White Trash at Flat Rock

Start at the beginning of the story if you’re new to the scene. Just scroll down to CH.1

“Karen! Grab a tree. Dolly’s coming.” Goodnaturedly she grabbed hold of a convenient trunk with one hand and braced herself by the cane in her other hand. We waited for the hellion to streak by. I swear I could feel the vibrations set up by her thudding paws.

“Do you carry a cell phone or something?” I asked her. She would not be able to escape if she were threatened. Being alone in the woods can be risky. There are plenty of nutcases in our fair city, and the Flat Rock area is very accessible to the downtown area. Fitchburg is home to many of the disenfranchised. Like I told Peter, just because someone’s a whack job doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

“Oh, no,” she said, “I have a gun. I know how to use it.”

“Well, that’ll do the trick.” I might have blinked.

“Karen’s a master marksman,” Wendy told me. “She has awards.”

“Yeah, I have a license to carry,” Karen said. “You don’t have to worry about me.

“I was up here alone one day with Lulu and this guy came by and kicked her for no reason. She rolled down the hill and I couldn’t go down and get her.

“It was awful. I could hear her crying and she couldn’t get up the hill. It took her about 45 minutes before she made it. I carried her to the car. We went right to the vets. I had to call Chuck.

“That was really bad.” Karen shook her head.

“Call your dog!” we heard an imperious voice demand from further down the path.

“Oh, shit. DOLLY! DOLLY!” I took off at a run. “Dolly, come on. Don’t be a pill.”

Dolly and a large pale dog were barking and exchanging spit. I grabbed her by the collar and yanked her up and off her feet, away from the other dog.

“There are too many dogs up here,” the woman with the pale dog said to her friend who was similarly accompanied by her own large dog. “Let’s go. This used to be a nice place to go.”

She walked off in a huff.

I looked at Wendy. She knows all. “Huh?”

 “Oh, don’t worry about her. She just can’t control her dog,” Wendy reassured me.

The path around the reservoir is mostly flat with good footing. Walkers and runners enter through a service road the water department maintains. A berm separates the water from the road for the first several hundred yards. It’s lined with aged pine trees that look like they were planted when the pond was dammed. There are only a few holes denoting fallen trees. 

A few paths lead to the water. These are favored spots for the dogs who run down to drink or swim on hot days. Unfortunately, since it is so near the parking area, it’s also a magnet for the offenders leaving poopy diapers. 

After passing the beach on the right hand side, the chicken wire fence on the other side of the road disappears. More than one unwary dog has gotten caught behind this fence while in pursuit of small game. They always figure out a way around the blockade and come back no worse for the wear. An old civil defense structure with a horn lurks behind a chain link fence a little further on. Dogs have been known to run around this enclosure and roll in nasty things behind it. Not Doll though. 

The reservoir is long and narrow, no longer used as a water supply. The north side is short, basically an earthen dam. A brick pump house sits in the water about 20 feet from shore. During the warm summer ropes hang from the opening, placed there by illicit swimmers. Henry lurks, waiting to catch the scofflaws. 

The dam is a canine hot spot. Swimmers rush to the water, antsy individuals race up and down the hill on the back side. Here the grass grows high, reaching over a foot tall; some dogs graze their way through in the never-ending search for the roughage not found in the obscenely expensive food we all buy. 

The most magical dog spot appears where the maintained roadway turns into a footpath, entering the woods up a slight incline. Dogs go nuts just before making the right turn. They run in circles, they run back and forth, leap around like psycho-dogs and generally let their hair down. 

“Look at Dolly!” “Star!” “Watch out Lulu!”

Lulu, Karen’s dog, is frequently knocked over by the larger dogs. She is small and round, yet fierce. Fortunately she rolls well. “Good thing Lulu’s not a pit bull,” Peter said one day as she fended Dolly off with a determined grrr.

Karen falls frequently on the walks too. She carries a cane but a misplaced foot or a good nudge from a careening dog is enough to drop her.

The next chapter in the Life of Dolly 

“You’d never believe,” I said to Peter and Wendy one day. They’re always good for exchanging a little dirt.

“Ken sat beside that woman who hates me at a lecture. He said he talked with her for almost an hour about what good dogs pit bulls are. For an hour,” I emphasized.

“Leave it to Ken to be nice to Crazy Lady,” Wendy groused. “It won’t do any good, she’s nuts.” 

