle Duncan and I could've hunkered down on the grass, still warm from an afternoon spent glowing under the sun, and outlined a constellation for every person I know, from my mother, with a speckle of stars dancing like clouds of humming birds around her head, to Lori, with a pack of dogs running wild like comets at her feet. It was a beautiful night and our walk felt like it could last forever, like it should last forever. The light tickled the surface of the lake, rippling across it as it washed up on the bank, which has receded several feet over the past month. Duncan hoped to chase the ducks swimming along the shore, so we walked down in the place where the water used to be, mottled and wave-scarred sand which felt hard when stepped upon but turned soft and gave away each time I lifted my foot. The air was so clear I swear, given enough time I could've smelled what you cooked for dinner and listened as the wind carried your whispers across the miles. Duncan rolled in the grass, picking up the once-leaves, catching them in his long hair, and though The Shepherds passed quite near, nervous at the sight of us, their companions reluctantly leashing and pulling them in the opposite direction, we did not care, did not let their appearance mar the night. There were no spectacular colors, only the warmth of the shadows and the memory of the scent of the Russian Olives as we passed by them on the lake trail, the gentle chink of Duncan's collar and leash bouncing and ringing with each step and discovery.

Three Minutes

Three times this week we have crossed paths with The Shepherds, who have now added a giant, black, dusty-looking and slightly mangy poodle to their four-legged menagerie of terror. The only other poodle I've ever encountered bit me, not once, but twice on the same hand on the same day exactly one year apart so although I admire their dedication to book-ending their aggressiveness, I can't say I'm fond of poodles as a breed.

When Duncan and I cleared The Mound today their beat up Blazer pulled into the corner-spot in the lot right in front of us. I'd barely had time to register what was happening when the doors were flung open before the engine had quite idled down, and the three big dogs leapt out directly in front of us. I grabbed Dunc's leash and pulled him away as their people struggled to get their leashes on. We strolled down to the tall grass that rings the big willow––prime sniffing and exploring land for my boy––and milled around a bit while The Shepherds ran over the grass, squatting and pooping with abandon, their companions casting dirty looks over their shoulders in our direction, the mere fact of our presence an annoyance and complication to their evening. Eventually they trotted away, leashless and crazy, running circles around each other, galloping across the soccer field in that menacing fashion I've come to recognize even in the dark and from great distances. As we followed safely behind I kept my eyes on the dogs while Duncan kept his nose to the grass, frantically sniffing out each spot the dogs had marked in their carefree and wreckless romp. It brought me immense joy to see him lift his leg and erase, with one quick spritz, the work they'd done only three minutes prior to our passing. He kept it up the entire time we walked, up across the hill at the skate park, through the picnic shelters and the big playground, and down along the edge of the lake to the prairie dog town, and although I hadn't planned on being out so long, drained as I was from another long day at the bookstore, Duncan's dedication was delightful and as wickedly passive-aggressive as anything I could've cooked up myself. Like papa like son.

Touched

Duncan and I climbed the low hill at the base of the memorial, passing through the silent and empty prairie dog town that edges the side of the lake. The clouds were thick and settling down low and the northern skies offered brief but wide stripes of lightning. Near the top of the hill and at the edge of the park we passed The Shepherds, who'd joined forces with several other big dogs and their companions. They all turned our way and watched us walk by, leashing up their dogs until we were out of range. Duncan didn't notice them, content as he was to drag the heavy stick we'd found along the receding shore of the lake. We skirted the edge of the memorial and came down along the path that winds up from the parking lot. There's a point where the trail turns and as we neared it a wiry bunny, his face turned directly into the setting sun, leapt from the tall yellow grass right in front of us, less than two feet away. Duncan froze and I gasped, tightening my grip on his leash. The rabbit, a dusty brown with long white feet and tall ears tipped also with white, did not see us. His nose quivered and he took a slight hop forward and except for a quick twitch in his tail, Duncan did not move. I heard people on the trail behind us and turned slowly to wave them to a standstill, which they readily did once they spotted the rabbit edging toward us on the path. The skinny little thing thing moved forward again and stopped no more than a foot away, its nose twitching and eyes straining to see us through the thick evening glare. Duncan leaned slowly forward and the rabbit leaned up, too, and for the briefest of moments it looked as though their noses touched. The rabbit suddenly stiffened and jerked away before bolting back into the brush and down the side of the hill. Duncan seemed too dazed to move, the stick still dangling from his mouth. I could only smile while my heart raced in my chest. The small group of people behind us jogged up. "Did you see that?" they asked. "Did they actually touch?" "That was incredible," they exclaimed, patting Duncan on the back. We milled around a moment while Dunc strained and pulled on his leash, leaning as far forward as he could in the direction the rabbit had gone.

