Dog Days

I watched today with fascination as the six dogs, all having spent the better part of ten minutes languishing in the shade and ignoring each other -- leapt up in unison to charge the fence. Two dogs from the other building -- the one with the bigger balconies and the pool, and, from what I've been told, a state of the art gym -- had entered the tiny pathway just beyond our fence, en route to their own park. 

The grass is not greener on the other side of the fence, at least if we're comparing dog parks. It's the same actually, the same synthetic turf, green even in the dead of winter, delightfully mud-free during the fickle days of spring thaw. But ours, well it stretches much farther away from the train tracks, gives us a buffer from the noise, if we prefer. We have benches and trees on our side, plenty of shade for the hot summer days we thought would never arrive. The dogs on our side of the fence have no idea how good they have it, while we humans sacrifice the more enticing people amenities in the building next door.  Still, they thrill at the sight of the other dogs on the other side of the fence, want only to be with them. 

So human. Sure that the good stuff is going on in somebody else's yard. I've spent the past four months slowly getting to know my neighborhood and its surroundings. I have explored the nearby dog parks and paths, I've biked north and south along the lake front, and I've wandered by dozens of restaurants, wondering when I'd be one of the lucky ones, sitting outside on a makeshift patio in the middle of the afternoon, stuffing myself and having an early cocktail. I've walked by those people dozens of times, thinking how charmed their lives must be. How green is their grass, as I can do no more than trudge by. 

I took the plunge today, dipped my toe into that mystical other place. I reminded myself I must belong, and I stretched my legs out into the sun while I carefully tucked my almost 60 year old face into a slice of shade. As I sipped my margarita and stuffed in the last remnants of my tacos, I thought it's not all that different, really.  Except, I suppose, that I was looking out from the table side of the sidewalk, thinking maybe I would have been better off had I kept walking. Thinking maybe I should have tried the hamburger place next door instead, with the adjoining ice cream shop. I wonder if I will ever grow wise enough to be fully impervious to the ridiculous fantasy of greener grass. 

In our dog park, we know all the dogs' names, but we humans remain cautiously anonymous. We barely recognize each other on the street, clutching purses instead of leashes, or maybe we just pretend, so as not to intrude. We are comfortable with each other on our synthetic turf, watching our dogs fall instinctively into their flirtations and friendships, unencumbered by leashes or age old insecurities. They run and they dance, or, as they did today, lay about in companionable silence, waiting for something better to come along, just on the other side of the fence. Blissfully unaware that the fantasy is no better than what they have.