A club soccer team was using half the field for practice. It was the same team that had practiced there in the days before.
The other dogs at the park stayed away from the soccer practice. Murphy, a big labradoodle that reminds me of David Hasselhoff in his early, golden days, played catch on the half of the field that was free. Mia, a sweet French bulldog puppy, hassled the adult dogs and stole kisses from Clara. Two border-collie mixes assiduously and elegantly chased Frisbees.
After greeting the other dogs, Wilbur reasoned the best way to maximize belly scratches was to run into the thick of soccer practice. This was the second day in a row that he had done this. I suppose he wouldn't be Wilbur if he wasn't friendly and lovable.
'Wilbur!" I shouted, running after him, Clara jouncing on my hip, sunglasses on my shirt collar, knocking against my chest. Clara echoed my sentiment, furiously scolding "Ilbur dog" while we ran. I was wearing red fleece Guitar Hero parachute pants. The weight of my car keys and cellphone in the pockets was threatening to de-pants me with every stride. We loped past a cluster of soccer balls.
"Ball!" Clara noted, wriggling ferociously. Clara would very much like to collect every ball on the planet and horde them under her crib.
"Dog!" warned one of the soccer players as Wilbur made his way into the action. The girls stopped playing, laughing and cooing at him. When Wilbur saw me running towards him, breathless, he trotted over amiably.
I leashed him up and took him to the other side of the park.
Clara generally feels that she is the boss of Wilbur. She insisted on holding the leash, alone. On other mornings, Wilbur has made a run for it as soon as her dimpled little hand closed around the handle. Yesterday he was docile, thank goodness.
Clara wanted to make sure I understood that this was Wilbur's pile of poop. Right there. Right here. Did I have a sack? Did I want her to--?
"No, Honey. Mommy will do this. This is yucky."
Did I need her to hold the poop sack? Did I understand that there was poop in that sack?
"I'll do it, Hon," I told her. I tossed the poop in the trash and turned to find Wilbur in the thick of the soccer game again.
The girls on the sideline started cheering.
"Go, Wilbur! Go, Wilbur!" they shouted. Wilbur ran for them at full tilt, obviously showing off. His ears flapped in the breeze, his chunky legs churned. He looked like a bratwurst with fur. He made it to them before I did and let them lavish him with affection.
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