I have never seen such a thing. I did not expect to see it tonight but I'm happy I did.

A May-less May Day

The flowers are not happy this May Day. The dandelions, joyous and exuberant in their yellowness only yesterday, have puckered up tight in the wake of this morning's rain and then snow. They have lined the sidewalks at the park where we walk, and have even sprouted up in the thick clumps of tall grassy wildness in the fields, but this evening they were gone. All that remains is their long thin necks, their nearly closed mouths and just the tips of soft yellow and white fuzzy tongues, giving this dreary May Day one big raspberry. The blossoms from the trees have fallen, browning and turning soggy in the damp grass and snow where they landed. The sidewalks are littered with them and I couldn't help but think how similar they look to leavings of the geese, which have departed completely. The tulips spent the day pouting, their backs turned to the world, their bulbs pulled up tight under the green shawl of their leaves. Walking through the park this afternoon I felt as Dorothy must have when she returned to Kansas, dull and dark after the Technicolor glory of Oz.

By the time we ventured out the snow had stopped and was all but gone except on the northward side of things, where small masses of it clung tightly together, not enough to play in, much to Duncan's displeasure, good, perhaps, for little more than gulping down or scattering away with a single swoop of his tail. But Duncan didn't mind the wet grass, greener than even yesterday, especially under the gray of the sky. There was very little noise, not even from the traffic, and the only real sound came from a far parking lot where two high schoolers tossed a baseball back and forth, the smack of the ball on their worn and faded leather mitts almost as wonderful as the crack of ball and bat. Perhaps I'm a latent fan of the sport, or, more likely, I simply love the many sounds of Spring.

It was a quiet walk and uneventful, and not the May Day I had hoped for. Because it was cold and silent, the park void of patrons, we ran into The Shepherds, who now make appearances only in the worst of weather when the dogs can run loose in a people-free park. We spotted them across the field and once they recognized us the dogs were leashed. They went their way and we went ours, but I found myself glancing over my shoulder several times to make sure they weren't near.

Because there were no flowers on our walk and because May Day is a celebration of flowers, I thought I'd share a few that Kevi sent me this morning. In lieu of a field of bright tulips and gladiolas, pansies and whatnots to run through, perhaps you can create your own. I know in my mind this* is where Duncan and I would love to be.

*Simply drag and click anywhere on the screen. Have fun.

Old Foes

As lovely as the park has been as of late, I can't help but feel Duncan and I have been robbed of the peace and quiet we found there all winter. The fields where we've romped and played and rolled have been overrun with kicking screaming kids in soccer and lacrosse garb whose parents can't seem to find the common decency to pick up and recycle their discarded water bottles. Almost daily the entire park is turned into one giant garbage dump full of deflated balls, spat-out plastic mouth guards, crushed soda cans and more cigarette butts than I can count. It's disheartening, but because Duncan and I love the park, and because it allows us to feel somewhat heroic, more deserving and superior, we try to clean up as much as we can.

This afternoon as the snow began to melt we headed to the park, which was blissfully free of children and their wretched parents. It was cold and windy but the park was ours! We could run wide circles and Duncan could tend to business without feeling the reproachful eyes of coaches and disapproving mothers on us.

