Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

Norfolk terrier, and what the ASPCA calls a Bronx coyote, a medium-size, prick-eared, pointy-faced brown dog, what third-generation mixed-breed dogs look like, in New York City and all over the world.
    The greyhound, a lovely old bitch with a graying muzzle, possibly one of the many rescued retired racers that are becoming popular as pets, ran in huge circles, followed by the mixed-breed dog and the little Norfolk, who did the best he could on those short legs, barking gleefully as he ran. The Golden came out of the water, shook, and dropped the tennis ball at his mistress’s feet. The dark-haired young woman reached into an open fanny pack, worn pouch to the front over her ample stomach rather than over her ample derriere as the name would suggest, and pulled out a treat, which she gave the dog. Then she picked up the wet ball and pitched it right back into the lake, the dog heading for the water before the ball landed with a splash. I wondered if she had ever considered not giving her water retriever a treat for doing what comes naturally.
    I picked up a stick and tossed it into the lake. Dashiell marked the fall and waited. I moved my hand in the direction of the lake, and he was off, airborne over the last stretch of wet grass, his belly flop sending water high into the sky.
    Dashiell and the Golden emerged together, each with his own prize. The Golden dropped the ball and waited for a treat. Dashiell put the stick in my hand and danced his way back to the edge of the water, waiting for a toss, please God.
    Like any dog that’s given half a chance to be himself, it was work that thrilled the pants off Dashiell. But the pear-shaped woman with the fanny pack didn’t seem to know that. She tossed the ball for her dog and came to stand near me.
    “Do you want some treats for him?” she asked.
    “Thanks,” I said, not wanting to be deemed one of those rude New Yorkers I hear so much about, “he’s fine.”
    “It’s no problem, really. I have plenty, and Jeff doesn’t mind sharing,” she said as if we were in the playground talking about our three-year-olds instead of out in the park discussing our dogs. She pried open the fanny pack and showed me enough dried liver to give all of the NYPD’s explosive-detection canines diarrhea for a month.
    “He’s happy to get the chance to—”
    She pulled a card out of her pocket.
    “I’m only trying to help.”
    Tiny beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip, and I noticed she could have used a shave, too.
    I wiped my wet, dirty hand off on my leggings and took her card. It read, “The Positive Pooch. Tracy Nevins, canine behaviorist.”
    In my neighborhood, positive means you’ve gotten unfortunate results on your HIV test. In dog training, it means the trainer is a foodie, a practitioner of what my friend Mike Chapman refers to in his dog column as “dog training lite.” Basically, the dog is viewed as a gaping maw into which you keep dropping treats. It’s the method used to produce a dancing chicken, ergo an important skill to have on the odd chance you’ll meet a dog with that spectacularly low an IQ.
    Tracy had a 914 area code, which meant she lived out of the city. She was probably in town for the symposium, but I didn’t ask. Dashiell was back, and I had my work cut out for me.
    I pocketed the card and walked closer to the lake so that I could give Dashiell more of a swim when I tossed the stick. Later, when I turned around, I saw that we were alone.
    Being a firm believer that a tired dog is a good dog, and wanting to make sure that Dashiell would be appreciative of the long down he’d have to do during dinner, I kept tossing the stick until his tongue hung down to about mid-chest level. Then, as wet as he was, because what’s the point of shaking if it’s not going to soak your mistress, I called to him and we headed back toward the hotel.
    Coming around the lake, we heard the strangest sound. Dashiell looked at me, and I nodded, meaning he could follow it, and so we left the path and once again walked into the copse of trees that snaked around the lake.
    There, side by side on a flat rock, we discovered the source of the sound, a small woman with a black pug, each with a huge white handkerchief covering her head. The pug stood as immobile as a lawn ornament, while the woman, sitting with her head tilted toward the sky, her nose poking up in the middle of the handkerchief, chanted.
    Dashiell and I froze in place, just watching. I had been