At least once a week, two of my oldest Seattle friends - I met them both at a 1992 lower Queen Anne party to announce the engagement of Olga Sanchez, a pretty actress who worked here for years before moving to Portland - and I take a walk around Green Lake.
One of the guys is a lawyer who lives in Queen Anne, the other a reporter for one of the dailies, who lives in Magnolia. We always take the attorney's dog, a fetching fool of a border collie, who would chase a tennis ball into hell.
Even people who don't like dogs enjoy watching this animal. He is absolutely oblivious to people and even other dogs. All the way around Green Lake we toss him the ball, off the path of course, and even roller bladers stop to watch him run and catch. He does an over-the-shoulder grab, in his mouth no less, that would make Ichiro scream for mercy.
In the six years since I've been back from Hawaii, on 350 walks with this aging pup, maybe three people have said: "That dog isn't on a leash."
On Labor Day, gray, cold and damply overcast, a damn disgrace of a summer day, we decided to stick closer to home and walk the dog while catching up on our less than exciting middle-aged-guy lives as we ambled in a big circle at nearby Myrtle Edwards Park.
We parked the car down by the waterfront, and headed for the park. As we were entering, I noticed a young, attractive blonde also walking a dog. Her animal was a pit bull, wearing one of those vests from the Animal Shelter, meaning, I believe, that this particular dog was up for adoption.
The girl seemed very agitated, but we were 40 yards away and couldn't hear her. We kept walking and soon she was all too audible. She was screeching in a high-pitched whine dogs could probably hear much easier than people.
"That dog isn't on a leash. That dog has to be on a leash. That dog isn't on a leash. That's illegal."
The odd things were: 1) How immediately agitated she was. She didn't build to this. She began by screaming. 2) This was a dog even dog haters liked; later in the walk two separate women said, unbidden, "what a cool dog." Yet here was a person, publicly representing the Animal Shelter, who started at scream and never let up. She followed us, at a safe distance, out of arm's length, for at least a quarter mile, screaming the entire way. We tried jokes, then friendliness and then, finally, tried to ignore her. But nothing helped.
"Think of her poor boyfriend," I said. And then I got one of those intuitive flashes. "Did one of you guys date this girl and do something rotten, like men do?"
They swore they had not.
"I'm calling the cops," she finally screeched.
"Good, call them," we said in unison. I was proud of us. No cursing, no anger, No misogyny, even though we've all been divorced. Just polite ignoring of a slightly crazed stranger.
I could imagine the 911 dispatcher who took Brunhilde's frantic call. "Is the dog frothing at the mouth?
"Did it bite someone?
"Is it scaring people?"
Maybe after three negatives, the dispatcher calls Animal Control. Maybe.
Finally, we noticed the angry dogwalker running away in the wake of the pit bull. When she was out of sight my friend pulled from his pocket the leash he always carries and put it on his dog. Something he would have done much earlier if little Brunhilde had been civil, like an old-time Seattle resident.
The shelter needs to do a little background checking on their volunteers. And hopefully, little Brunhilde will avail herself of some anger management training.
Still, as we walked back to the car, dog, tennis ball in mouth and leashed up, leading the way, I silently thanked the off-the-hook young lady. She'd made a cold, wet walk just a little bit exciting. I do hope she gets some help though, because life lived at such a self-righteous high pitch can't be good for a person. And she was cute. But as we all know, cute is as cute does and she wasn't acting cute. Or even dog friendly.[[In-content Ad]]