Apparently we weren't the only ones who felt that way. After crossing the street and inspecting each of the trees on The Mound for squirrels, we caught sight of our old foes, The Shepherds. They were, of course, off leash and running wild, far ahead of their owners (again, I need a better word for "owner." Keep those suggestions coming!). I stiffened up and tightened my grip on Duncan's leash. We paused for a long moment, just outside of the trees in plain view. I thought they'd leash up the dogs once they spotted us but they did not. They paused at our appearance but merely pushed on, heedless and without consideration.

It wasn't quite the walk I wanted, keeping my eye out for the beasts, and without my cudgel I felt vulnerable. Thankfully the walk passed without incident but their appearance on such a day was reminder that Spring can pose as many dangers as the dark winter months.

We Are The Shepherds

I fell tonight coming home from work. A good one, with a little sideways dance on a patch of ice. I came down on my left side, wrenching my neck and shoulders, my back and my ribs, and although I didn't hit my head, I had a sensation that can only be described as "a brain bounce." My vision got all funny for a minute, like when you lay on your side and watch TV, or when you were a kid hanging upside-down on the monkey bars and you sat up suddenly. While I spawled halfway out in the parking-lot a woman––who I'm sure is a member of the Juicy Buns Club––drove by in her SUV without stopping to check whether I was dead or merely unconscious, and didn't seem at all phased by the fact that I'd decided to lay down in the road. Eventually it all evened out and I was able to pick myself up and drag myself inside. The world seemed a little strange for a bit––it still does, actually––and so rather than venture out into the park where I was sure I'd keel over in a goose poop-laden puddle of water, I called Melissa to see if she wanted to let Kona play with Duncan. I didn't want to be alone and thought, as A.A. Milne wrote, "It's so much more friendly with two."

And so we went down to The Glen, which––were it not located right on the edge of one of the busiest and loudest streets in all of Littleton, or sandwiched between a parking lot and a golf course––would make a nice, almost passable corner of The Hundred Acre Wood. It's my favorite place in the complex, shaded and grassy in the summertime, warm and glowing in Autumn. It's not so good at winter, with its slushy bowl of a middle and steep hillsides perfect for slipping and sliding down, getting your pants all wet and snow down your boots, but I'm excited to see what it has in store for us come Spring.

Duncan and Kona are good friends, and as such they enjoy rolling and wrestling and gnawing on the spots behind each others ears while making sure to leave as much good, thick saliva in the general vicinity of their heads as possible. They're friendly dogs, eager to play hard with one another and especially excited to welcome new dogs to the area, even if those dogs happen to be on the sidewalk around the side of the fence, for which there is no gate.
While Melissa and I chatted (Melissa kept her eyes on my pupils to make sure they stayed the same size) a woman, who I'm sure is quite pleasant under normal circumstances, happened to walk by with her little white poodle. Kona noticed the poodle first, then Duncan caught sight of them and trotted around the side of fence and onto the sidewalk to greet them. Kona darted right after him and by the time Melissa and I, running, were able to catch up to them, the poor woman had lifted her frightened white ball of wriggling yipping fur into the air above her head (which you're not supposed to do should your dog ever be attacked). But Duncan and Kona were not attacking, merely trying to sniff butts and bump noses and do all the other things dogs do when they greet each other. Obviously this was made more difficult by the poodle's placement on her mistresses shoulder, but Kona and Duncan were up to the challenge and persisted in their efforts at Canine Hospitality.

"Don't worry," I called. "They're very friendly." I grabbed Duncan's collar as Melissa scooped up Kona and the woman, fire in her eyes and venom in her voice spat out, "That's what the last guy said right before his dog attacked my dog."

