Welcome to The Mystical Underground

Noah and Nameless, a standoff for the ball

Sometimes, the boundary between my world and the general weirdness in the world blurs. Friends sends links, I click them, and suddenly find myself inside an article about a time vortex in the Antarctic. Or inside some UFO sighting in Russia or a country whose name I can’t spell or pronounce.

Then I’m at a quake site and discover Japan has endured another massive quake or that a strategic volcano has erupted. Meanwhile, here in Florida, we’re writing about ghosts, astrology, synchros, and the weather is hot but not extreme.

We watch the cable news, but not much has changed on the political front in the last 24 hours. The Repugs still hope to dismantle Medicare and other social programs, the tax breaks for the richest two percent of Americans remain intact, untouched, a sacred space, the war in Libya has cost more than $800 million, and Obama continues to disappoint.

At this point, I disengage and try to focus on what works for me moment to moment.  We go to the dog park every evening , the height of Noah’s day, and meet other dog lovers. Most often we don’t know the people; we know the dogs, though, their names  and breed and how old they are. We know which dogs are Noah’s friends, which dog may be aggressive, who to avoid. Dog parks possess a symmetry that is reflected in our daily lives. Is this a synchro? Probably not. Just the same, it feels good to wander among the dogs and observe how they work out their differences.

Some of them fight down and dirty, nipping their opponents’ legs, paws, grabbing their collars to choke them. Others hear the pack moving in on a new dog in the park, attacking it, and run over to see what’s going on. Noah was attacked like that early on at the dog park, a dozen dogs of various sizes and breeds converging on him until Rob intervened and started pulling dogs off of him. Noah now avoids confrontations. He would rather chase the Frisbee and play with the dogs he knows are friendly. He and his friend Jake, for instance, another Golden Retriever who is the same reddish gold as Noah, understand the ground rules. They rear up, nip at each other’s necks and legs, try to bring each other down. They race around the park, chasing each other beneath the hot April sun. Now and then, one of them trots off toward the water area, break time. They both understand this rule, too.

Noah and his buddy Jake are like members of the same political party who realize there are a few differences, but who have many more areas of commonality upon which they can build.

Then there’s  Nameless, who belongs to a woman who frequents the park daily with her four canines. This little guy could fit between Noah’s legs, but is totally and complete obnoxious. Whenever any dog approaches the shaded area where there are benches and lots of people sitting around, Nameless charges them, growling, snapping, barking like some beast five times his size. He’s the hostile political faction and hates everyone just on principal – dogs, humans, doesn’t matter.

Occasionally, he races after Noah’s Frisbee, but he doesn’t have the fortitude to jump for it, to fight for it. I equate this dog with the likes of Tim Geitner, Obama’s Treasury Secretary, formerly the president of the Federal Reserve Bank – i.e., the guy who declared the financial sky was collapsing and we had to bail out banks and Wall Street.  He’s sort of cute, the way the little, fierce dog is, but lacks the guts and the motives to make significant changes in the way the U.S. government conducts its financial business.

Then there’s the American bulldog, Ty,  who reminds me of John McCain. He’s the old man of the park, nearly always there, it seems, even if we pass the park in the morning. He  sometimes sits forlornly in a corner of the park, peering out through the fence, as if he knows his best days are behind him. That’s Ty in this photo.

Then there’s Mikey,  a very busy dog, friendly and vocal when it’s in his best interest, but pretty much self-contained, trotting from one end of the park to the other, his snout to the ground. His human, an older woman who never scoops up Mikey’s poop (one of the dog park rules) probably approved of Sara Palin. Noah occasionally approaches Mikey, barks and bumps into him, trying to get him to play, but he’s too busy conducting the dog park business, whatever that happens to be. He’s the male version of  Palin, although  more sincere than she is.

A few days ago, a new guy arrived on the scene. A wolf.  His human bought him from a college guy on a street in Miami, said he was a wolfhound, but this guy is a wolf that’s been raised as a dog. He was friendly to people in that he allowed you to pet him, tried to romp and play with the other dogs, but they took one sniff and avoided him. He had a sloped back and ran differently than other dogs. He loped. He was also taller than any other dog in the park, even the Great Danes. Noah seemed interested in him at first, but after a few sniffs, left him alone. In my twisted way of viewing things, I see this wolf as the surprise in the 2012 presidential election, a lone wolf, a surprise.

When I mentioned my theory to Rob, he made a face and asked, “A Republican?”

“I hope not,” I replied, and thought, Suppose the wolf represents a true progressive? You know, someone who stands up for the 98 percent of us who are not super wealthy? Suppose the wolf is someone who truly supports the social programs, Medicare and Social Security and Medicaid? Suppose the wolf is someone who supports unions, the arts, peace, the environment? Suppose the wolf symbolizes the progressive who thwarts corporate control of the government and ushers in a new era, a new paradigm?

Well, okay. Maybe this is a mighty ambitious agenda for the wolf. He has visited the dog park only once. Then again, we can hope, right?