A Magical Day at the Dog Park

By Bob Wire, 7-16-10

Finally, the story can be told. It’s a complex tale of love and loss, of loyalty and betrayal, and the discovery of a fantastic world that’s existed all along, right under our noses.

It was a warm, beautiful spring day in April. What little snow we’d gotten over the winter in Missoula had melted away, and the sun was sparkling like a topaz. Like a fiery, 870,000 mile wide topaz made of hydrogen that’s going to burn out in 5 billion years, causing everyone on earth to turn up the thermostat a bit more and grumble about the “good old days” of global warming.

My dog, Houdini, was bursting with cabin fever (and rawhide farts), so I thought this would be a perfect day to take him to the dog park. If you’ve never been, well, you’re probably a cat person and can’t be trusted. Anyway, it’s a section of this long island in the Clark Fork River near the U of M campus. Like many islands, it’s surrounded by water. A chain link fence bisects the island; that’s where you enter the dog park. There’s a wide, dog shit speckled dirt trail going the length of the area, and a lot of really good beach right next to the river. (I think that adjacent to a body of water is the best location for a beach, don’t you?)

I stopped by Rockin’ Rudy’s on the way, to pick up a Mantovani CD, and there in the toy section I saw an item that caused my jaw to drop like the underwear of a sorority girl on Homecoming weekend. There, hanging on a peg, was a helmet purported to allow the wearer to hear the secret language of dogs. It looked a bit like a Nazi helmet, with the flanged rim and a stubby antenna protruding from the crown. It also sported a pair of earbuds and a battery pack. Man, I thought, this store has everything!

I paid for the helmet ($34.95, including a booklet of common phrases), and we drove on to the dog park. While waiting for the light to change at 6th and Higgins, I tore the wrapper off the helmet and put it on. It fit perfectly. I poked the earbuds into my ears and turned a switch on the battery pack.

“…kill you! I will kill you! You are SO dead! You! In the crosswalk!”

I yanked the helmet off, and snapped my head around to look at Houdini, who was barking out the open window of the back seat.

“Bark! Bark bark bark bark! Growwwwwl…Bark! Bark!”

What the…? The woman in the car behind me tapped her horn. The light had turned green, so I set the helmet on the seat next to me and started driving. We got to the bark park, and I snapped on Houdini’s leash and grabbed the helmet. We walked down the short trail to the park entrance at the chain link fence, and I stopped to grab a couple of poop bags, which are thoughtfully provided throughout the park. (Even with the bags freely available, you still have to move through the park as if you’re negotiating a land mine field. Or shopping for groceries at the Baghdad Albertson’s.)

I put on the helmet, tightened the chin strap, and inserted the ear buds. I turned the power on, and we took a few steps toward the gate. There was a homeless guy passed out on the side of a small grassy knoll, and Houdini pulled me over near the guy. He then starting circling right next to the guy, going into a squat. He’s no shot putter, so I knew he was about to take a crap. I sighed, and stood there watching patiently. And listening.

“…Mmmm…grunt…grunt…oh, man, I gotta chew this rawhide a little better next time…grunt…grunt…Ahhhhhh!”

Then he took a few steps away, and scraped his back feet a few times, in the general direction of the unconscious homeless guy.

“Get a job.”

I looked at Houdini, stunned, as he started trotting to the gate to the bark park. Wow, this helmet really works. I’d seen it before in a Gary Larsen cartoon, but when the inventor put it on, all the dogs were saying was this: “Hey!” But I was wearing the real McCoy, and now I would be privy to a fascinating world where no human had ever been. I would gain knowledge about man’s best friend that would open new doors, that would…

“Hey, Bob, you want to take your opposable thumb out of your ass and open this gate?”

It was Houdini, looking up at me, panting and smiling that innocent smile of his. I never knew he was such a smart ass. I opened the gate, and we walked into the park. I unclipped his leash, and he ran directly to a tree. I turned up the gain on the battery pack.

“Oh, yeah,” said Houdini. “My inbox is full! Whadda we got here?” He sniffed the tree. “Boxer. Female. Fresh, maybe ten minutes. German Shepherd. I hope he gets hip displaysia, the Nazi prick. Labrador. Labrador. Golden Retriever. Labrador.” Sniff sniff. “Oh ho, what’s this?” Sniff sniff sniff. “Beagle. She’s about two. In heat. Definitely in heat. Definitely. About two.”

