We took Moxie to the Silver Lake dog park on Saturday to relieve some of her pent-up energy. There was a lot to be released. She did the usual routine of tearing around the place, trying to meet all the dogs at once, being so anxious to play and run that she irritated a few, resulting in a couple of snaps at her, which she returned with vicious enthusiasm. Morgan got so annoyed he had to give himself a time out.
But after a few minutes, she calmed down a bit. The park is always unpredictable. You never know how many dogs are going to be there, and Saturday there were probably 15.
I’ve tried to avoid the usual dog park phenomenon, where the regulars all know each other by their dog’s name, rather than their own.
“Oh, hey, there’s Snazzy. And … her owner, there.”
I try to engage the other owners in conversation to sneak in an introduction and name exchange, but it doesn’t always work. I don’t always get the chance to start, because I have to keep an eye on Moxie, making sure she isn’t getting into fights, running over smaller dogs in her zest for herding them, and picking up her poop, which she always makes a point of leaving, no matter how often she’s gone earlier in the day. Some animal behavior doctoral candidate is no doubt making that phenomenon a centerpiece of her dissertation.
This time there were two Foxies and one Boxy, to round out a rhymed foursome. I didn’t get a single owner’s name.
Dogs and owners left as the light faded. We followed, with a filthy, tired dog of our own. I really hope they plant more grass this year.
