Dogs love dog parks. They love sniffing each other, romping, fighting over balls or Frisbees. Their tails work furiously to wiggle their bodies. Tongues out, eyes bright. Yep. Dogs love dog parks.
And so, do I.
I have made a point to visit dog parks wherever we travel. GB objects but begrudgingly gives in. I can sit for hours watching dogs. I know what you’re thinking. But, come on. Don’t you think sometimes the simple things are the best?
We used to take the Newfs and the Grifters to Cherry Creek open space dog park. It was huge and the bonus was the creek running through. The Newfs would charge in and look for a deep spot for floating. The Grifters would stand on the shore, appalled at the prospect of getting wet. Sadly, we had to self-evict from that wonderful space because Boomer, our last Newfie, hated any dog that was a husky, shepherd, or Berner. He would run over to them, put his gigantic head on their shoulders and drool. The victims didn’t appreciate the gesture and began to aggress in return. Growling, circling, tails not wagging, ears back, the encounter would soon end in owners (victim’s and, of course, me) breaking it up.
Victim’s owners also did not appreciate the encounter. Thus, our self-eviction before authorities stepped in.
Note: no dog was injured. Just wet with drool and creek water.
As you know, Boomer died last February and we moved with our last surviving dog, the Grifter Monkey, to Everleigh. And, as you know, we have a dog park!
The dog park is tiny but so are the visitors. There is a 50-pound weight limit at our complex. When I was younger, I swore I would never be a small dog person. Giant breeds only with maybe a mix here and there of a small breed! Well, age has a way of changing that perspective. Those of us who love dogs learn to love small ones as well. They have as much to give as the giant breeds, only not so much of it.
The Everleigh dog park patrons are known as the Yappy Club. Ok. Not terribly original, but okay anyway. The leader is a lovely, sweet, alcoholic (a heartbreaking story because she is amazing). The group is all women, although one time a man with a lovely golden doodle visited with us. He made sure we knew he was a physician. We ignored him. He hasn’t come back. The Yappy Club women have been teachers, defense analysists, communications managers, caterers. They’ve had fascinating, full lives. Each has a story, sometimes traumatic, oftentimes of resilience. Most have grandchildren. All adore dogs. The recurring dog members are Poco, Barney, Milo, Molly, Sandy, Riley, Pearl, Nicki, Huck and, of course, Monkey. Membership is loose, anyone can join. A text goes out announcing time and those who can go, do.
Monkey hates the dog park. Well, that’s because Monkey pretty much hates everything that changes her routine. She only ever liked Mimi, her sister/mother/daughter or whatever. She tolerated the Newfs. She was wary of the chickens after one gave her a solid peck on the head.
Bad dog parent that I am, I force Monkey to go. That’s because, as I mentioned earlier, I can watch dogs play endlessly.
But at our Yappy Club dog park, they don’t play with each other. They take turns sitting on our laps. Monkey sits on mine, just staring at I don’t know what. Poco hops up next to me, gives me a little lick, says hi to Monkey. Monkey sort of looks at Poco. Then Pearl, a 5 pound ear-muff/poodle mix sits on the lap just adjacent to me. Barney hops up and tries to share my lap. Riley, concerned my lap isn’t full enough, hops up next to me. This is the game the dogs play. Musical laps. They switch every so often to share their loving selves with each of us sitting on the benches.
What are the lap owners doing? Chatting. Gossiping. Talking politics. Sharing conspiracy theories.
Then one dog spots a squirrel and all, except for Monkey, chase across the park barking.
We stop talking and comment that there’s a squirrel.
They return, somehow remembering whose lap needs sitting.
We return to our conversation now that the squirrel alert has passed.
The cycle continues until we trickle away, the sun sets, or it starts raining, which, in Colorado, is mostly never.
Monkey happily trots back to the apartment, relieved she didn’t have to do anything other than stare. Since she’s deaf, she doesn’t hear the squirrel warning and, ergo, doesn’t have to chase across the park which, of course, would be terrifying because what if one of the other dogs stopped and wanted to play? Plus, by the time Monkey’s old legs got her to the fence, the other tiny predators would have turned around to return to the empty, lonely laps.
To this crew of small critters, we are empty, lonely laps that need sitters. A hop up. A little, soft paw on our arms. A little sniff. A little lick on the chin.
All good.
Air. 
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