The dog park can change in an instant from serene to obscene, at least in the eyes of the right human. Dogs are after all, like children. We love them powerfully, and express it clearly, yet they do not always share our expressive language. Once someone asked me why my dog was barking at theirs and I said because she doesn’t speak English very well. This person was not the right human, at least not just then. The other day, the right human happened to be an older, well-to-do white woman–who certainly considered herself right in every sense, since she’d been acculturated to believe it so–and she made it clear, as they often do, that her authority was absolute. She reminded me of the aging, self-righteous white women at work who would “see Trump elected at all costs.” Anyway, the woman at the park, wielding a leashed Collie with it’s balls dragging through the mulch flew off the handle because of an interaction between a goofy pit bull and my little feeble Moro.
Moro approached the pit looking for play, and the pit nudged the little rabbit looking creature and then attempted to sit on him. Apparently, this dog likes to sit on puppies (which I thought was kind of funny, but whatever). Moro rolled around on the ground a little, squealing as he does, yelping at the top of his lungs, tail between his legs, big ears up and dashed beneath the bench where Ryan sat. He was of course, uninjured. Just afraid of a larger dog potentially being on top of him, the other dog was in no way aggressive. In fact, Moro has squealed and yelped twice as loud at the sound of bath water running or my yelling at him for shitting in the house. But, never the less, the right human refused to hear any of that. When I said he was fine,she kept asking, essentially telling me, “are you sure, are you sure” in a way that clearly stated I was not wise enough, or did not care enough to know. She didn’t speak to the owner of the pit bull. Funny though, after rolling her eyes at me and turning away she said to Ryan: “at least he comes to you,” as I’m picking up a ball to throw for Cassie. Never mind the hyper aggression she couldn’t be bothered to train out of her own dog.
What gets me though is the hyper-sensitivity to all little things. Necessary mishaps of proper growth and development, the demanding of weakness and the refusal of accepting blame. As if they should be coddled at all costs even when they aren’t injured or in any real danger. Long gone are the days of getting over yourself, so then self-righteous people like homegirl embark on galactic quests to annoy the shit out of, and then berate under their breath anyone who isn’t in line with their injurious, incessant coddling. More injurious with human children I think. Those human children who may grow up to be just like her, or any blip on the spectrum of insufficient/deleterious to the remainder of our supposedly just society. Those whom regardless of resources, remain either wholly dependent on others or morally inexcusable in our current societal landscape–shredding away the well-being of every living thing they touch–and doing so with pride because they were bred to believe it acceptable. Politicians in the making.
And so when I’m walking somewhere with the kids and they’re running on the concrete, and I say to stop running and they don’t and then Leah falls and starts freaking out crying but isn’t injured, I shouldn’t feel bad at all. I should feel nothing when I tell her to get up and that she has no reason to cry. She gets right up when I say that and gives up on the tears and starts walking again. It usually takes a while before she forgets the fall and starts running again and the process is repeated, sometimes days, sometimes weeks. But I do feel something, I don’t know if it’s bad or not. Maybe I feel like I should do something about the pressure of people staring and expecting me to kiss the non-existent boo boo. The scowls from other parents when I don’t lift her up, but allow her to get up on her own. But no matter how I feel, It’s more important that I continue to hope she’ll be picking herself up as much as possible, now and in the future, when her mother and I, the rest of her family, maybe even her friends are gone ,if it comes to that. Maybe it’s because I know the stakes are so much higher for her as a little black girl in America, or maybe it’s my own angry insistence on independence. The vitriol I still have for never being nurtured or taught anything by anyone even when I truly needed it most. Likely a combination of those things, or maybe I just can’t stand pretentious old Trump voting, ignorant, self-righteous ass chickenheads at the dog park and she got me all in my feelings.
Maybe my anger is like that damn technicolor Tootsie pop owl and as a consequence, the world may never know.