I was sitting on a bench in a compact, refurbished dog park that had been covered in a fake grass like Astroturf — call it Turdturf — upon which 15 or 20 dogs were frolicking and licking each others’ balls while their owners talked amongst themselves and tried to avoid stepping on the smaller dogs. After spending some time wondering where the dog piss drains in the fake grass, I poked my companion.
“Check out that guy over there. The guy with the boxer. His dog is totally owning him.”
In the middle of the park a khaki-wearing herb was being ritually humiliated by his burly boxer. The dog ignored him, disobeyed him, and generally made a nuisance of itself careening into other dogs and people and sniffing a multitude of crotches with tremendous gusto. The herb feebly tried to corral his dog, begging and pleading with it to behave…
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