Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

A Walk in the Park

There comes a time when you realize that maybe it's not real life. You wonder if they got it in one take and whether it was a one-camera or two-camera shot. Sometimes, a low angle shot is best, capturing the essence of the scene. The problem is that you're just an actor, maybe an extra, which, considering it's your own life, would not be a good thing, and not the director.

I normally walk three dogs at one time, two rambunctious boxers and a determined, inquisitive beagle, which is not always a good idea. Three dogs make a pack. Dogs in a pack have a different mindset than dogs
that travel alone. For instance, when walking singly, the young boxer is timid and unsure when other people are near; and when confronted with another dog, she is curious and is nearly always desirous of a friendly relationship.

The older boxer, alone, will let a stranger pet her and try to play with other dogs. And the beagle will howl at another dog, but keep her distance, scared, trying to use her superior vocal ability to intimidate and will approach a strange human, looking for a new friend, but vigilant nonetheless.

I had all three dogs on leashes on the sidewalk at the top of the grassy hill leading down to the river. They were rooting around on the grass, figuring who had been in the neighborhood, as two people strolled by. The two humans, a man and woman holding hands on this bright, but rather chilly afternoon, the 33-degree Lake Erie water keeping the warming rays of the sun at bay, complimented the dogs' behavior, and I stood on the grass just off the concrete sidewalk, basking in the glowing remarks.

Together, in their pack, the dogs defend their territory, which extends from one horizon to the other. The beagle is still the noisemaker, a howling diversion designed to distract any intruder into their territory; and the boxers are the enforcers, intent upon excluding interlopers.

I surmise that while my attention was diverted by the man and woman inflating my ego, a lady with a Scottish Terrier brought her dog into the pack's theater of operation and then unleashed it. Why she did such a thing, I don't know; but apparently the Scottie made a bee-line up the hill toward the pack. You see, I was distracted by the man and woman and don't rightly know exactly what the lady with the Scottish Terrier did. I'll have to wait to see the film.

Of course, my three dogs, protecting their turf, as if on cue, charged toward the Scottie, yanking their leashes. I felt my right foot sliding. Stupid, stupid me. The ground was soft, it being above freezing; and my foot continued to slide ... the splits were inevitable, which meant pulled hamstrings or some other injury; but I didn't let go of the leashes. The dogs pulled me over flat on my face and continued to pull on the leashes, striving mightily to reach the Scottie; and still I held on. As I think on it, at this point, a low camera angle, shooting up the hill, would have been ideal, the sun cooperating fully. no artificial light necessary at all.

And I slid forward, on my stomach, down the hill, headfirst, left hand outstretched still hanging on to the leashes, afraid of what the bloodthirsty minions from Hell might do en masse to the Scottie, wondering whether I could hold on. I dug my toes into the grass, hoping to grab, laughing at the idea of sliding all the way down to the bottom, finally halting my downhill slide toward the river. Prostrate on the grass, my feet splayed apart, toes of my Baffin boots dug into the soft earth, well above my head up the hill, I needed to get to my feet, the dogs still straining, barking, blood lust ever heightening, tantalizingly close to their quarry.

Finally, the Scottie's owner screamed her dog back to her side, realizing how close the tartan-plaid-sweater-covered creature had come to an agonizing death. Tapping on some kind of athleticism left over from days gone by, I struggled to one knee, grabbing the leashes with both hands, trying to reel in the murderous, blood-thirsty hounds so that I could reset my shoulder socket. And still they strained, the beagle howling and the boxers yapping, but less so as they realized the normal, unnatural order was being restored. "Stop it," I ordered; and, as if by magic, domesticity returned. The old boxer, greying in the face, turned and looked at me, stub of a tail wagging, thanking me for letting them have their fun.

Posted by Bill at March 26, 2006 11:45 PM