Successful Encounters
Apparently Ned once had a rescue that barked at hijabs. Well, women wearing hijabs. Back when he lived near the big mosque in Astoria. And Sasha said her first husky growled mostly at Black people. Which was troubling, extra troubling, since Sasha herself was Black. But some dogs were inexplicably sensitive to variation, or so said everyone at the park once I shared with them the trouble I was having.
Evolution, am I right? said the purple-haired lady with the senior Chihuahua.
The group nodded, like they knew what she meant.
Then Ned said, I think they’re just trying to protect us.
From hijabs? someone asked.
Which made Chihuahua lady laugh, and Sasha too, but I was still too mortified to take the issue lightly. Not that my dog was racist, or not as far as I knew? My dog, my affectionate, shy Hula, got snarly if she saw someone who walked with an abnormal gait. She growled at a guy on our block who was limping in a leg brace after knee surgery. She lunged at people carrying groceries, hobbling heavy bags along. Then this morning, it was an overweight woman walking with a slow shuffle. As the woman approached, Hula totally lost it—snarling angrily, barking, straining hard at her leash as if she might actually bite.
I was stunned. I felt awful. And once I’d dragged Hula away, I headed straight for the dog hill, where I relayed the incident to all the morning folks—the crowd of us who gathered here for off-leash until nine.
I mean, I’ve heard that kind of thing before.
This was Hector, whose labradoodle humped everyone.
It’s like see something, say something, he said. Nothing personal; dogs just sound the alarm if something strikes them as strange.
Well sure, I said. I knew a dog’s basic instincts didn’t aim to offend, but Hula’s alarm only sounded for the somehow impaired—the somehow vulnerable—and I just needed her to stop. She was a pretty big hound mix, and could be misread as fierce. She’d started this out of nowhere, three weeks ago now.
Already, it had incited a debate on the hill between Hector and the couple with the purebred Pointer puppy. Hector was against using treats to curb unwanted barking because he said the dog would associate the yummy treat with the decision to bark in the first place, which to me made some sense actually. But Pointer puppy’s mom came in hot.
No no no, she said. You just spot the trigger coming before your dog does. Grab a treat to keep the dog’s attention on you, on really wanting that reward, until the trigger’s gone.
Yup exactly, the puppy’s dad chimed in. That’s the best way to help your dog have a successful encounter.
Great! I said, and tried to keep myself from laughing.
Honestly, I was glad just to be out among people. A respite from my phone, where the discourse online was spinning out—finding new and ugly orbits around the same tragic facts. Out in the park, the temperature had dropped below fifty, and even the mellow dogs were sprinting around. We kept a collective eye on them, from a bit further uphill than usual: the gingko was dropping its foul-smelling fruit, and it reeked around there like the park had thrown up.
Hector asked if anyone had run into Gloria. She’d had her last chemo on Friday, he said, which most of us already knew. But no one had seen her since then, all agreeing it was likely she had family in town. And what a marvel it was—I often thought this—knowing the intimate developments of near strangers’ lives. I knew, for instance, about the purple-haired lady’s lawsuit. How she had recently pressed charges for a years-old sexual assault. Hector had plans to leave his job, to finally focus on launching his own makeup line. And Ned was openly a nervous wreck these days: his son had just spent six months in rehab upstate, and soon after he’d come home—to this neighborhood, to Ned—he had relapsed.
A breeze swept in, making a batch of yellow leaves swirl off the trees and through the air. Almost everyone took a phone out to capture it, how gorgeously long it took the leaves to sail down to the ground. Sasha only glanced. She’d become extra vigilant about keeping her dog in sight, now that her boyfriend was taking a break from the park. He grew up in Tel Aviv, still had family there, and several times last week the small talk on the hill had gotten tense. I wondered how he was faring, but when I went to ask Sasha, the couple with the Pointer puppy intercepted me.
Hey, they said. We know a website you could try.
Oh yeah?
Yeah, it’s for high-conflict dogs.
Hold on, I said. For Hula?
They clearly had the wrong idea.
She’s super sweet, I assured them. I just think that she thinks it’s her job to defend me.
But only recently? they asked. Did something change? Like in your life?
A smart question, I had to admit. Couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it.
But really nothing had happened, nothing bad, not to me. If anything, I’d been with Hula more than usual; lately, I hadn’t gone out at all. I spent my evenings with the news on. Refreshing the apps, any footage I could find, trying to take it all in. The loose brutality and all the sudden rubble. Tiny limp bodies, crushed or charred, and me just sobbing on the couch beside my dog.
I don’t know, I told the couple. Guess I’ll think about that.
I turned away from them to scan the field for Hula.
She wasn’t prone to wandering off, but her tan coat could sometimes make her hard to spot. She blended in with other dogs, or dried up grass or shriveled leaves, but as I searched for her this time—where she’d been playing, and all around there, a full 360 degrees—it grew apparent to me that Hula wasn’t anywhere. I rushed up the hill then, to the top, where I could get a wider view. A few others came with me, calling out Hula’s name. Let’s all split up, I said. Let’s split up and search for her! And that’s when Sasha yelled, There she is, and pointed left down the walking path. But peering through the tree limbs, I couldn’t make out my dog.
Even so, I was relieved and told everyone thanks. I headed down toward the path, and sure enough, there was Hula. A ways off, sniffing a bag of fast-food trash: she was fine. But then, just beyond her, I saw something else too. Someone coming this way—all hunched over, barely upright, sort of staggering along.
Oh, not this again, oh please—
I started running.
But if I hoped to avoid another shameful barking scene, I should have let Hula be. Because she sensed me approaching, coming closer, and wagged her tail. Then she looked around, on guard, noticed the figure stumbling toward us, and turned vicious in a snap. She started growling, crouching down, the fur raised all along her back. She bared her teeth as she began closing in on this guy, who clearly struggled to walk.
Closer up, I saw how strung out he was. And how young.
Hula! I shouted. Hula, no!
She didn’t hear me, didn’t turn my way at all.
I went to grab her by the collar, and as I did, someone raced by me. Grazing my shoulder from behind, he swooped in between Hula and me and ran straight toward the kid. He held his arms out—it was Ned! It was Ned, and he was running with his arms outstretched until he made it to the path and wrapped them tight around the boy. The boy. His boy.
Ned planted his feet wide, making his hug wide, a shield.
Hula yelped at my grip when I tugged her away.
I dragged her back onto the grass and forced her into a sit. What is wrong, what is wrong with you? I wanted to shout. But my dog, looking blameless, simply gazed up at me.
I didn’t shout then, and didn’t try to teach or train.
I said nothing. I just stood over her.