Great. I’m the owner of Rain Dog. He finally quit the tree (after leaving a small squirt of urine, hiking his leg as high as he could without falling over), and started moving toward the river, nose to the ground, weaving a circuitous route through the grass. “Where’s the beagle, where’s the beagle…”

“HA! Look at that little dude!” I heard. It was the deep masculine voice of a teenager, but when I spotted the source, it was a large, black standard poodle. He was standing with a couple of other dogs, a husky and a mutt that looked like a cross between a Cocker Spaniel and a skunk. They all looked at the approaching Houdini, and were mumbling to each other: “What’s wrong with his legs, man? They’re so short.” “I don’t know, but he looks like a bratwurst with eyes.” “Mmm…bratwurst…”

Houdini trotted right up to the poodle, tail wagging, head held high. “Hi there. I’m a Daschund/Corgi cross. Name’s Houdini. Mind if I sniff your crank?”

The poodle buried his nose under Houdini’s tail, while Houdini completed their twitchy doggie sixty-nine. “Hmm,” said the poodle. “Looks like you recently squeezed one out! Whoa, dude, you gotta do a better job chewing that rawhide. Your whale eye looks pretty beat up.”

Houdini suddenly recoiled from the poodle. The poodle’s pink thing was exposed. “Hey, man, there’s no need for that!” said Houdini. “I don’t swing that way! Jesus! Put that back in your pants.”

“Sorry,” said the poodle, while the other dogs laughed their asses off. “I just thought—I thought we kind of had a moment there.”

Houdini turned away from the poodle, scraped some dirt at him with his back feet, and said over his shoulder, “Get a job.”

We went down to the beach, and Houdini walked right into the river. He went as deep as he could while still touching bottom, which was about six inches. “Ahhh,” he said, with that panting smile. “This cool water feels so good on my nuts. Oh, wait, that’s right—I don’t have any nuts! Thanks again for that, Bob.” Boy, this dog, I don’t know where he gets his sarcastic streak.

I wondered if the language filter worked both ways, so I asked Houdini, “Hey, how come you love to get in the water, but you hide under the bed when I want to give you a bath?”

He looked at me, and after a few moments, said, “What are you barking at?”

I was beginning to feel kind of unhinged about the whole thing, so I decided to cut our visit short. He got out of the river, shook himself off, and we walked up the bank to the path. There, sitting under a bench, was a nice-looking beagle. And her nice-looking owner was sitting on the bench, reading a book.

“Hi,” I said, sitting down on the other end of the bench. “Nice day to walk your book. I mean, uh, for a dog read, er, walk, uh. Nice day. ”

“Yes, it is a nice day for a walk,” she said without taking her eyes off the book. She sighed, bookmarked her page, closed the book and gave me an annoyed look. Then an expression of mock concern came over her face. “Did Hogan escape again, Col. Klink?”

Oh, I’d forgotten about the helmet. Damn. Meanwhile, I was hearing some disturbing talk coming from under the bench. Houdini had been sniffing around the beagle with a grim look on his face, and was talking low and fast: “Come on, baby, I’ll only put it in just a little bit. Come on. You know you want it. Come on. Let’s go. Just a little bit. Come on.”

The beagle, intimidated and unsure, was saying, “I don’t know. We just met. I don’t even know you. God, your nose is cold! Ah, well, I guess it couldn’t hurt. Why don’t you…”

Just like that, he was on her. Of course, he plunged it in to the hilt. He was pumping for all he was worth, eyes a bit crossed, tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.

“Oh, my GOD that feels good!” said the beagle, trying to hold her ground. “Go ahead and put it all the way in!”

Houdini, ever the quick thinker, said, “A promise is a promise.”

Mortified, I reached down and pulled him off the beagle, and the woman picked up her dog, and walked off in a huff.

“Uh, have a nice dog,” I said to the girl.

“Call me!” said the beagle to Houdini.

Houdini sniffed the ground, the bench, my leg, his paw, anywhere that might have a molecule of his spoor. Satisfied, he started trotting jauntily toward the gate. “Bitch,” he said to no one in particular.

I’d had enough. I yanked the helmet off and stuffed it into a trash can. Houdini barked at me, and it sounded like barking. But I imagine he was saying, “Can’t take it, huh? I didn’t think so. You can’t HANDLE the truth!”

You know, even barking, my dog does a pretty good Jack Nicholson.

[Bob returns with fresh samples in September.]

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