scene from a distance: Zuke, the softball still in his mouth, is racing like a maniac while three players chase him; Byron and I, making a show of actually trying to catch Zuke and leash him, are shrieking “Zuke! Zuke!” at the top of our lungs. We’re the cause of a great deal of commotion on this previously peaceful afternoon and the majority of those nearby have their heads turned in our direction, and guess what? Not one of these people is cursing us, even though they’re for the most part New Yorkers (who, being such, aren’t shy about voicing their opinions)!
It has to be experienced to be believed: running and shouting and at the center of responsibility for the commotion as I am, I’m suddenly enveloped in a sensation of overwhelming security. Why? Because I understand that, as long as Byron and I pretend to try to catch Zuke while dispensing apologies here and there, no one’s going to voice opposition. How do two grown men get away with sowing chaos in a public place? All they need is a spirited dog!
I’m relishing the situation, alright: plenty of people are laughing on account of the unexpected entertainment; others are simply watching with no readily discernable expression; a small percentage are allowing creases of annoyance to appear on their faces. Am I worried concerning the latter? Not a bit. They dare not give voice to their annoyance because then they’d be branded as dog haters and incur the dislike of the majority. (Is it too far-fetched to suggest that dog haters, especially in the eyes of people who frequent parks, are situated towards the bottom of the totem pole, somewhere in the vicinity of snitches, telemarketers, and neglectful nannies?) Nor does it hurt that Zuke’s a poster child for canine cuteness: wide trusting vaguely sad eyes, long floppy ears, a beautiful tri-colored coat, a grown puppy romping without a care in the world. As I overhear one woman say: “Such a pretty puppy-wuppy! I could hug him all day!”
Deeming it time to give the players their ball back, Byron tosses the Frisbee to Zuke: he drops the softball to seize the Frisbee. The players, jovial fellows who enjoy a laugh, shout things such as: “Hey Zuke, we could use you on our team!,” “Gold Glove fielding, Zuke!,” and “Now we have a spitball!”
Alright, we’ve created a disturbance on the densely populated Great Lawn for almost fifteen minutes—great fun, but unwise to push it. Tolerance for a madly romping dog, no matter how cute, won’t last forever. So Byron and I exit the Great Lawn and head towards Belvedere Castle and Zuke follows: simple.
And that, my darlings, was our secret all along: as long as Byron and I were chasing Zuke, he was going to dash from our grasp—to him it was a game of tag, played many times before. I like to think of it as our covert canine and human agreement: Zuke disrupts a gathering of picnickers and sunbathers and ballplayers and we count on him to avoid us while pretending to try to catch him.
Of course additional adventures are forthcoming. In Bethesda tunnel, Zuke treats us to a demonstration of his hunting skills: suddenly he freezes and stares, apparently mesmerized; then there’s a swift dash, and—presto—he wraps his jaws around a bag dangling from a man’s hand and gives it a sharp tug: out tumbles a roasted chicken onto the ground. Zuke wastes no time in seizing it, racing towards The Mall: quite breathtaking to behold.
“Jesus Christ!” the man yells, glancing about to see who’s responsible for the nefarious chicken-snatching beast.
“Zuke!” we’re screaming at the top of our lungs—our yelling’s magnified and echoed very nicely by the tunnel.
The man looks at us for a couple instants, then glances towards the end of the tunnel, where Zuke’s devouring his prize at the base of the stairs—upon his face is a mixture of being none too pleased and amused despite himself. Before he can speak, we’re striding to him, apologizing profusely and offering him twenty dollars, adding that one of us will be glad to go buy him a new chicken.
“Aw hell, I can get another bird for a lot cheaper than that and do it myself—lots of places to get one on the way home,” the man answers, refusing the money and the errand. He makes it obvious the offer of recompense is recompense enough. “What kind of dog is that, anyway?” he asks, gesturing in Zuke’s direction.
“An English Setter.”
“Hunting dog, right?”
“Too much of one for the city, I think,” says Byron, still apologizing with his eyes. “He’s a country dog and doesn’t know how to behave here.”
“He sure as hell knows what he’s doing!” the man declares, breaking into a broad smile. “That bird was out of this bag and over there in five seconds! It’s worth a bird to see that and blessings on Zuke! I’m glad he’s enjoying it! And he’s still got his balls! Good for you! Don’t neuter him!”
