Photo credit: www.theguardian.com

Life in the Triangle Parks: Navigating Dog Ownership

As afternoon sets in, just after lunch and before the school rush, I find myself walking my dog toward the Triangle parks—an area my wife and I designated by its unique layout. These parks emerged from a main road cutting through the suburban grid, creating two small triangular communal green spaces. While they are nearby, accessing them can be tricky, especially with several roads leading to abrupt dead-ends. I only uncovered a navigable path to them during my lengthy walks in lockdown.

These parks have become a haven lately. Fenced and typically deserted during early afternoons, they provide a safe environment to let my dog roam, especially when she is in heat. Regular parks become challenging under such circumstances.

“How long is this supposed to last?” I inquire upon returning home. “It feels like this has been going on for over a month.”

“Did you have fun?” my wife asks the dog. “Where did you go?”

“To the Triangle parks, of course,” I reply.

“You weren’t out for long,” she comments.

“I threw the ball eight or nine times before we misplaced it. Then a poodle showed up,” I explain.

“Was it a male or female?” she inquires.

“Hard to tell from a distance,” I respond. “We opted to make a quick exit through a side gate.”

“No need for panic,” she reassures me.

“I wasn’t panicked, just a bit embarrassed,” I reply.

“You have no reason to be embarrassed,” she says gently.

“Embarrassment chooses me; I don’t choose it,” I retort.

Most veterinarians suggest allowing a dog to experience one heat cycle before spaying, a recommendation I followed without seeking a second opinion. After all, the costs of veterinary care can add up quickly.

From my research, I was led to believe that this period of limited outings could last about two weeks, yet it feels much longer. My caution stems from the fact that we acquired our dog because her mother, while isolated in a locked room during her heat, had a dalliance with a local terrier who found a way in through the cat flap just the previous year.

The following afternoon, the dog and I take the longest, least traveled route back to the Triangle parks, proceeding in a zigzag pattern before passing by a now-demolished scout hut. Timing is critical; the alley we use is narrow and extended. If another dog ventured in from the opposite end simultaneously, we’d be confronted with the prospect of unwanted puppies.

Fortunately, the alley is clear. Once we emerge, we make a sharp turn into the first Triangle park, which is occupied by a tiny, yapping dog—small enough, I assume, not to present a threat, though I recall the terrier from before.

“Your father,” I mutter, “what a thoughtless creature.”

We proceed to the lower Triangle park, which is blissfully empty. “Alright,” I say, freeing my dog from her leash. “Let’s have some exercise and then get out.”

I hurl the ball. The dog rockets after it, catching it mid-air, but when she brings it back, she hesitates as I approach.

“Leave it,” I command, scanning the surroundings. The dog drops the ball only to reclaim it as I move closer.

“Do you want to keep it, or shall I throw it again?” I ask, realizing it’s a futile question—she desires both options.

I manage to grab the ball and throw it again, but she attempts to bury it to prevent me from taking it back.

“This isn’t how it works,” I sigh. Within four minutes of being at the park, I already wish another dog would appear to provide an excuse for us to leave.

On the fifth throw, the dog collides with a dense thicket of ornamental grass, thrashing around while the tops sway. She reappears moments later, panting with her tongue out.

“Where did your ball go?” I question, puzzled. “You entered there with it.”

She dashes back into the grass, surfacing after a few minutes with yesterday’s lost ball in tow.

“Well, this was entertaining,” I remark as I clip the leash back on. Just then, a woman enters with a collie that begins to bark excitedly. We decide to steer towards the next exit.

“He’s super friendly!” she calls out from behind.

“Yes, but my dog is in heat,” I respond.

“Oh, that makes sense,” she replies, understanding my caution.

I can’t help but feel my cheeks redden at the situation.

Source
www.theguardian.com