The Wicked Flea

Wilson, and then we were off again. Long before that, it had become apparent to me that Wilson’s dog-social standing was not quite... what’s a nonsnobbish way to say this? In the, a-hem, highly structured social world of the dog fancy, my own standing borders on the illustrious, not so much because of my own accomplishments as because of my late mother’s. She was not only a famous breeder of golden retrievers and a successful obedience competitor, but the sort of personable personage who joins everything and knows everyone who’s anyone in dogs, including, for example, Mrs. Nigel Waggenhoffer, whose name Wilson dropped. And when I say dropped, I mean let fall with a bang. Mrs. Waggenhoffer is big in goldens and is the president of the prestigious Micmac Kennel Club, to which I belong and Wilson didn’t.
    “I was the co-breeder on some of my mother’s litters,” I explained modestly. “I’m sort of a legacy admission. I’m not active in the club at all.” So don’t even think about asking me to sponsor you, I wanted to add.
    Changing the subject, Wilson said, “You hardly ever see any show people at the park.”
    “We don’t let our dogs off leash,” I said. “That’s one reason.”
    In low tones, Wilson confided, “These pet people don’t know anything. Take the wheaten. Chomsky. Jesus, the poor dog, he’s all matted. She lets him get like that, worse than that, and then she takes him to the groomer and has him shaved. It’s awful. And Thoreau, that’s that fat Lab over there, is a blimp. She’s killing him.”
    “The dogs really do seem well socialized,” I pointed out.
    Wilson rolled his eyes. “What’s it going to matter if they’re dead?”
     

Chapter 9
     
    As Wilson and I were chatting, yet more new people and dogs arrived. By now, there must’ve been a couple of dozen dogs of all sizes, shapes, and colors, including two standard poodles, one black and one white, a pair of yellow Labs, three West Highland white terriers, and some of those fascinating mixes whose ancestry inspires guessing games with no known right answers. The big spotted dog gently herding the Westies could well have been a Border collie-Newfoundland cross. A medium-size, short-coated tan dog looked like a million other All-American dogs, except for the peculiar and distinctively Chinese crested patches of long white hair on his head and tail. What had been a unified play group now consisted of three or four subgroups with a few lone dogs hanging out on the periphery and few happy pairs playing together. Ceci’s great big Quest had risen to his immense feet and was gently looming over an adorable Shih Tzu, who was barking directly into his face while executing the front-down, rear-up play bows that dogs use to invite one another to romp. Was I tempted to let Rowdy join the free play? Oh, yes I was. Did I remove his leash? I did not.
    Although it was still early morning, the temperature was rising, and the mommies I’d identified by color had removed their parkas, as had Noah. Ceci was by far the oldest person there. A young Asian woman and a hefty, dark-skinned man added a little variety. As is usually the case, by comparison with the dogs, however, the human beings were annoyingly homogeneous. Some were taller or shorter, heavier or leaner than others, but no difference in human appearance began to rival the marvelous contrast between the giant Quest and the little Shih Tzu. Naked, we’d’ve looked even more uniform than we did with our clothes on. As I was reflecting on the aesthetic superiority of Rowdy’s species to my own, a male Dalmatian who’d been flying around in circles with a couple of buddies suddenly split off and sprinted toward the woods.
    “Lydia,” someone called out. “Lydia!” Weird name for a male, right? These pet people! But Lydia turned out to be the owner, a red-haired woman in jeans and an “I Love My Dal” sweatshirt, who shouted, “Buster! Buster, you come right back here! Buster, bad dog! Damn it all!” Still hollering, she marched off in the direction the Dalmatian had taken before he’d disappeared into the woods.
    Almost immediately, another woman appeared. This one was also looking for a dog. Slim and neat, she had shoulder-length brown hair streaked with gray. She wore a pale green coat over a matching suit. On her feet were cream-colored pumps, what I think of as real shoes, meaning that they made walking difficult and running impossible. Reaching the dog