I didn't know what to say. I felt extremely embarrassed, but, to be honest, also a little annoyed. This was Duncan she was talking about. The famous Duncan. If my Google Analytics is to be believed a superstar in Eastern Europe (way to go Poland and The Czech Republic!) and southeast Asia––but that could be because (prepare yourself for the really bad pun and also slightly racist joke) they think my blog should be called While Wokking Duncan (you knew I'd do it eventually, right?!). This is Duncan, angel of Clement Park, the sweetest, kindest dog in all the world (yes, Chicago Ruth, he is really as sweet as he looks! Head bath thing and all!). How could this stranger, this person carrying what looked like a mop-head on her shoulder imply such things!?!

Melissa and I dragged our dogs back to The Glen. I quickly leashed Duncan and didn't let go of him for the rest of the evening.

"What did she say to you?" Melissa asked. When I explained she got very quiet for a moment and shook her head, fighting the smile that was forming on her face. "This isn't funny, it's terrible, but that's the poodle my boyfriend's dog attacked. And then the other day Kona jumped her again. Just to play, of course!"

The smile was contagious; I felt it forming at the corners of my mouth. "Are you telling me that dog has been 'attacked' three times in a row?"

Melissa nodded. "In the exact same spot."

It was not funny but we sat on the hillside for ten minutes laughing, especially when I pointed out how we'd become no different than The Shepherds, the horrible, barking dogs who've haunted us at the park for the past eight months. I'd become no better than them; my beautiful, handsome boy had become a snarling beast. I know we'll be in trouble when The Poodle Woman starts carrying a cudgel on her walks.

Unleashed

Ever since our confrontations with The Shepherds I've been reluctant to let Duncan roam the park off-leash. Most days I'd take his ball or we'd find a stick and toss them across the fields, running back and forth retrieving them. Even when Duncan grew bored with the games he danced and scampered around me, grabbing my wrist in his mouth and leading me around like he does when he gets excited. But since I reminded the caretakers of the two German Shepherds that Clement Park is a leash park, I've made a conscious decision to keep Duncan leashed at all times. After all, no one likes to be accused of being a hypocrite, or worse, feeling like one all on your own.

But tonight, after a long day at work, we walked over to the park and because no one was around, I let go of his leash, threw my guard stick as far as I could and watched as Duncan chased after it. He's been rather sluggish the last few days and I've been concerned that he was suffering the same winter blues I've been experiencing, but the moment he stretched his legs and ran across the field my fears dissipated. Everything about him changed, his face lit up and he could not help but smile as we ran circles around one another, playing keep away with the stick. Duncan leapt high, rolled onto his back and groaned loudly and he stretched his body into one long, thin straight line, his beaming face at one end, his thumping tail at the other. He thrashed about wildly then jumped up and did it all again. I have not seen him this way in weeks and as tired as I was I couldn't help but feel my own spirit lifted. Soon I was rolling around with him, groaning just as loudly.

And when The Shepherds appeared on the far side of the baseball field, I simply called Duncan to me, grabbed the leash and watched as they did the same. We seem to have reached some sort of peaceful understanding and mutual respect. They leave us alone and I get to be a dog with Duncan. Who could ask for more?

Detante?

Okay, so I lied to the guy. I don't like lying but there are some occasions when a little lie is a safe move, like when the man with puffed up chest and the alpha male monkey stance is standing ten feet away with one of two snarling German Shepherds at the end of a leash.

Duncan and I enjoyed a nice leisurely late afternoon walk under a deepening blue sky with stripes of pink and gold clouds cutting across it. It was warm today–in the upper 50's–but I haven't felt quite right so I spent much of it asleep on the couch. The snow has mostly melted and the grass is one wide soggy marsh so we kept to the sidewalks and it was only toward the end of the walk as we were coming through the baseball diamonds that I saw The Shepherds–off leash, of course–and their people walking far behind.

I stopped, my heavy stick tucked under my arm and my camera in my pocket, and waited for their owners to leash them up. When they finally noticed me we continued on our way.

"I'd like to ask you why you called the cops on us," he said in a thick accent that sounded vaguely Chicago-esque.

"Someone called the cops?" I asked, feigning shock at the audacity of whomever had been discourteous enough to do such a thing.

