On the way to the Dog Park

 My townhouse is on the way to the dog park

My townhouse is on the way to the dog park. In the evenings now that it is staying light later, I’ll sit at my kitchen table and watch residents trumble past, absorbed into their phones, or staring straight ahead, or engaged with their pet. I’ve come to recognize the different “couples.” The bearded man with his fat pitbull who resembles a pig. He treats the animal as if it is the sweetest thing on earth as it lunges and snarls at me, straining the leash that I pray holds. Good doggy, good doggy, he coos. She won’t hurt you, he tells me as obviously the dog wants to tear me apart. I let him live in denial and smile.

Some dogs seem like they can barely manage the walk there and back. Owners in housecoats and slippers sneak out, hoping to avoid the cold and wet snow. There’s a skinny greyhound kind of dog that is entirely undisciplined, who goes randomly and whose adult ignores the rules of cleaning up after their pets. This animal also strains on his leash to chase after squirrels who taunt it by flicking their tail and scurrying up a tree out of reach. The dog will yelp at the base after dragging its owner across the grass. I’m sure in his mind he’s thinking: one day . . .

The scenes outside my window are arranged for my nighttime amusement to entertain me as I eat, solitary at my table.