“Dead horses will fly to Mars before my dog gets neutered,” responds Byron, no longer uncomfortable. “Break his spirit? Steal his manhood? Disgusting!”
“Nothing worse!” the man fairly shouts. “I had a dog awhile back—Black Lab, feisty and smart, bundle of energy. I went off on business, convention in Atlanta. The first wife goes off and hauls him to the vet and gets his balls cut off while I’m gone! Dog wasn’t the same after! The spark was missing from his eyes—he got lazy, wasn’t quick and bright anymore! Sometimes I thought he was asking ‘Why?’ when he looked at me—it was like part of his old spirit was still there, wondering how I could let him be savaged! And I sure asked the wife why! Guess why? Because someone on TV said it was beneficial! She was always glued to the tube, mistaking blather for gospel truth! No one easier to hoodwink than the first wife! Once a head-turner, but with low mileage! As scatterbrained as she was unable to keep her looks, and with her bedroom skills flagging as fast! She’s been replaced by one who ruts like a rabbit and has a head on her shoulders!”
“One of the breeder’s conditions of the sale was that I neuter Zuke,” says Byron. “It’s in the contract! Do I care? About as much as I care if the breeze blows! Sure, she’s worried I might make use of Zuke’s pedigree and breed him and compete with her, but it’s more than that! These people are programmed into thinking neutering is in a dog’s best interest, as if being robbed of the sex-drive will make dogs happier! What they really mean is that it makes dogs more submissive—easier to train to do stupid tricks that reflect more on the vanity of humans than anything that’s good for dogs! They get a dog because they want a creature to control! They want obedient fawning animals that are exclusively dependent on them! They want to show off in front of others of their ilk, say ‘Watch Rover roll over! Watch Rover heel and sit!’ They’re controlling despotic creeps who victimize animals because they need to feel superior, and then they turn around and pass it off as being concerned for the animals’ welfare! I don’t see them cutting their balls off, or getting themselves spayed!”
“Damn right!” says the man heatedly, delighted to have found a comrade in arms. “The world needs more dog owners like you! Not those scaredy-cats who want them to be stupid and lazy, like my stupid first wife! Dogs ought to steal chickens and raise a ruckus! To hell with those that disagree!”
As if on cue, chicken-thief Zuke trots up to us; not only is he inapprehensive of the man from whom he’s filched the chicken, he enthusiastically greets him in his customary manner, placing his front paws on his chest.
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” says the man, caressing Zuke’s head and patting his back. “A good dog!”
Zuke, Byron, and I part from the man the best of friends and continue on our merry roving tour through the Mall and thence to Sheep Meadow and The Pond, leaving bustle and fluster and laughter in our wake. Towards the end of our journey I’m thoroughly giddy with the license to carry on that Zuke’s antics are making possible. I’m repeatedly screaming his name as loud as I can while dashing about like a ten-year-old. Being associated with Zuke has transferred a portion of his freedom to make a spectacle of himself to me and I’m making full use of it, savoring every moment to the hilt. Thanks to our constant yelling of Zuke’s name, I’m sure it’s engraved upon the memories of hundreds of people.
Alas, the waking dream’s over
far too soon: we exit the park at 59th and 5th and must reintroduce Zuke to the leash; no longer surrounded by open fields, he immediately settles down. We hop a cab back to my place, chat for a couple more hours over a meal, of which Zuke gets a hefty portion, then say our good-byes. Byron resumes his journey to New Jersey, to his ex-girlfriend’s place—meaning that of late they’ve taken to placing their “ex” status on hold and tasting of what they experienced when they were a full-fledged item. And who knows? Maybe they’ll eventually give up believing these meetings are one-offs (these so-called one-offs keep adding up!) and throw in the towel, fully surrender to the emotional current, and get married? But I digress—back to the matter at hand:
Angie and Ella, now you have my excuse for bailing on our brunch date and offending your pride and why I ask for special consideration. And, although Zuke’s the one primarily responsible for the regretful occurrence, I think you ought to think kindly of him and send sweet thoughts his way. I, for one, owe Zuke my heartfelt thanks for placing my city boy self in touch with the animal world—an experience I’m still reverberating with, enough that I’ve no desire to turn in at my usual pre-workday time,