"Yeah, animal control was here three times last week," he said, and added, "It's a good thing we know all of them." Wouldn't you know it. Just my luck. "She was very nice," he continued. "She warned us three times but didn't give us a ticket although she might next time."

"Well," I said, "Next time maybe you should keep your dogs on a leash."

Then I got the whole story. They've been coming here for fifteen years, they know all the dogs and people and have never had a problem. Their dogs are quite friendly, always under their control and have never hurt another dog. Period.

"Yeah, well..." I interrupted. "I've been charged four times by your dogs and you may have control of them but I don't so naturally I'm afraid. You admitted they don't like male dogs..."

"Not males," he cut me off. "Just Goldens."

Oh, that makes me feel a lot better. The park is certainly safer now, thanks.

When he told me I should've just communicated with them, I explained that I tried but was met with aggression and silence to which he was unable to respond. We went back and forth, even joking as all three of the dogs slurped up nice moist goose turds. His wife never spoke but stood back with the barking, growling female, who it was explained, was rescued from a highly abusive situation.

It wasn't a bad conversation and although nothing was really resolved I feel like progress was made. I'm still taking my stick, I'm still careful and I still want his dogs on a leash. Duncan and I will do our best to stay clear of them but maybe, hopefully we can work toward some sort of peaceful understanding. I remain optimistic. And if that doesn't work I can always lie about the next time I call animal control.

Animal Control

Jocelyn, at Jefferson County Animal Control, was a friendly enough person, efficient, courteous, pleasant to talk to and because of that I'm sure absolutely nothing will come my call. I logged a complaint against the owners of the shepherds this morning and was told an officer would patrol the park three times this week during the hours I specified, but somehow or another I still don't feel quite safe. In fact, we avoided the park altogether tonight, opting, instead, to romp down at The Glen with a nice fat stick which I keep on the shelf and take down only on special occasions.

Now that Rush at the school is over and I'll be getting home earlier, though, I'm hoping we can avoid them altogether. As I said last week to Duncan, it's not the dogs I fear, it's the people, and based on the way the man responded to my reminder that the park requires dogs to be on a leash at all times, I'm sure our next exchange won't be quite as pleasant. Especially if they're ticketed.

Think good thoughts for us and hope they just go somewhere else.

Showdown

When I was in college I worked as a Resident Assistant and Head Resident in the freshmen dorm. It was the best job I've ever had, helping the new kids acclimate to school, working with them to resolve conflicts and problems. A lot people tended to look at the RAs as the building police, always on the lookout for someone violating a rule, playing their music too loud, partying outside their rooms, or perhaps so drunk they mistook a hockey bag left in the hall for a urinal. Ah, the good old days. The truth of the matter was we spent a lot of time trying to avoid dealing with those situations and encouraged our residents to manage their lives like mature adults and to deal with the actions of others in a responsible manner. If your neighbor was listening to "Smells Like Teen Spirit" too loudly, politely knock on their door and explain that you were studying for a test. If the sound of someone vomiting in the laundry room was interfering with your sleep, hold their hair back, see them safely to bed, and make sure to turn them on their side to keep them from choking to death in their sleep. I think we were successful in our attempts to get those awkward freshman to participate in and uphold the standards of the community in which they lived and I still subscribe to that line of thinking. If you don't like something, try to change it rather than merely complain about it.

That's why tonight in the park I prepared myself to speak with the owners of the renegade German Shepherds. As Duncan and I crossed the soccer field just after sundown, Duncan merrily sniffing every ounce of goose poop we passed, I kept my eye open for the dogs and their owners.

I did not have long to wait. We were barely halfway to the baseball diamonds when I caught sight of both dogs, in a dead run straight at us. Not a playful romp, not a light and friendly jog, but a steady and solid charge. Their owners were quite far back, at the edge of the fence, and when they noticed the shadowy shapes of their pets streak past them and straight toward us, they screamed out their names and called them back. Both dogs stopped and turned, looking over their shoulders at us, their eyes narrow, their hackles raised. It was only when they'd been safely leashed I realized I'd been holding my breath and every muscle in my body was tense. I exhaled, took a nice long breath and pulled Duncan's leash up. I forced my shoulders down, put a smile on my face and stepped forward.

