dog park

this here is a song that used to be on the alternative rock station that Gold’s Gym in Charlottesville always had on. the station roundly sucked, but this tune, which would play every other time I went in there, broke that mold, and made for a good beat and hook to run to, should you ever need one. it is called “lazy eye” and it’s by the Silversun Pickups, and it is four years old. forgive me, for I am late to the game.

Aarti, on the other hand, is not: this video is only a few months old. and it’s got a huge-ass Rube Goldberg machine in it. holy shit!

I took Aarti’s dog to the dog park today.
he is dumb as the day is long, but only in the way that all dogs are dumb. it is, after all, a dog: a pack animal with only a few things on its mind, and all of them straightforward. Aarti’s dog has eaten two of my hats. and swallowed many a foul thing. but he’s alright. if you were a kid, you’d love him; he looks like Little Lord Fauntleroy, and he’s unfailingly friendly.
the crowd at the dog park is usually pretty steady — it is in Shaw, where Aarti lives, up on 11th and R Streets, just above Rhode Island. it’s about sixty yards deep, and as wide as a football field of gravel, where all dogs can go, and run around, and chew on communal tennis balls, and “socialize.”
I got no problem with that. the little bugger had been sitting around by himself at Aarti’s all day while she was at work, and I get out of the office before she does. so I rode my bike over there. and I got him. and we went.
must’ve been … a dozen? a dozen dogs, and as many people in there. so I let him loose, he runs in, I throw the tennis ball I brought and he loses it in the sky. the other dogs mob him, and the socializing begins …
among the dogs, that is. they’re tearing ass around the yard, the alphas are picking on the betas, there’s whizz everywhere. but the dog owners, unless they come in groups, they keep to themselves.
I’m as guilty of this as the rest of them. but that doesn’t make it not worth noting. as a pack of dogs kicks up dust and weaves in between our legs, we all keep to ourselves, eyes on our individual animals. we break up play deemed too rough, pull one bonerific pooch off of another, all of this within feet of one another, all of us surveying the same chaotic scene, and no one saying a peep to the person at their side.
Aarti walked over and met me and Thumbelina after she got out of work, and we watched this rolling scrum for a bit. one young woman had to repeatedly pull her randy terrier off of an Irish Setter, scolding, “Samson, no!”  and explaining to her counterpart,  “I’m sorry, he’s not usually like this.”
she’d yank the terrier off, hold him up on his hind legs just off the ground, for a second, and then turn him loose again, following which he would immediately take to humping something else.
“Samson!”
Samson. the cycle repeated itself, different dogs, looking incredulously at their owners as they got an earful after being put in temporary time-out after a wrestling match got a little too rowdy or an erection a litle too real; a look that said, “if not for this, what the fuck did you bring me to the dog park for?”

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