Ty, American Bulldog, and Noah, Golden Retriever, at dog park
She wears stylish, expensive glasses. Her cheekbones are admirable. She’s skinny and actually treks around in three-inch heels that would murder my feet. She has five children, a husband who is allegedly her manager, her adversary, her partner – who knows for sure? – and John McCain picked her as his running mate in 2008 and probably damns the day he did so.
Never mind that she is the half governor of Alaska who surrendered her job when she realized she could make more money doing what she does now, zipping around the country in a bus to maintain her media visibility. Never mind that she is, well, stupid, and doesn’t have a clue about foreign policy, domestic policy, the constitution, or anything else that it takes to be president. She’s cute, she winks, she grins, she’s a Barbie doll on steroids. And she has a clone named Michelle Bachman, congresswoman from Minnesota, the shame of every Democrat in the state.
For some perspective, I return to the dog park where we take our Golden Retriever most afternoons. It’s a perfect spot for political commentary. And we have our Sarah Palin, our Barack Obama, our Osama Bin Laden, our Michelle Bachman, John McCain, our floozy like John Ensign, and that Congressman – I forget his name – who showed his abs on craig’s list. We have all those archetypes at the dog park.
It starts with Lily, a black pug, five years old or thereabouts, whose obsession is a small red ball that her human hurls across the park with a lime green ball thrower. This is Lily’s thing, her passion, her total obsession. Every toss, every race to the ball, is Lilly’s Sarah Palin moment – or her Michelle Bachman moment – when she reveals just how resolute and stupid she is. Don’t get me wrong. There are things I admire about Lily – her resoluteness, for instance. Once she catches that ball, she hurries back to her human – or some other human – and drops it to the ground at the human’s feet, and retains her grip on that ball. Our dog, Noah, eighty times her size, stands over her, barking –give me that stupid ball – but Lily just bites down harder on the little red ball. Like Palin, like Bachman, Lilly knows what she wants.
At some point, Lily’s human – Todd Palin, some anonymous advisor – tells Lily to release the ball and it gets thrown again by him or Rob or me or someone else who is willing. Then the race is on again and the Palin/Bachman media machine is in motion. In the dog park scheme of things, this motion comes from the human bystanders, cheering Lilly or Noah or both or simply laughing at how dogs interact.
Then there’s Lou, a Doberman, beautiful, sleek, fast and so focused on Frisbees that she’s a Frisbee thief. I think she’s a bit like Hilary Clinton was during the 2008 presidential campaign, smart and determined and fixated on the goal. Sometimes Lou loses -Noah beats her to the Frisbee – but she’s remarkably determined. She lets Noah enjoy his triumph, tagging after him as he trots back to Rob or me, but instantly ready for the next throw.
Diesel, an American bulldog who hasn’t been fixed, is Mr. Macho Man. Most afternoons, he and Ty, another bulldog who HAS been fixed, race along opposite sides of a fence, barking fiercely at each other, but neither of them has an opportunity to act on his aggression. In fact, some days when the fences between the different sections of the dog park are opened and Diesel and Ty meet face to face, they aren’t sure how to act. It’s like, Huh? Who’re you? How am I supposed to act now?
Diesel and Ty are like any two politicians on opposite sides of the political spectrum. They recognize they’re both American bulldogs – politicians – but beyond that, they have zip in common. When the fence is no longer an impediment – like when Obama invites the Repubs to dinner or whatever at the white house – they aren’t quite sure what the protocol is.
The poop at the park is a big deal. There are poop bag dispensers at various locations in the park (four sections for various sizes of dogs) and whenever you see your dog doing the deed, you’re supposed to pick it up. But there are people who come to the park daily, sometimes twice a day, who don’t bother.
So one day this guy from NY who owns a golden (Charlie, female, like Stephen King’s Charlie in Firestarter) sees this woman’s dog pooping and tells her about it. Minutes tick by, she doesn’t pick it up. No surprise, really, since she never scoops up her dog’s stuff. But Charlie’s human gets pissed off about it, scoops up the poop, and shouts, “Here’s your dog’s poop!” and hurls it at her.
She files assault charges against him.
To me, this speaks of the accusations that Repubs and Dems hurl at each other about Medicare, Social Security, the debt ceiling, you name it. Neither party has a clue what the other party is about. Neither party has a clue what ordinary Americans are about, either. There are only talking points – the poop bag and what’s supposed to happen with it. So the rest of us – the middle class folks spread through four dog parks of different sizes – are left in a bind. What’re we doing here, anyway? Who’re we supposed to vote for? Does our vote even matter?
Some days, the quandary is resolved in unexpected ways. Today, for instance, we went to the eye doctor for our annual checkup. This is where you get those drops that cause your pupil to open so wide you feel you’ve died and been reborn. Even wearing sunglasses, it hurt to be outside on a bright South Florida day. We were still feeling the effects when we took Noah to the park – and immediately sought shade.
Not too many dogs around, and after sniffing out the territory, Noah seemed bored. The collies arrived – three of them, lazy dogs, no fun, everyone knows it. They’re kind of like Fox News, giving off erroneous impressions on what it means to be a dog. Human Jamie was around with mutt Sephera, who loves people but can’t abide other dogs – and Noah trotted over to Jamie, looking for the treats she usually brings into the park with her. No treats today, so he withdraws.
Noah glances around for some small dogs to chase down, but no one is up to the game. Too hot. Even the Australian guys, Frisbee freaks, are panting hard and fast. He starts digging a hole, to cool off, and refuses to chase the battered Frisbee Rob tosses. Even Lou is too hot to cross the vast expanse of two parks to catch this one. There’s a message in all this. We just have to figure it out. Maybe the message is total silliness, that dogs care about dog stuff and humans care about human stuff and that border is never breached.
But. What I love about the dog park is the honesty I see, the sniff that says you’re cool or the obvious shunning because you’re a big, fat yawn with no chance of winning.
I think that for the 2012 election season, I’ll be looking at the dogs in the park for my insights into who will be president.Hey, it’s as good as what the bookies predict.
