The Wicked Flea

woman in yellow laughed. “She’s all we ever talk about!”
    “That’s not true,” objected the woman in purple. “We talk about how well all the other dogs get along. Chomsky—he’s the wheaten—is the most selfdirected. He pretty much does his own thing around the other dogs, on the periphery, and he likes them, but after he runs with them for a few minutes, he loses interest. And then he sniffs things.”
    “I’ve deprived Chomsky of the benefit of siblings,” explained the woman in yellow. “He’s an only child, so he’s had to learn to entertain himself. Aren’t you going to let Rowdy play?”
    “He isn’t necessarily good with other dogs,” I said apologetically, meaning that the handsome boy was my life’s blood, and I didn’t want his flowing in the street after he’d been hit by a car.
    “Unsocialized,” the woman said matter-of-factly. OBEDIENCE-TITLED-CANINE-GOOD-CITIZEN-BREED-CHAMPION-BREEDING-QUALITY-CERTIFIED-THERAPY-DOG! I wanted to reply just like that! Hyphenated, all one word, all capital letters, one long, loud, dog-proud brag. But like Rowdy and Kimi, I am socialized. Also, her wheaten, Chomsky, was peacefully wandering around off leash without getting into dog fights or any other trouble, and in that limited sphere of behavior, he probably was superior to Rowdy. Not that there’s so much as a competitive metatarsal in my body, but as a dog show type, I find myself oddly reluctant to enter a My Dog’s Better Than Your Dog contest that my dog is bound to lose.
    “There you have it.” Noah spoke with the cadence of a radio preacher. “Dogs that come to the park and socialize all learn to get along together.” He didn’t actually finish with amen, but the word hung in the air all the same. Could he really be a minister? The Gospel dog names—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Jonna— sounded a bit blasphemous even to me, but maybe the intention had been devout. In any case, the loose dogs seemed to support his contention about the benefits of off-leash play. Chomsky remained happily on the fringes of the group, as Noah’s mixed breeds and the Labs tore around. With a guilt-ridden glance in my direction, Ceci removed Quest’s leash. The excitement of meeting Rowdy and riding in the car, however, seemed to have exhausted the old dog’s energy. He sank to the grass in a bearlike heap.
    ‘That hardly applies to Zsa Zsa,” one of the women pointed out. “I mean, Zsa Zsa isn’t exactly a walking ad for playing with other dogs, and Sylvia’s yard is next to the park. It’s five minutes from here. Zsa Zsa’s been coming here for ages, and you couldn’t exactly call her socialized. Really, she’s just getting worse and worse.”
    “I hate to say it,” another woman remarked, “but I’m afraid the truth is that Zsa Zsa just is not a very nice dog. Naturally, you can’t expect Sylvia to see it that way.”
    “Has anyone tried talking to Sylvia?” I asked.
    “Sylvia knows damn well that Zsa Zsa’s ruining the park for the rest of us,” Noah said. “Hey, who keeps the park safe? We do! Dog walkers. The rest of us knock ourselves out to fight the antidog sentiment. We go around with our pockets full of plastic bags. We clean up after our dogs. Our dogs don’t go around chasing the joggers and jumping on people and scaring little old ladies.” Suddenly aware of Ceci’s presence, Noah reddened and had the sense not to elaborate.
    “It’s true,” said the woman in purple. ‘Technically, there’s a leash law, but no one used to care all that much, except for a few cranks who complained if they stepped in dog doo, but really our dogs just play together.” She swept an arm toward the nearby pack. “They’re not bothering anyone.”
    “Does Sylvia—?” I started to ask.
    Noah interrupted me. “Sylvia knows. Her son complains to her all the time.”
    The woman in purple corrected him. “Son-in-law. He’s married to Sylvia’s daughter. I forget his name.”
    “Leo’s daddy,” someone said. Or that’s what it sounded like.
    Ceci spelled out the name. “L-l-i-o. Llio is a Pembroke Welsh corgi, just like the Queen’s dogs, although I must say that despite the Welsh and all that, tradition, respect for the breed’s origins, and so forth, it still strikes me as a foolish name for a girl, because after all, we’re not in Wales, are we?” She had a momentary look of genuine puzzlement. As if announcing a comforting discovery, she cried, Columbus-like,