“I’m sure it did no good. She already said Bubba was not a problem. Why doesn’t she just walk in another area? It’s not like there’s a shortage of trails. What do we use, a mile and a half out of at least twelve?” I asked.

“She loves the thrill,” Wendy claimed. “Why else would she come up here if she’s afraid of dogs? No one should come here if they are afraid. She gets off on it.” 

Peter was quiet. He kept an eye on Kody and meandered along the trail. Kody doesn’t believe in excess movement. Dolly was plowing through the woods at top speed, periodically barging in front of Star to see if he would play. Star was trying desperately to preserve his standard poodle dignity. 

We humans were all in our summer dog walking finest; sloppy tee shirts, knee length shorts and scruffy sandals. Each person had a leash wrapped around his or her neck and each dog sported just a collar. No fancy bows or outfits on this crew. 

“Well,” Peter finally said, dragging out the “l” sound. “Ken should sleep with her. That’s what she wants.” 

“Peter!” Wendy reprimanded him. 

“I think Ken’s wife might put the kibosh on that,” I said. 

“No, I bet she wouldn’t mind,” Wendy chirped. 

We considered this in silence for a few steps. None of us were in a committed relationship. None of us particularly seemed to mind our single state. 

“I gave up men,” Peter said. “I’m celibate. It’s a lot easier.” 

“Sure,” I commiserated. “Who needs men if you have a dog?” 

Wendy didn’t weigh in on that discussion. She had other things on her mind. 

“Look. Those stupid people were up here again,” she said. 

“What stupid people?” I asked. 

“Those ones who come up with their kids and go swimming. They leave poopy diapers all around,” she said. “Right where we send the dogs in swimming. It’s posted. Henry gets really mad at them when they go in the water.” 

Wendy often uses the authority of Henry to prove her points. He’s a dog-loving employee of the city water department. His business card lists him as reservoir security. 

“They are idiots,” Peter agreed. “I was really mad at that guy. I told him. They have a pit too.”

 “That doesn’t mean they are bad,” I said, ever aware of slights against pit bulls in general.

 “Oh, the dog is fine,” Peter said. “It’s him.”

“I got a call from Suzie last night,” Ken said to me one morning as the pit bulls fought to the death over their stick. It was a good stick; it looked thick enough to last for at least 5 minutes.

“Oh, what did she have to say?” I asked. I knew Bubba counted the dog officer as one of his facebook friends. Ken liked to say he had the best-connected dog in Fitchburg.

“She got eight calls yesterday complaining about the pit bulls up here.”

 “But why? Nothing has happened.”

‘The caller told her Dolly was the problem. She also mentioned you by name.”

“Who was it? Did she say? Did she say anything about Bubba?”

Ken answered the most important query first. “The caller said Bubba was a good dog. It was just that Dolly and Anne.”

I groaned. “It must be that woman who Dolly took the glove from. She knows my name. Is that who it is?”

“She didn’t leave her name. Suzie said she left eight messages before work yesterday.” 

“It must be her. She’s whacked,” I said with all the aplomb of a frustrated social worker.

“Errr. Errr.” The dogs echoed my frustration. Of course they were just playing tug with no concern for larger social issues.

“She knows me too,” Ken said. 

“Yeah, but she said Bubba was okay,” I countered. “I’d better call Suzie today.”

 How could Suzie not be able to identify a caller? “Doesn’t the city have caller ID?” I wondered. “I would think so,” Ken said.

“As far as I’m concerned you are doing everything ight,” Suzie the dog officer told me the next day.

 “Your dog is licensed and vaccinated. You have her under control.”

 “Well, mostly,” I hedged. “She’s still learning.”

 “I might go walk somewhere else for a few days, let things calm down,” I thought out loud.

That’s a good idea, just for a few days,” Suzie said.

“Ken said you didn’t have the lady’s name. Don’t you have caller ID in the city?” I can be a little obsessive when I want.

 “She had a blocked number.”

“I think I know who it is,” I said. “That woman who works at the museum. She’s afraid of Doll. I don’t know her name though. She knows mine.”

 “Yeah, I know,” Suzie harumphed. “Try to get her license number. I’ll track her down.” Suzie instructed.

A week later Suzie showed up at Flat Rock in the animal control truck. The dogs were all happy to see her. She must give off good dog vibes.

