TRANQUILITY INTERRUPTUS

I took Mabel and Rupert to the offleash-cruising park today. They haven't been in a couple of weeks, so they were extra excited. I don't think I've mentioned this, but whenever Mabel's thrilled about something she passes a lot of gas. Her happy reflex is somehow directly linked to her tooting reflex. (I'm hoping Nurse George can explain that for us.)

Anyway, by the time we got to the park Rupert and I were extra eager to get out of the car. We headed down the western trail, which, as I've said before, seems to be the one less traveled by the gay cruisers. I almost always take this trail, especially if there are a lot of cars in the parking lot, because I am fearful of surprising someone in flagrante.

Usually I walk with the dogs, go exploring, keep them from rolling in hideous smelling stuff. But today I felt kind of depressed and lazy, so I just plopped down at a picnic table and trusted them to stay out of trouble. They kept pretty close to me for a while — splashing in the ice-cold river, chasing each other in sloppy figure-eights, terrorizing a plump little rabbit, digging furiously at a heap of decaying logs. The next thing I know, they're taking off down the trail, their alert little tails disappearing into the woods. Confident that they'd soon return, I lapsed into a daydream.

It's so peaceful at that park. The wide, flat Kansas River seems still as granite in winter — just a matte gray, stony slab — between banks of leafless cottonwoods. Placid is the word that occurred to me. Placid and dormant and leaden. Yesterday someone found a woman's body by the levee. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be out walking and find a dead woman — how that would stay with you forever, how certain things would always make you think of it: rivers, Decembers, walks. One day I was walking by the river and I saw a body, and when I got closer I realized that it was a woman and that she was dead. You would tell that story a thousand times before someone, someday, found you dead. It would be the weirdest thing that ever happened to you. Probably.

And then I started to think of stories in general and how everyone has a most-often-told story — the one experience in their life that they recount more than any other. Everyone has a story like that. It's their story, but they probably aren't aware of it. Most people, I think, if you asked them what story they tell the most, they couldn't tell you; but maybe someone close to them could — like a spouse or a sibling or a parent.

As I'm contemplating this, I hear Mabel's extra loud howling-bark coming from the woods. She's part coonhound, so she's extremely vocal. Next I hear Rupert's lesser, much lower bark. I call their names. After a second or two, they crash through some brush and come running toward me at full tilt. And then two men — evidently the object of their barking — come out of the same brush. Mabel and Rupert must have surprised them, must have come upon them unexpectedly, because normally they don't bark at people at the park; they only bark if people are where the dogs don't expect them to be.

The guys come toward me, and I feel very odd. What is the protocol? Should I just walk the other way? Should I stand my ground and apologize when they get closer? Apologize for what? For barking, but harmless, dogs? What exactly did Mabel and Rupert interrupt? Before I can decide on a course of action, one of the men yells at me. He says two things. The first thing I can't make out, but I can tell he's angry. The second thing — a really mad yell — is this: "Those dogs are supposed to be on leashes!" Then the two men turn around and disappear into the other side of the woods.

My fear gives way to disbelief. Huh?! The nerve of those Nancies! This is a city-operated off-leash dog park! How dare they yell at me — they who were probably back there doing something that's definitely not sanctioned by the city. Bastards! And to think, I was just coming to terms with their activities, even celebrating them in a recent post. I had finally begun to realize that there may be no better evidence of happiness than a cigarette butt, a PBR can and a used condom. Why can't they see that a pile of dog doo and some barking are evidence of another kind of happiness? Why can't they share the park as we are willing to do? Selfish assholes.

I'm really getting worked up. Too restless to sit at the picnic table, I start walking. Did those jerks not notice in their selfish pursuit of bliss that this is an off-leash dog park? Hello. Do they think I'm just some asshole out here breaking the law? Or do they know full well that it's perfectly legal now for dogs to run around here and just resent it? Are they trying to intimidate me? I keep walking — and then boom! — it practically knocks me over: a big green city sign nailed to a tree that says: DISC GOLF AREA — DOGS MUST BE ON LEASH.

WHAT?! They were right?! When did this happen? How can this be? There is no western off-leash trail anymore? I have to use the trysting trail? How is that possible? No one ever uses that damn disc golf park. How do those nonexistent people suddenly trump the dogs?

Does anyone know anything about this? Damn! I have some investigating to do. Stay tuned.