Doggie Style at the Dog Park: A One-Act Play

SCENE: A warm spring Sunday evening at Shawnee Mission Park, a favorite haunt of Scampwalker and his three dogs.  As he pulls into the crowded parking lot, he realizes that this isn't the same off-leash park he's used to visiting at sunrise.  At that hour, it's a 53-acre paradise that he shares only with Dottie, Vegas, LuLu, and the occasional Canada goose and whitetail deer. 

This evening however, the park resembles Max Yasgur's Farm on August 18th, 1969.  Shaggy dogs and their equally shaggy human counterparts are there in droves, and a general sense of lawlessness reigns.  Scampwalker and his nine-year-old son Jack exit their truck and drop the tailgate to uncrate the dogs.

JACK: (looking around nervously) Wow, it's really busy here today.

SCAMPWALKER: Yeah, it is.  (Also scanning the scene, trying not to look nervous)  But we're here, so we might as well let them stretch their legs.  Besides, it's a nice evening.

JACK: Ok, Dad. (while politely pushing an enthusiastic jumping dalmatian/corgi mix off of his pantleg)

The father-son duo walk to the water's edge -- an enjoyable 15 minute hike.  Dottie and Vegas range off-lead, as usual, and are polite to other dogs and owners, but also more interested in searching the landscape for the myriad smells, canine and otherwise.

LuLu, at 12 weeks, has learned that she's the cutest thing on four legs -- and milks it for all it's worth.  SCAMPWALKER doesn't mind -- particularly when the pretty girls, dressed for spring in shorts and tank tops, come pet her and snuggle her.  She runs free, but on a 20-foot lead so she's never far from safety.

The merry band of SCAMPWALKER, JACK, and the dogs arrive at the beach -- a hundred-yard stretch of gravel and rock.  Normally, they'd practice water retrieves with Vegas and her beloved Dokken Deadfowl.  This evening, however, it's pandemonium -- much too busy for retrieves.

JACK: Wow, look at all these dogs, dad.

SCAMPWALKER: Yeah, this is crazy.  We'll just spend a couple minutes down here and then head back up.

It's at this point when SCAMPWALKER realizes that keeping an eye on three dogs in a crowd is much more difficult than watching two.

JACK: Dad, that dog is chasing Dottie.

SCAMPWALKER: (scanning beach for Dottie) Where?  I don't see-- aw, shit!

Twenty yards away, a jet-black shepherd mix is preparing to mount Dottie, his prized 10-year-old pointer.  Dottie's look is a mixture of befuddlement, sheepishness, and teenaged breathlessness.

SCAMPWALKER: (running towards the amorous couple) Dottie, no!  Dottie! (thinking: who the hell owns this cretin dog?)  Git!  Go on!  (SCAMPWALKER shoos away the black marauder just before he's able to wrap his front legs around Dottie's flanks.  Crisis averted, but he still has no idea who owns this damned wild dog.  Dottie has already forgotten the entire episode, and trots off to other things.

JACK:  That was pretty close, Dad.  Who owns that black dog?  Can't they keep control of him?

SCAMPWALKER: One would think so, Jack.  But dogs are a lot like people -- some are better behaved than others.  But if they can't behave, they shouldn't be running free at the dog park. (becomes momentarily distracted by 20-something blonde scratching LuLu behind ears).

JACK: Dad, it's that dog again.

SCAMPWALKER: (startled back to reality) What?

At that moment, off his left shoulder, SCAMPWALKER sees the amorous Perro Negro and Dottie shoulder deep in water.  He's up on his back legs, and quickly clamps his front paws around Dot. 

SCAMPWALKER: Dammit!!  Dottie, no!  (Surveying the situation, he sees the jet-black dog's angry red hard-on positioning itself.  He jumps into the water, and grab's Dottie's collar.  Wet from the lake, it slips off -- he's only slowed down the Black Bastard for a few moments.

Finally, SCAMPWALKER notices the "owner" of the beast, at water's edge, donning cutoff jean shorts, a muscle shirt, and a Marlboro Light.  He motions in SCAMPWALKER'S general direction.

REDNECK: Cut it out, Sport. (something less than authoritatively)

SCAMPWALKER: Get your dog off my dog, man! (authoritatively) Dottie, no!

REDNECK: Sorry, dude.  He doesn't do this very often.

SCAMPWALKER:  Very of--- Dammit, if you don't move your dog, I will!

REDNECK: C'mere, Sport. (lackadaisically)

Blood boiling, SCAMPWALKER takes matters into his own hands.  With the dog's sex-fueled hips beginning to pump, there's no time to be diplomatic.  SCAMPWALKER plants the sole of his now-soaking-wet Brooks running shoe into the gaping, grinning maw of Perro Negro.  With a brief yelp, the dog lets go, and Dottie once again trots off as if nothing has happened.

REDNECK: What was that for? (finally, with some emotion)

SCAMPWALKER:  That was for my dog, you idiot!  Keep your dog under control or don't bring him to an off-leash dog park, pal.  Come on, Jack, this is ridiculous.

SCAMPWALKER collects three dogs and son and all go marching back up the hill towards the truck.  About two thirds of the way back, the silence between SCAMPWALKER and JACK becomes awkward.

JACK: You sure can learn a lot at the dog park, can't you dad?

((Fade into sunset))