Gypsy and Rosie
They ride on airplanes in more comfort than the human passengers. They go to daycare where they are fed, bathed, pampered, and entertained by other spoiled dogs. They have their own parks, both fenced and free-range.
Pet stores that once pretty much carried only dog chow, leashes, and a few basic toys now stock a line of gourmet food, garments, beds, and toys that would be the envy of many a third-world country. For decades, we have been conditioned to pick up their poop so that now it is practically a crime to be negligent.
The plastic poop bag is the only good thing about the despised free print newspapers that litter the sidewalks, gutters, and driveways in my Midtown neighborhood.
If dogs could blog, Tweet, and post on Facebook, I suspect that Memphis would rate very highly among them:
“Five Stars! Bones galore! Never sniffed so many butts! Must see!”
The two dog parks at Overton Park are shady, spacious, and segregated by size so that the shy and diminutive need not mix with the rowdy, libidinous, and oversized. There is plenty of mud to roll in, benches to chase around, water bowls to quench the thirst, and hoses to cool off even the furriest of mutts.
Back-seat doggie hammock
Greenbelt Park at the Mississippi River is two miles of bracing breezes, cool scents, driftwood piles and rocks to pee on, and paths for jogging and making new friends.
The off-leash dog park in the northeast corner of Shelby Farms is even better, the heaven on earth for dogs, with acres of woods, trails, lost toys and balls to discover, and lakes seemingly free of the pesky water mocassins I have spied in the fishing lakes nearby. A dog that cannot find bliss here is a dog that needs therapy, which is, of course, available from a trained professional at the right price, group or individual.
In my neighborhood, a lost dog is often found within a day or so thanks to first-alert postings on the handy Facebook page, NextDoor, and a reliable network of ever-vigilant responders. No wonder so many pups get dumped on the streets to find a better home. Many of them get it.
It wasn’t that many years ago that the only dogs you saw at the airport were tiny breeds in hand-held cages and German shepherds sniffing luggage or guiding someone tapping a cane. Now some concourses look like the Westminster Dog Show, and you have a decent chance of being seated next to a golden doodle with gas or a cocker spaniel with ear mites who has achieved dispensation as someone’s emotional support animal.
I am exaggerating, but only a little. A sucker for dogs all my life, I recently hosted a golden retriever named Rosie and her owners for a couple nights and we took in all the sights. She made a friend for life in my backyard when my neighbor brought over her black beauty, Gypsy, to play in the backyard. I imagine their dog conversation went something like this.
Off-leash dog park at Shelby Farms
“Hey. You from around here?”
“Cross-country road trip from Charleston in a mini-van with the two over there. You?”
“Next door. I just come over here to take a dump and get my ears scratched. Wanna sniff butts?”
“You don’t waste time, do you? No thanks. Those hunting dogs in Alabama and Mississippi wore me out. Never heard of manners. Let’s run around this picnic table, roll in the grass, knock over some potted plants, slobber on each other, and wrassle.”
“Sweet. See the guy over there with the black thing in his hands looking at us? If we sit down in front of him and stick our tongues out he’ll do anything for us.”
“You think?”
“I know. C’mon, follow my lead. Ready, one, two, three ...”
