“Oh, most definitely,” Turk says. “You want to see what heaven is like? To my way of thinking?”
We nod.
He hands me Gomer’s leash and then waves us off. “Take Gomer to the dog park. I’ll tell you where it is. That, my young friends, is heaven on earth.”
There are two gates to the dog park. We open up a huge wrought-iron doorway and enter what I guess is a vestibule before we reach the second gate. As we do so, a bunch of dogs run up to the second gate to see who is coming in. Gomer eagerly looks out at the expectant pack of dogs, his black tail wagging back and forth like a metronome.
We remove his leash as Turk told us to do and open the second gate, and Gomer rockets into a world unlike any I’ve seen before.
It’s a beautiful morning and the sun is coming up over the bright green, grassy field. Dozens of dogs of all types congregate in small groups or jump and run and play in pairs and packs. There are huge dogs with pointy snouts, low-to-the-ground dogs waddling around with big bellies, miniature dogs yipping and chasing the tails of larger dogs that look like they could eat the mini ones for breakfast. A diverse cluster of dogs tromps around the perimeter of the park in pack formation. Two dogs, one black and small, the other reddish and slightly bigger, wrestle, the smaller one standing on his hind legs trying to gain an advantage.
Dozens of people of all types stand around, some talking and laughing. Others lounge on benches, watching the scene in solitude. Fat white men in sweat suits chat with skinny black ladies in skirts who look like they must be on their way to the office after this. Hipster chicks wearing librarian glasses cavort with dudes in skullcaps.
I watch Gomer saunter up to a big German shepherd. They sniff each other’s snouts for a moment, and then the German shepherd walks around to the back of Gomer and sniffs his butt.
“Oh my,” I say.
“That’s how they check each other out,” Aisha says. “We used to have a mini schnauzer.”
“I did not know that,” I say. “Either of those pieces of information, actually.”
Gomer allows the bigger dog to sniff him. And then, just as quickly, the German shepherd gallops off, and Gomer, his tail waving like a fan, takes off after him. The bigger dog runs in a wide circle, and Gomer, lower and more compact, has to move his legs twice as fast to keep up. Then the bigger dog turns and starts chasing Gomer, and a medium-sized white dog with a funny-looking snout joins in.
A bulldog, wheezing like he’s out of shape, scampers by my feet. A tiny, fluffy white dog follows him. I look around. No dogs are left out. They’re all playing with each other.
Gomer runs past a poodle sitting expectantly, looking at its owner. He’s a wiry-looking guy in a trucker hat. Gomer barks at the poodle, and both dogs’ tails start wagging. The poodle takes off, chasing Gomer. “Hazel! Girl, get back here,” he yells, and the dogs stop running. Hazel the poodle trots back over to her owner, who turns his attention to Gomer. “Get away from her, you stupid mutt,” he says.
I run over. “Sorry,” I say.
He ignores me, and I feel my shoulders droop. This trip has allowed me to forget how it feels to be invisible. Now I remember: I don’t like it.
“C’mon, Gomer,” I say, monotone, and he trots away from the poodles. He doesn’t seem to care that he was just yelled at; he has the same smile on his adorable face that he almost always has. He races off to join a group of smaller dogs who are running in circles. He puts his nose right up against a large, furry white dog’s behind. He goes up to all the dogs and does it. Doesn’t matter if they’re bigger or smaller. Gomer sniffs the boys, the girls, the white-furred ones, the red-furred ones, the black-furred ones. The nearly shaved, the puffy.
“What do you think the sniffing is all about?” I ask.
“They’re curious. Like why they come running to the door when another dog comes in. They want to know about him or her.”
“Wouldn’t that be cool if we could be like that?”
“Sniffing butts?” she asks, sniffing my shoulder.
“Not afraid of what other people think. Not embarrassed to be interested in someone else. That kind of thing. Do you think that’s why Turk thinks it’s heaven? Why can’t humans be like that? What are we afraid of?”
She doesn’t have time to answer my litany of questions, because suddenly there is a commotion. Hazel the poodle is on her back and a large gray dog stands over her, growling.
“Hey!” the nasty guy says, kicking at the gray dog.
The dog eludes his kick and saunters away. The owner of the gray dog, a large, nondescript man whose belly spills over his brown jeans, hurries over.
“You control your dog or next time I’ll punt it,” the wiry guy spits at him.
The man in the brown jeans says, “He was just playing. I’m sorry.”
“You bet you’re sorry,” the wiry guy says. “Control him, or next time I’ll punt you.”
Aisha and I look at each other. Everyone in the park is watching the altercation. Meanwhile, a pack of German shepherds has cordoned off the gray dog from the rest. After a little bit of roughhousing, they let the gray dog go. He trots off in search of other playmates.
“That’s how the dogs take care of each other,” Aisha says to me. “They set him straight.”
The guy in the trucker hat stands rigid, his arms crossed tight across his chest. Turk said this was heaven, and for a while I could totally see that. Then trucker hat guy yelled at Gomer, and then at the other guy. Suddenly we’re not in heaven anymore.
Trucker hat guy is motioning with his arms in front of Hazel, who is just sitting there, not playing with the other dogs. I feel bad for her. All these dogs are out having a good time, and poor Hazel is like a prisoner to that jerk.
“The problem with this place is the entrance,” I tell Aisha. “Replace that double gate with a velvet rope, get the Porcupine out there to choose who gets in, and then this place really would be Des Moines.”
Aisha laughs. “Get rid of these gates and add a velvet rope, and what you really have is chaos.”
I get that she’s kidding, that she means that a velvet rope would not be an ideal way to fence in dogs. But I’m being serious. The thing that keeps this place from truly being heaven, in my opinion, is who is let in.
The dogs run and fetch and play, and the people do their thing too. On the other side of the park, the brown jeans guy is standing by himself with his head down. It’s like I can feel his shame.
I tug on Aisha’s shirt and walk toward the guy. She follows, keeping an eye on Gomer, who is being petted by a muscular black dude with a blond buzz cut.
“Hey,” I say as we approach. “What’s your name?”
The brown jeans guy looks surprised that someone is talking to him. “Larry.”
“Hey, Larry. I’m Carson and this is Aisha.”
“Hi,” he says.
“Which dog is yours?” I ask, pretending not to have seen the altercation.
He points tentatively at his gray dog, which is currently sniffing a woman’s feet.
“So cute. What kind is he?” Aisha asks.
“He’s an Australian shepherd.”
I scan the park for Gomer. “Ours is the Labradoodle currently on his back with his legs in the air. Can’t take him anywhere.”
Larry laughs. “Yep. He looks like a nice dog.”
“He is.”
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. His Australian shepherd is now peeing on a tennis ball a guy had been using to play fetch with his dog. The guy goes off in search of another ball. “Matty!” Larry yells, but the dog ignores him and begins to growl at a skinny, hairless dog about a quarter of his size. He shakes his head. “My dog is a fucking asshole.”
I laugh, but Aisha doesn’t. “You have him since he was a pup?” she asks.