Good idea. Sunday. — Let’s take the dogs to their old park! David said. — A good
30 minutes from our old house. A good 45
from the new.
David, never one for
a direct route, took a northerly path to go south. — Now a good 60 minute walk. The northerly path took us through one of
Cambridge’s big parks. Max got excited –
as he always does in the presence of his flying squirrel toy — the second his
leading front paw hit the lawn. Demanded
his toy. Too many people to also let him
off his lead. So as he tossed and swung
squirrel — threw himself into the motions — from one end of the park to the
other, I was the rag doll that he was pulling behind.
Crossed the path of
another strong-willed dog on the way, just outside the great wall of Fenners’
Cricket Grounds. The two of them were
all Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Dragon. I was
a member of supporting cast – hidden by the blue screen – clipped from the
final cut. The fellow at the other end
of the lift strings. The dogs looked as
though they were flying in slow motion. Here, as seen by the man having the
out-of-body experience, they’re all teeth. Fur is just a color.
Now, back in old
territory, suddenly new with Spring flowers, Max was a yacht, catching every
cresting wave of other dogs’ scents. I was the dingy, the life-boat behind. Like a man slowly
quartered, I had a mind for direction. Max peed so much, marking this new land,
that he would strain to drain himself on the alternate path home. By now, the muscles in my upper right arm and
side ache as though they’ve been elasticized, pulled and sprung. I have been his sling-shot. He is my stone.
In the old park
finally. Three football fields in
length, and each of them occupied with a game. Polish speakers versus the Gujarati. Urdu speakers versus the Turkish. The Scots versus the English. Near the tennis courts, a father and son are
taking football lessons. The kid’s
especially good with his head. But, Max
loves balls; controlling him becomes a measure of using my body as his
counter-weight. My left knee joint pops.
This is my trick leg. I should take it to birthday parties and bar
mitzvahs. It could make us money. For the moment, however, I’m baying like a wild dog in the light of
moon. It’s a choke collar, I don’t need.
Then, Squirrel saves me: a moment of
distraction.
The path home carries
us over the railroad tracks in a tube of translucent glass; its red and blue accents,
gone neon in the light. We are the metal
balls of this pinball machine. I pray
that Max will not be sprung at the sight of an approaching dog. A long arching ramp forms the glide path, but
there’s also an escape fashioned of steps leading down to the street on the other
side. David makes a sensible decision. It’s the steps; most dog owners will be on the path. My knee feels like the boulder learning to
round itself as it descends a mountain in free fall. The pain is a passion that will not go unrequited. Each step is a stolen kiss.
The alternate path
home is eventually flat. Urban, but uneventful. Home-bound dogs here come to their windows to
watch us pass. We are guilty as sin – Max especially – in our desire for water. But, no dogs bark, just as no paths are marked. This is an unwritten law of the dog world:
thou shalt not challenge those who pass without claiming your own.
The good minutes home
stretch out. Dead to the anticipation of
a destination. The alternate path brings
us to the rear gates of the cemetery. The
repose of those who’ve come before us is a short-cut not unlike hypothesized
worm-holes through space-time. It lays
parallel to but distant from the walled cricket field we passed earlier. There goes foresight: wary, the dogs who come
here to play simply because it is gated and walled, . . . and, because there
are several great places to hide, from which to tear out barking, Surprise! So, we take instead the route that bubbles around the homes and streets backing onto the cemetery walls.
House is a
destination. Home is a state of mind. The dogs, freed of their leads, lay prone on
the dining room floor. Max, a priest,
taking orders. Finally, I climb the
steps toward my desktop computer. It too
is a destination that goes before the remains of the day. Were it a tree-top nest, I would be its
wounded bird.
