(However, I haven't had to water my impatiens at all. And they thrive. Thank you, God.)
God also granted us a blue-sky exception on Saturday. It was so loverly that, after finishing laundry, I took my blanket, sunscreen, iced coffee, and the Times, and walked over to Dorchester Heights Monument.
I often come here on the weekends to relax. There's an expanse of grass without too many sunbathers. It's at the top of a hill, so teenagers refuse to bike up it and loiter. And at that elevation, one gets a panaroma of Greater Boston ... sans Southeast Expressway sounds or ambulance sirens.
It's nice.
It is also one of Southie's dog parks. The water fountain includes a stainless-steel bowl at ground level, so pooches can drink and don't put their lips on the same spigot as the humans. (A laminated sign explains this.) On a day like Saturday, 2-3 dogs and owners mill about at any one time.
I have no problem with lying on the dog-park grass. I like dogs. And I check for turds before walking anywhere in my bare feet.
And in some ways, I entertain imaginary scenarios (like every f#$*ing romantic comedy known to man) in which some dog gets loose from its brawny-but-sensitive owner and goes sniffing around a girl, lying on a towel in her bikini top and denim cutoffs and reading some scholarly rag, and when the owner runs over to grab the errant leash, he stops to apologize, eyes meet, and 6 dates later they are brunching with each other's parents at Amrheins, the dog chilling at their feet.
Which never happens.
No, what happens to me plays more like this:
1) Girl in bikini top and denim cutoffs, reading her Times, rises from her stomach to do physical therapy stretches on the lawn. Because, she thinks, why not heal the bursitis while getting a tan.
2) As part of the stretching of hip and hamstring, and not just because she's hanging in a dog park and wants to stick her butt in the air, girl assumes yoga's favorite downward-facing dog position.
3) After meditating in that position with eyes closed, she opens them to gaze appropriately back between her knees at downtown Boston and the blue sky and sees nothing but a fast-approaching white bulldog. Who charges into the back of her ankles and causes her to fall over.(Dog sets about sniffing through the girl's unfolded Times, shoulder bag, empty coffee cup.)
4) Bulldog owner comes running, yelling, "Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Sorry! Sorry!" He grabs the dog by the collar.
(Girl notices that the owner is an attractive, tousle-headed 30-something male. With a friendly dog. Who both, evidently, live in the girl's neighborhood.)
5) Realizing this, girl collects her legs and newspaper about her, smiles up at the owner's approach to reply, "Hey, no problem! What a sweet dog!"
6) Owner, on cell phone, has already collected dog and is walking away and down the hill.
7) Girl, tumbled on her ass, is at that moment reinforced in her assertion that all attractive, unmarried 30-something males in Boston are attractive, unmarried 30-something males for a good reason.
2 comments:
As an unmarried forty-something male with a bulldog, I feel I must apologize for bulldog owners everywhere, Karin. Some of us are not so rude, or fearful of having someone call the police or animal control officer in lieu of a lack of an apology. Probably freaked when he realized that Boston has a leash law.
A subtle and elegantly written post ... you remain a model for me. (And I laughed.)
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