Walking stories

Greenberg applies for club membership

June 26, 2023

I wound up with the job  (at a newspaper) of my career dreams; the prince charming (a little taller than I, a little older than I, considerably smarter than I) of my pre-feminist dreams; the interesting, non-corporate and happily-married children of my motherly dreams; the adorable grandchildren of my Hallmark dreams;  and the loyal dog of my Lassie-come-home dreams.  Flowers bloom in my garden.  

But what really leaves a mark is life’s disappointments: 

 I didn’t grow up in sophisticated Manhattan, but in pre-cool Brooklyn; I wasn’t a cheerleader and didn’t even get into the it-girls’ high-school sorority.  The Seven Sister college to which I optimistically applied turned me down.   I taught my children that one great thing about being grown-up (at least in the age before influencers) was that popularity wasn’t a concept in the adult world.  Still, there are lingering twinges of the pain of adolescence in an era when “reject” (with the emphasis on the first syllable) was the worst description you could apply to someone.

And so to a walk in the park. 

It’s late afternoon/early evening, the days are long, the sun is bright.  And Greenberg and I are on the way home from one of our neighborhood markets, where we picked up a few things for dinner.  I’m toting a bag of groceries, he’s sniffing the sidewalk in search of appetizers for the meal he is expecting when we get home.

When we approach the Panhandle, the strip of parkland that runs between Fell and Oak, both Greenberg and I are intrigued by what looks like a merry band  of people in the center of a meadow, surrounded by  unleashed dogs racing around each other, happily playing.  The enthusiasm of the dogs for each other’s company seems matched by that of the dog-owners,  chatting with each other as though the gathering is a nightly – or at least fairly regular – occurrence.   Many are carrying water bottles; I wouldn’t be surprised if they contained cocktails.

I usually walk Greenberg in the other direction, and hadn’t been aware of what seems to be a regular group activity, a social gathering.  Maybe we could join in?   

This might be good for Greenberg, I think.   We rescued him four years ago, finding him at the Peninsula Humane Society, where we were told he’d been an unchipped stray.   The behavior team there proclaimed him fit, child-friendly and ready for adoption. They thought, from his behavior, that he’d been with a pack of dogs, a dog-eat-dog situation that resulted in several not-so-pleasant habits.   He eats his meals, literally, in 10 seconds; if he’s at a public drinking fountain and another dog approaches, he’s likely to snap, harmlessly.  That “harmlessly” is something I’m often explaining. 

When we take him to a dog park, his pleasure is to bark, yip, shriek in excitement.   If he’s with a dog he knows, he’s perfectly happy to share a tossed ball; it’s strangers that set him off.   If he is chasing his ball and an unfamiliar  dog approaches, he won’t bite, but he may growl and lunge.  He revels in the joy of being free, darting toward one dog and away from another.  This exuberance does not mean he’s out of control, though; he does return to me reliably when I blow a brass whistle I have hung on one of my purse straps. 

So there we are in the Panhandle, with all the other dogs seemingly glad to be in the regular crowd,  frolicking like fraternity members at a college alumni reunion.  When I unhook Greenberg’s  leash, he leaps up to paw at my sleeve in hopes that I’ll toss a ball for him.  I’m reluctant to do that because I fear it’ll set all the dogs off in a frenzied chase.  Now his barks are directed at me:  Get that ball out of your purse, sister, and give it a toss. 

At the sound of Greenberg barking his head off, the other dog owners, as dignified and well-behaved as their dogs, begin to look askance (“askance” being a word that indicates less-than-positive but not so bad as “disgusted”).  

 I know this is a rationalization, but I believe in the First Amendment, even for dogs.  It’s probably a matter for the Supreme Court to decide, but to my thinking, it seems that free speech includes a dog’s right to make a ruckus in the dog park.   The Panhandle  isn’t exactly a dog park, but it’s like one.  And so far, although there’s been quite a bit of noise from him, Greenberg has refrained from vulgarity.   

We’re about a block from home.  This gathering, I think, can be an ideal training ground for Greenberg. Every moment of an evening Panhandle frolic can be a teachable experience.

If we go every night, I think, or at least fairly regularly, he will get used to all these fellow canines, doodles and Spaniels and terriers and mutts of every description. Eventually, it might be a way to get him to calm down in the dog park.

 If the other dog owners can just give Greenberg a chance, I know he’ll charm them all and find his place in this canine be-in. It’s like learning to drive:  No one does that without the first forays, in which swerving, lurching, and bucking are to be expected. Greenberg may not be a puppy anymore — we don’t know how old he is — but as far as interactions with other dogs, he’s mainly operating with a learner’s permit.  

From the moment I let Greenberg free from the leash, I lock my eyes on him, to make sure he stays close. At the same time, I somehow manage to scan the human crowd, peering at the faces under the brims of baseball hats, searching for the smallest empathetic grin, any sign of amiability.  Given the chance, I’m ready to  explain to the veteran members of this Panhandle club that I am hoping the other pet-owners  will have the patience to  help my  mutt achieve the laid-back state of the regulars.  He’s a lovely dog despite his current state of near-hysteria.

But a  friendly face is nowhere to be seen.   Most of the 20 or so dog-owners are talking to each other.   Obviously, Greenberg can bark for himself, but just as obviously, he can’t  speak for himself.  I want to plead his case, to explain that his behavior is the result of his childhood, that he’s a little dog, apparently brought up in tough circumstances.  I want to sing “Officer Krupke” to those other dog-owners.  Deep down inside him, he is good.   If my dog’s a delinquent, it’s not his fault.

Five minutes into the encounter, the only  glances that either Greenberg or I can attract are annoyed sneers. If I could talk with someone I might make a self- or dog-deprecating joke, in hopes that by admitting Greenberg’s shortcomings, we might elicit some sympathy.    In my craven desire to enlist allies,  I’m willing to throw my dog’s reputation under the bus in exchange for someone saying they know how it feels to be embarrassed by their pet. 

I did drag Greenberg to Bark and Lunge class when we got him, and he has improved. But he didn’t go to finishing school, never learned to stand up when a lady enters the room, or unfold a napkin in his lap.  But he is very intelligent.  If there were dog SATS, my Napoleon could run circles around all those other lords and ladies of the park. 

I’ll bet most of the people in the park arose at 6 a.m., went running in the Panhandle, and spent the rest of the day in front of a  computer, working from  home.  It’s 5:15 p.m., and they’re here trading notes about platforms and IPOs.  I don’t fit in, nor does my dog.

 I keep telling myself that it’d be good to brave their disdain, to return and return again to the Panhandle and thereby to familiarize Greenberg with social expectations for canine  etiquette. But I have to admit that  today’s experiment is a total flop.  No one has shown me the secret  handshake. Those negative glances are arrows directed at me, the person responsible for this 13-pound loudmouth.

 Our Scarlet A’s are R’s. If the other dog-owners handed out “Hello, My Name Is” labels, the badges each of us would be wearing would be inscribed “Reject.”

We trudge back to the house, and while I pour kibble into Greenberg’s bowl, I’m thinking about Brooklyn, sorority girls, and whether I will have the courage to risk being shunned another day.  

The thing is, Greenberg doesn’t care at all.