It’s a Dog’s Life

On this glorious fifth day of spring in New York City, I donned my hat, scarf, gloves and pea coat to take a brisk walk along the gloom of the East River. Down to Carl Shurz park, where on a more pleasant day one can see joggers, strollers, skaters and brisk walkers. Not participate in, mind you; just watch. On a day like today, not many do-ers. Not many watchers either. But the dogs were still there, as always.

There are two separate dog runs at the park: one for small dogs, and one for larger dogs over 35 pounds. I wonder how many sessions of City Council it took to debate what the weight cutoff should be? All I know is that it wasn’t the IRS; if so, the limit would have been 35½ pounds. Like an IRA, where you may begin taking distributions at age 59½. The Curmudgeon can only suspect that the legislator who introduced the bill creating IRAs was, oh, 59½ on the day the bill was signed?

I didn’t spend much time at the large dog run. Large dogs are relatively serene, and they are generally not too interesting to watch. Small dogs and their masters, on the other hand, can be a fascinating study.

The little bitches were all about the same size. Their dogs, however, ranged from subway rat size and up. The subway ratdog wore a cute little tan sweater with tiny panniers sewn into each side, but what exactly was intended to be carried in these panniers? Prozac capsules? Judging by the overly-protective behavior of Mama Ratdog, Junior is certainly destined for a lifetime of doggy therapy when he grows up.

“Scooter”, a mangy looking little dog of indeterminate origin, was my favorite. Little Scooter had this little problem, see. Unable to browse the Self-Help section at Barnes & Noble, little Scooter was blissfully unaware that he suffered from Sex Addiction and Excessive Narcissism. In the course of maybe 20 minutes, little Scooter got lucky with more females than The Curmudgeon has gotten lucky with since way before he met the most recent ex-Mrs. Curmudgeon. The best part was that little Scooter didn’t seem to need to go through all of the elaborate social ritual that seems to always trip up The Curmudgeon. No coy glances from across the doggie run, no expensive dinner dates of kibbles and bits, no need to get in touch with his feline side to impress her with all of his new-age doggie sensitivity. Not even the need for doggie seduction; apparently, all little Scooter needed to get lucky was raging hormones and a good running start.

The only downside to being little Scooter was having Mama Scooter always hovering so close by. If I were little Scooter, I would certainly not have appreciated a large hand descending from above and unceremoniously scooping me up into the air at my moment of supreme victory. “Bad Scooter! Bad, BAAAD Scooter!!!” But on the other hand, The Curmudgeon was raised Irish Catholic so he certainly understands “Bad, BAAAD Curmudgeon!!!”. Only, he doesn’t hear it nearly often enough.

Gimme a dog’s life, any day of the week.