from the Archive

Let me tell you about the time me and Harley the dog were down at the park at midnight.

It’s dark then. Sometimes this is good, sometimes this is bad. Depends what you’re up to. For us it was good and bad. We were there to poo and get sleepy. Well, Harley was, but he didn’t know it. He thought he was there to party. But then, he’s only four years old, what does he know about hidden agendas? I had one, and now you know about it; he still doesn’t, because as far as I know he cannot read.

We entered the park on the eastern walkway, a wide sidewalk that gradually climbs the slope between two rows of tall flowering bushes. At the top it opened into the park itself, an oasis of dogwoods, waterfalls, perfect green lawns, and reflecting pools covered with a snowfall of pink cherry blossoms. I looked up at the moonless, cloudless sky, empty all the way to Arcturis, and I let Harley off the leash.

He knew the score. He began barking frantically, bouncing up and down on his front legs and throwing his head from side to side.

I moved higher up the slope, near the waterfall pools where the junkies wash their clothes. Sometimes the pools look like bubblebaths, especially if the boosters have scored some soap from the Army and Navy Department Store. The power of the water falling four or five feet pounds out a lot of the dirt without scrubbing, so the junkies can pass out on the grass secure in the knowledge that their jeans will be cleaned automatically, if they aren’t stolen. At night the park is too busy for that, and so are the junkies. The hookers take their clients here, and there are deals to be made on the benches, lots of deals. At the very top of the slope is a metal daisy with a thick stem, short pipes of steel coming off it like branches; these pipes are open at the end, and a sign says “Keep our park clean. Deposit used rigs here.” Nice.

So that’s where I was, not too near any bushes or benches, as I wished not to interfere with any commerce that might be taking place there. People are very sensitive about their commerce, and take it unkindly if you occupy their place of business. And if you look too respectable you will scare off the customers and that gets back to the sensitive about commerce angle I was mentioning. So I was nowhere near no thing, and Harley was hopping along in my wake, wagging his tail and barking because he’s just a dog, and they do that.

I reach in the bag. Harley goes wild and whips around, galloping downhill with his tongue hanging out. And I throw the ball.

I always like the first throw of the night. It’s clean, fresh, all those nice-sounding things they say in tampon commercials, even unscented. After that it gets covered in a progressively thicker and more repulsive layer of slime that has the single benefit of making it impossible for goose shit to stick to the ball. Harley’s slobber makes it impossible for anything to stick to anything, except the slime, which sticks to everything; I’m sure NATO could use it for some very advanced weapon system of some kind.
The ball goes high and long; this is the advantage of throwing from the top of a hill. You throw only so far, but the earth itself falls away from the throw, so Harley covers twice the distance of the toss. Then he has to turn around and go uphill, which poops him out even more. I have this down to a system; it’s like fortified cereal, but for exercise.

One of my favorite things about this little park, Andy Livingstone Park, is that the ball invariably lands in a well-lit area, there being streetlights all along the fire lane at the bottom of the hill. This is good, so Harley can find the ball; it is also good so I can see Harley is finding the ball, rather than checking out a skunk or sniffing butts with a coyote or taking off after a rat or a bag from McDonalds. Or licking up puke, he’s big on licking up puke. I figure if a junkie couldn’t keep it down it sure can’t be good for him, so I discourage this practice most strongly, which is hard, especially on That Very Special Wednesday as there is a great deal of puke just lying around, looking tempting. Very difficult to play fetch and discourage puke-slurping at the same time, but it can be done.

I see Harley get the ball. Fetch, Harley, fetch. Come, Harley, come. Oh, fine, ignore me. You think you’re so smart wandering around with your nose in the air and a big red IndesctructaBall in your mouth. Hey, get out of there! I hear much bush-crashing. He’s not what anyone would call a dainty dog. I hear a couple of voices, who don’t sound friendly, but if I can’t see them I figure they can’t see me and if they can’t then they can’t do too much to me, now can they? But where’s the dog? Ah, there he is, at the other end of the bushes, having rooted through a junkie’s McStash. He still has ketchup on his chin, and an innocent expression on his face.

And no ball.

Spiffy, he dropped it in the bushes. I think about the hooker and client and decide they have probably left by now, so it should be as safe as wandering around in dark, rat-infested bushes where junkies drop their needles ever gets. So I begin to wander around in the dark, rat-infested bushes where the junkies drop their needles. Silently, I begin composing a thank-you letter to the people who made my hiking boots with such nice, thick soles. I’m glad I have ski gloves, though the Canadarm would come in handy, too.

As I’m rooting around in the prickly darkness, I hear a voice.

“Ya need any help in there? That’s not such a good idea fer a young lady like you to be doing.”

“No kidding, but my dog dropped his ball and it cost me ten bucks.” I sound much tougher than him, and am momentarily embarrassed. I look out and see that the speaker is a slim, middle-aged man with a ballcap and a grey ‘stache. He has the Downtown EastSide look, which is like Keith Richards without the money and the eyeliner. Probably a dealer. He does not look like he is into causing me trouble.

“I’ll help you look,” he says. “Things are kind of slow right now.” and he does, he helps me for a half hour or more. We chat. I learn all about how when he was young his family raised show dogs, about his preference for the working breeds, about his belief that humanity’s low avarice has ruined once-great animals like the collie and the labrador. He hears me out about pugs and says if that’s what they’re really like then he just might change his mind about them, I mean, if they’re really like that. I hear about his cross-country odyssey, and how he loves prairie river valleys. Prettiest places on earth. I hear about his military service; we try to figure out if he crossed paths with my dad and decide he did not.

Then, after half an hour of teamwork, Harley comes up to us with the ball in his mouth. Dumb dog.

There are people waiting by the bench. The guy says, “Well, nice chatting with ya, but I’d better go.”

“Yes,” I say, “Don’t want to keep you from business. Thanks.”

I put Harley back on the leash, the fellow pets him a few times and tells him what a fine, handsome fellow he is, and Harley and I go home. The man stays behind, dealing.