Baby Park- Every Town Should Have One

     Late yesterday afternoon, I walked to the dog park with Clara in the stroller, and Wilbur on the leash.  Clara was extremely exhausted, having gone to bed too late the night before and then to a rambunctious birthday party yesterday morning. Wilbur wheezed and coughed the whole way, not having learned in his seven years of existence that straining too hard on his leash blocks his windpipe.
     Our dog park is actually the football field of a junior high school near our house.  The city has a deal with the school, the details of which I'm fuzzy on.  The football field is abutted by a creek and some hills, and it attracts tons of dogs from Boise's Northend.  There's George, a collie that treats Clara as though she were a Jolly Rancher candy.  This might have to do with us usually coming to the park after dinner, when Clara is covered in chicken grease or cheese sauce. Sometimes George's licks and kisses get so frenzied he knocks her over.

     There's a border collie named Nina, a German Shepherd named Gracie, a collie mix named Jo-Jo.  There are at least three standard poodles that show up on a regular basis, and two Shih Tzus, one groomed, one not.  There have got to be a hundred different dogs that play at that dog park over the course of a week.

     When we got there, Clara wanted to hold Wilbur's leash. I gave it to her, and Wilbur, sensing the lack of power on the other end, took off at a lope.  He yanked Clara along, her short toddler legs struggling to keep up, her bulky diaper inhibiting proper movement.
     "If he runs too fast, just let go off the leash, Honey!" I yelled.  I could tell by the set of her shoulders that she wasn't going to let go, that she figured she was the one in charge.  I caught up with them just as Clara started emitting a whine of irritation.  It quickly turned into a full dirge. Wilbur's jerking on his end of the leash caused her to stammer as she trotted along.
     "Na-a-a-iii, N-n-n-n-ooooo!  D-d-d-o-o-g, d-i-i-s 'ay.  M-m-m-a-i-i-i 'ay." ["I don't like this! Hey, dog, go this way! My way!"]
     "Let go, Hon'! Let go!"
     Keeping pace with them, I reached down and took the leash, then unclipped Wilbur from it.
    "Oh, me my.  My dog! My 'eesh!" Clara grabbed for the leash.  One of the first things to go when she's tired are her fledgling language skills.  This, I believe, really frustrates her. "This this this. Mommy! 'Bur 'unning! No 'Bur! No 'unning!"
     But he was gone, ears flopping, chubby hindquarters churning, towards two Great Pyrenees lounging on the grass.  When he got there he assumed his regal dog pose: tail erect, front paw slightly lifted, paunch sucked in.
    The Great Pyrenees, whose names are Lucy and Buddy, did not deign to greet him.  I cannot imagine why.  Every dog should be impressed when an overgrown woodchuck with floppy ears wants to say hi.
     Undaunted, Wilbur sniffed delicately at their butts.
    "Thou art the noblest, most genteel, most elegant dog," I told him to make him feel better.
     "Beeg dog.  Beeg fur," said Clara, collapsing onto the Great Pyrenees named Buddy. Buddy is mostly fur, which is why he lays around so much in July, August and September.  We've played with Buddy before, so we know he likes babies and little kids.

     "Dink dog, dink 'ater," Clara said, holding my water bottle to his snout.  He lavished the mouth piece with his big pink tongue.
     "And that pretty much ensures that I'm not taking a sip from that bottle tonight," I said.
      Clara petted Buddy awhile, then stood with her arms folded, addressing the foothills.  I can't be completely sure, because I was standing aways away, but I think she was delivering a lecture on Wilbur, on how he is not allowed to ride in her stroller.  Also how, the last time we were at the park, she got to kick a football, and she kicked it with her shoe: "'Ick ball.  Hoof 'iks ball."  She might have also thrown some colors into her discourse: "geen" and "boo."

     After awhile, she came running over to me, her face concentrated, serious. She was running like the wind, running to be free of humanity's inherent yoke of oppression.  I could almost hear the Chariots of Fire music behind her.

     We climbed to the top of a grassy knoll nearby.  "Un, ew, tee!" she shouted. ["One, two, three!"]  Shrieking and holding hands, we ran down the side of the knoll.  At the bottom, she wasn't ready to stop running, so she yelled, "'Eeeddy, 'et, DOE!!" ["Ready, set, go!"]