by Suzy Banks
photographs by Tre Arenz
Are you trying to rediscover joy? Then toss out the saccharine self-help books and the herbal supplements and get yourself down to the canine playground at Riverside & I-35. Here, amid the pecan grove of the former Norwood Estate, unabashed joie de vivre reigns supreme. I double-dog dare you to go there on a weekend or after five on a weekday, when the park is full of panting, playing hounds, and not start grinning. The ecstasy of free dogs — running, chasing, sniffing butt — is highly contagious.
It was clean-up day when I visited the fenced-in park. Humans were diligently raking leaves, scooping poop and clearing debris out of the swimming pool, while their dogs did what dogs do best: goof around.
One pup with a striking resemblance to a well-used string mop had assigned himself the task of stealing all the work gloves and the rolls of plastic bags and securing them in a far corner of the park. Scooter, a Jack Russell terrier-mix and companion to Maureen Smith, who organized the clean-up, acted as official greeter. Stiff-legged and bright-eyed, he seemed entirely aware of every coming and going in the park and embodied the spirit of the doggie time continuum: Now. Now. Now. Dinner? Now. Now.
Meanwhile, Chili, a racing greyhound retired into the loving care of Sarah, rubbed her face against my leg and fixed me with those classic, big, brown eyes which dogs know how to use like a coy starlet. Those eyes were talking, and the way I heard it, she used to be shy and cautious around people, pets, and the unexpected. Then Sarah started bringing her to the park to do the greyhound thing: run. Chili wanted me to know that the more she ran, ran without a care or a goal or a leash or some silly crowd of humans hooting at her over the fence, the more she discovered her grace and the pure delight of stretching out legs as long as a broomstick. And no longer was she pursuing a mechanical rabbit; she had become the pursued.
She started her circuit around the park at an elegant lope. Then Brain and Ola and Dipper looked up from their games of ear-gnaw and bow-and-roll to begin the chase. Around and around, faster and faster, with a fresh pup — Spirit, Dino, Lucy, then Rodeo and Max — added to the pack with every loop. Chili left them so far behind lapping up her dust that their attention soon turned to easier prey. Travis, furry and black, was chosen by unanimous, telepathic consent. The humans stopped cleaning long enough to watch the blur of fur circling the park. Thundering pads. Yelps of delight.
Then Travis, who began to look a little worried about this overenthusiastic mob nipping at his heels, abruptly ended the chase by crashing into some shrubbery.
Dogs need to run and we need to watch them. Their freedom is like a tiny window to our past, to a time when we ran through the savannas together, spearing wild boars and ducking the unwelcomed attention of saber-toothed tigers. Simple days spent grunting and surviving, before insurance, property taxes, triplicate forms, and telemarketers jammed our shrinking craniums to bursting.
Go to the park. Go with your dog or just to watch the dogs of others. Stand there, in slack-jawed Cro-Magnon wonder, and feel the joy.
This article appears in July 25 • 1997 and July 25 • 1997 (Cover).