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There’s a great Rumi poem that says, “Out beyond ideas of right doing and wrongdoing, there is an off-leash dog park. I’ll meet you there.” Okay, maybe I embellished it a little bit. Call it poetic license 😉
You meet all kinds of people at the dog park.
Yesterday it was a raging liberal guy smoking joint and spouting radical ideas. We barely said anything to each other but exchanged a friendly rainbow of 4-letter expletives directed at the government. Without mentioning names or specifics, somehow we both knew exactly what the other was saying.
Today, it was a big guy who looked like the poster man-child of American success: fancy watch, expensive casual wear, ruddy skin and too many pounds overweight. He looked like he eats too much red meat and smokes too many cigars, but it ain’t bothering him. He wore a bright red shirt and one of those Make America Great hats. Actually, I can’t really remember if he was wearing that hat or if my mind just puts the hat there because that’s what he evoked in me. But it didn’t matter, because he brought dogs, and dogs are the magic that transcends politics. He showed up with two fancy Airedale Terrier’s and proudly explained to me that they were bred as war-dogs in England. Now they’re hunting dogs, and both were well behaved. I noticed they had fancy shock collars around their necks. The man carried the control for that device around his neck like an Olympic medal.
The dog park is the great equalizer, and all Jon Snow cares about is a good game of “keep away”. Except this guy’s dogs weren’t into playing. “They’re not into sharing much”, he told me. Jon danced all around them, bowing down and hopping around like an elaborate mating ritual. He rolled the ball in front of them, daring them to grab it, but they wouldn’t play. He rolled around on the grass in front of them making pained whining noises. It was futile.
There’s an unwritten but agreed-upon etiquette people follow at the dog park, and it begins by complimenting the next person’s dog. “Those are impressive dogs”, I told him. He smiled. I mentioned the shock collar, which was like turning on a defensive switch. I assured him I had no judgments about it, which gave him permission to but let loose a stream of commentary about how “everybody is so politically correct” these days. Jon Snow just rolled around on the grass, showing his belly, while Mr. MAG blamed all the ills of the world on political correctness. I laughed. Then he asked me where I was from, and I told him: New York City. He let me know he was from Austin, “born & bred”. “You must’ve seen a lot of changes”, I told him. That’s when the conversation went a bit crooked. “It wouldn’t be so bad if people weren’t so stupid when they voted. All these Californians move here and started voting like Californians. First, they screwed up their own state so bad it went to hell in a handbasket, then they come here and vote the same way they voted in California. They want to make it like California so now we’re almost as screwed up as them. Bad enough they screwed one state, now they screwed up another one. ” He kept talking but after a while, he just sounded like all the adults in Charlie Brown: wahh wahh wahh wahh wahh. I always laugh when I hear that sound.
Some people say dogs mirror the attitudes and behaviors of their owners.
While Mr. MAG droned on, his dogs snooped around with each other while Jon Snow rolled around on the grass, putting his belly up in the air, begging someone – anyone – to come play with him. I looked at the man and said, “I guess folks like you – who’ve never moved away from home and spend their whole lives in the town they were born – are becoming less and less common. We live in a transient society these days. It’s got to be hard for you to come to terms with things changing as greater diversity changes the fabric of the culture you grew up in.” It wasn’t really belly up, but not really a growl. He nodded affirmative as if he’d been met in a field without judgment. He relaxed enough to whine some more about how much the liberals are messing up his world, forcing him to share the ball with people who would rather play than hunt. Thank god we were at the dog park because the rules in the dog park say that dog culture is the rule of the land. You can smoke a joint or wear a red MAG hat, so long as you’re willing to chase a ball. For me and Jon Snow, its time to run, swim, and play. Mr. Snow and I said goodbye and ran off to find some dogs that were game for a vigorous chase.
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