As we neared them, both dogs became antsy and pulled on their leashes so much so that the man and woman had to hold them by their collars into a sitting position.

"Hey, guys," I said casually. "How's your walk?"

Neither of them responded. I think they were concerned that I was going to let Duncan get too close, which was ridiculous considering what had happened the night before.

When no one spoke I said, "Hey, did you know that Clement Park is an on-leash park?" I tried to make it sound casual, matter-of-fact, like the weather report. Looks like snow. Wind is out of the southwest. So, this this is what they mean by partly cloudy. That sort of thing.

The man stood up straight, letting go of the bigger dog's collar but keeping a tight grip on the leash. He squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. "Of course we know," he told me defiantly. What he really meant, though, was, We don't don't care and what are you going to do about it? Take your southwest wind and stick it right up your ass.

I bit my bottom lip and nodded. It was obvious this was not going to work and it was easy to see where the dogs had learned their aggression. This was a man who was prepared to fight. I stepped away, still nodding. "Just wanted to make sure. I'd hate for anyone to get a ticket." And with that we moved on. Only once did I look back to see both of them still standing there watching us go and I couldn't help but feel like that man was fantasizing about letting his dogs chase us off. Or worse.

So that's it. I don't feel safe there and I'm going to call animal control, report the incidents and request some sort of presence in the park at the usual walk time. Sure, I won't be able to toss the ball for Duncan (there's always The Glen and the small gated dog park on the property for that), but I don't want to feel like I have to keep my eyes constantly open for any sign of the menacing shepherds. I don't want to think of myself as tattling on anyone, but if something happened, if another dog or person was injured and I hadn't said something, I'd feel even worse.

It's a community park and we all have the right to feel safe there.

The Menace

"It's not the dogs I'm afraid of," I told Duncan as we crossed Bowles on our way back home from the park. "It's their people."

The people with the German Shepherds are regulars at the park and we've seen them nearly every night for as long as I can remember. They are handsome dogs, with long, lean bodies, strangely low hips and high heads. They move swiftly and quietly, running far before their masters, circling back and coming up behind them with their noses low and their shoulders moving quickly. Their owners take them off leash and stroll slowly across the paths, but are careful to notice when other dogs are near. They need only call and the shepherds are at their sides where they can quickly be leashed.

We have met them several times before, none of which has gone well. The man, a short, squarish fellow has been quick to point out that Chance, the big, blond male, does not like other males and to keep Duncan away from him. His companion, a woman who seems to match him in shape and size, restrains the female, who doesn't seem to mind males, she says, provided they "don't have all their parts," and yet every time we approach the female has growled menacingly and/or snapped suddenly and violently. I am extremely uncomfortable by their presence in the park each night, running free among the shadows the way they do. The dogs obey very well, but the distance with which they run away from their people is disturbing, especially when you consider how quickly things can happen. It's obvious these people know their dogs should not be trusted around other dogs because they're always careful to leash them when other dogs are present, even going so far as to warn people, as they have me, several times. And yet Duncan and I practically bumped into them tonight. Luckily the dogs were close and easily restrained. I hate to think what would've happened had they been darting ahead as they typically do. A few nights ago we came upon them from behind and I didn't recognize them at all because they were dogless, until they saw Duncan. When they turned and saw us, on their hills, they man called "Chance!" who appeared quickly from up ahead, spotted us and tried to sidestep his master but was snagged by a long arm and reeled in while we passed around them.

Tonight the female snapped at Duncan, catching him on the snout, scratching his nose and leaving a welt. I was quick to pull him out of her way and immediately yelled at the dog. The woman looked a little taken aback by the way I chastised her dog, but if she's going to allow her to bite my dog's face, I'm not going to remain quiet and passive when it happens. I tightened Duncan's leash in my hand as I guided him around them down the sidewalk but we were no more than twenty feet away when both dogs were released from their leashes, which, again, made me extremely nervous. What if they'd both circled around and attacked?

