In Which We Go to the Dog Park

I read once that dogs don’t really like the dog park. Supposedly, they find it stressful to have to negotiate a crowd of other dogs. I took today off to read through Ashland one more time before sending it to my readers. The dog stepped on my toes jumping on the couch. There was a loud pop. Then excruciating pain.

The excruciating pain subsided, so I don’t think anything’s broken, but I imagine I’m going to have a hell of a bruise.

So, fuck you, dog, we’re going to the dog park.

But I think it went okay. for the first third of our time there, he completely ignored me. He ran all over. He sniffed a bunch of butts. He pretended he didn’t know his name. He pooped so far under a tree that I could not retrieve it. Sorry about that, people of Donelson. But then they have this very lovely walking trail and he seemed to finally get the hang of me wanting him to walk with me. And so we did. And it was lovely.

But then, the minute another interesting dog caught his eye, he was off, like a shot out of a cannon, paying no attention to anything I was saying. The Butcher has voice command of him. I simply and obviously do not. All I have going for me is that, in the end, he likes to hang out with me. So, after he stepped in all the water containers, he was eager to come home with me.

And now, I’m going to be brave and send the manuscript.

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