One can say I’m a dog park connoisseur. I love dog parks. They have become my place of zen. However, this has not always been the case.
When I first got Ziggy, we lived in Brooklyn, New York. Since Ziggy was a puppy in Fort Greene, I wanted to acclimate him to his surroundings and introduce him to some dog friends, like any normal child.
I imagined Ziggy blissfully playing with dogs of all shapes, sizes, and colors, while I sat on a bench with the other parents, laughing and cooing over our well-behaved, four-legged kids.
Then, in my dog park fantasy, a single, disturbingly handsome, appropriately aged, dog dad would arrive. I’d charm the shit out of him, by pulling a thermos filled with Rosé from my tote. Then we’d take our dogs to brunch and sit in the sun. Then, he’d tell me about his private jet that would fly us to Fiji for a few days, so we could get to know each other better without the distractions of “life.” The two of us, dog leashes in hand, would walk out on to the tarmac and the rest would be history.
But as life would have it, this is not what happened.
Puppy Ziggy, at 11lbs of pure fat, barreled into the park screaming.
It’s 9:45am on a Saturday morning and my tiny, caramel Frenchie is running full steam ahead for the largest dog he can find, yelling like a child throwing a tantrum. Meanwhile, all the other, “proper” Brooklyn Frenchies and their mothers are horrified.
“What an unruly Frenchie!” they murmured. “Doesn’t she have any help with that out-of-control puppy?”
“I mean clearly she’s never heard of Doggie Daycare. Hahahahah!” I imagined they all said these things with a Madonna-esque British accent as they clutched their pearls.
Like any good, dog parent, I took action. I tossed my tote aside, spilling my thermos of cheap wine all over and bolted after him screaming, “Florenz Ziegfeld, NO!” It felt more disciplinary to call him by his full name. Everyone is watching me.
Then as centrifugal force would have it, Ziggy tripped, and his little, butter-ball body began to roll. I slid down beside him and did a tuck and cover, as if a bomb just went off and I wanted to shield him from the blast. Ziggy was fine… panting, no longer screaming, and very amused by my acrobatics.
A good-looking man, who I’m sure was an architect building animal rescue centers and had a solid relationship with his mother, walked towards me holding my phone and my soaking wet tote, “That’s one way to start the day.”
Was this a first meeting where the haphazard girl meets the well-to-do boy and we fall madly in love!? Would I finally know what it was like to Netflix and chill with someone!?
I laughed, “Yeah sorry, I don’t know where that sound came from? It sounds like an exorcism! He’s never-”
“No,” he interrupted, “I meant the wine. It’s like, barely 10am.”
Not my knight in shining American Apparel armor, but Mr. Judgy McJudgerson.
I got up and Ziggy and I walked through the park with our heads held high, reeking of wine and looking like we’d gotten in a fight with a lawnmower. We decided we didn’t need their approval, we just needed ice cream. Yes, at 8am. Deal with it.
We hope you enjoyed tonight’s edition of Bark After Dark, the one-stop-shop for all your insane-in-the-canine, cuckoo-for-cocoa-ruffs, barking mad needs!