I've decided I'm calling Littleton Animal Control tomorrow and reporting the incident. I did some research and confirmed what I've always knows, that Clement Park requires the use of a leash at all times. I don't mind that people take their dogs off leash–hell, I do it almost every night. I do mind that these people are aware of their dogs' hostility to other dogs and still unleash. I'm also gong to speak to them the next time I see them, just to let them know that their dogs needs to be leashed at all times, especially because they're menacing. After all, they're not the only ones trying to enjoy the park.

Defending the Glen

After our walk this afternoon–a rather uneventful trip through the park, up Rebel Hill to the memorial and back home–we stopped by Duncan's favorite spot, The Glen. Everything looked the same to me–the curling brown leaves that littered the bottom of the natural bowl in the earth, the bone-white limbs and branches of the Aspens, even the page of newspaper that had blown through and gotten caught in the bars of the gate was still there. But Duncan knew things were different. He had no interest in his tennis ball, dropping it from his mouth right where I'd tossed it. Almost immediately he began making the rounds, scouring the perimeter with his nose, stopping every few feet to sniff, sometimes veering wildly off course as if following an invisible trail, only to retrace his steps and start over. After several minutes of investigating every tree and shrub and post, he began marking, which seemed tedious work, all that squatting and peeing, leg-lifting and peeing, crouching and peeing. When he was finally satisfied he returned to where I sat on the hillside near the spot where he'd accidentally taught himself to fly a few weeks back. He rolled over on his back and let me scratch his belly, but I'd hardly began when a sleek black shape appeared in my peripheral vision, charging down one side of the depression and up the other straight at us. She was a lean lab mix, quite thin and long. I jumped up to grab Duncan, but he met her dead on, leaping into the air, spinning Matrix-style around her and catching her neck under his chin. They huffed and crashed into the leaves and began rolling wildly down the slope. I looked up to see a young woman darting toward me through the trees, a wide smile on her face. "She's okay," she said. "She's just young." I'd frozen on the spot. thinking of the stories I'd heard of dogs mauling other dogs while out on innocent afternoon walks with their owners. It had been on my mind a lot and I'd wondered whether Littleton's unenforced leash laws needed to be addressed– after all, only twenty minutes earlier at the park we'd been charged by a rather large German Shepherd whose owner finally appeared and stopped the beast just as he loomed right over us. I was relieved to see that Duncan and Kona, the newcomer, were not fighting, but had become instant friends instead. His best friend at Stapleton is Maddie, and I wondered for a moment if he thought this narrower and lighter version was his old pal. Melissa, as she introduced herself explained that they'd just moved in and that Kona loved our spot and had become pals with the few other dogs she'd met there. No sooner had she said that than two other racing shapes appeared, a smaller Golden who looked exactly as Duncan did two years ago, color and all, and a matted, yip-yip dog, a "Malty-Poo," Leanne and Deke, her owners described her breed when they appeared. Melissa and I left the dogs to wrestle and romp while we did what I imagine parents do when they meet the parents of their child's friend for the first time. We quickly introduced our dogs (theirs were Sadie and Cinnia) but it was a while before we thought to introduce ourselves. We made small talk for a bit and then just sat and watched the slobbering, leaf-encrusted parade of dogs, Cinnia always at the rear, yapping and snapping at tails and ankles as little dogs are wont to do.

Finally, covered in saliva and exhausted, Duncan appeared at my side, nudged the hand I was holding the leash in, and announced that it was time to leave. His ears and the top of his head were wet and matted, and a thick string of someone's slobber streaked across the top of his head. He looked beat so I hooked him up, waved good-bye to the others and we took our leave. No sooner were we in the door than my tireless dog collapsed in a heap and slept. And I got to sit and do nothing.