Frozen Morning at the Dog Park

It’s January. It’s the part of January when the snow is sharpened knives waiting for my mistake. If you’ve grown up here, you know the snow can cut you. It’s not farfetched. Just rare.

At the dog park, old women walk with poles like shepherds watching a flock. Their dogs are big like sheep, roughhewn, shaggy and they are glad for the cold. The cold suits them.

The women sweep snow off the benches to sit. They hold their sticks like staffs, weapons they could use in an instant if a dog goes too far, bites in too much earnest.

At the gate, a man stands eating a sandwich. Dogs gather to watch him. He bites off a small morsel and looks at them, waiting for their envy. He looks at me and says, “Am I doing the right thing?” I don’t answer. I just smile because I don’t know. I don’t know the right thing he is wanting to do.

On the trail, I wonder about birds. I wonder if I will ever make the effort to learn the names of birds or if I will just keep walking wishing I would learn. I don’t know the names of plants or trees either and it seems late in life to start knowing everything.

We walk the circumference of the dog park several times, my dogs and me. They are happy here because of the things to smell and the small pieces of wood which they carry and chew. They don’t play with other dogs. They walk through frays and rumbles, past the women holding their staffs and the man eating a sandwich. They trot down the trail with their tails up as if being at the dog park in January is the finest thing in their lives.

I follow them.