 “She’s following me around,” Suzie said. “She called my supervisor to say I wasn’t doing my job.”

 “Is she threatening you? Are you afraid she’ll do something?”

 “Oh, no,” the five foot nothing dog officer declared. “I have police training.”

 “Her son had to take a restraining order out on her to keep her away from his kids. They won’t let her pick them at school,” Wendy told us.

 “Do we know it’s her?” I asked. The dour golem-like woman was starting to take on epic proportions.

 “I’m trying to get her license plate number,” Suzie said. “My supervisor told her unless she left her name and number we couldn’t do anything for her.”

 I marveled. When did the woman find time to make all these calls? She sounded in desperate need of a life.

 “I’ve been up here a few times. I know everyone will vouch for Dolly being a good dog,” Suzie said. “Everyone up here likes her. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

 Dolly was doing her hardest to charm. She hadn’t moved more than a few inches from Suzie’s leg since we started talking. Did she realize she was in the eye of a storm?

A dog of leisure

The continuing story of Dolly and Bubba – next episode March 7

“Ken,” I gasped. “He can’t swim!”

“I  know.”

We looked at each other. We looked at Peter. We looked at the dark, empty space where the black dog used to be. His face was just visible, a white blaze floating beneath the surface.

After what seemed an eternity, but in fact about the time it took us to say all this, Bubba popped his head out of the water and skedaddled to the safety of dry land.

“Oh, my,” Peter said. “That was scary.” 

“Bubba, are you alright?” I asked. Some dogs like to be addressed in complete sentences. Given Ken’s general formality, Bubba was probably used to being addressed like this.

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Ken reassured everyone particularly himself. “Come here, Bubba.”

“Oh, here. Here’s a treat.’

“DOLLY! Don’t jump.” Quickly things were back to normal although we now had new things to talk about.

“I don’t think pit bulls can swim.” Ken said. He postulated even further. “They don’t have enough fur to hold air and help them with buoyancy.”

“They can too swim. I saw them on youtube,” I responded. “Maybe some just don’t like to.”

The next day was Dolly’s big test. I took her up to the reservoir alone when no one else would be around to distract the social animal she had become.

I casually lured her down to the beach. Once there, I took off my sandals and walked into the water to just over my ankles. As nonchalantly as possible I called Dolly.

“Dolly, come here. Good girl, come on.”

Dolly, cookie! Cookie!”

Nope, no fooling that one. It was a nice spring day to go for a wade fortunately. I wandered around about a foot from the shore, scoping out rocks, holes and yucky spots I wouldn’t want to step in. Once I figured she had forgotten I called her, I went back to dry land. 

Dolly can be a trusting soul, and she bounded over to see what I was up to now. It was safe; I was no longer in the dog devouring water.

“Dolly, come on,” I pleaded. I tried reason. “I just want to see if you can swim. You don’t have to stay in.”

My pleas fell on deaf, or just uncomprehending, ears. Never one to be thwarted, I reached down and grabbed the ingrate by the collar. 

I harangued her a little just so she’d know who’s the boss. “You’re coming with me. Like it or not. I really don’t care.”

Walking cautiously because of the small rocks underfoot, I dragged her to the waterline. The front paws went out to brace against further forward motion.

Although she’s remarkably strong pound for pound, she’s no match for me and I accomplished my mission. By the time I hauled her to knee deep water she was in over her head. Recalling my childhood swimming lessons, I put a hand under her belly and swam her around me.

I released her and she was off like a shot, running to the land like trident-bristling Poseidon himself was after her. But I was happy; she could swim enough so she wouldn’t sink like her buddy.

Little did I know the dangers we were facing weren’t coming from anything nature could throw at us.

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Remember to scroll on down to the first chapter if you need to catch up with the adventures

“Jennifer and I taught a class together a few years ago. And didn’t you tape some of the bike race events for us last year?” I reminded Ken. The Fitchburg Longsjo race has been a major international cycling event for half a century.

 “Oh, of course. Didn’t you have a place downtown for a while?”

 “Yeah, the coffeehouse. We had some excellent performers.”

 “I remember that. My wife Jennifer and I used to go there.”

 We were good to go. Dolly and Bubba soon had regular play dates. Everyone in the group took to Bubba, seeing as he was such an amiable fellow. Most of the time we got together up at Flat Rock, sometimes, if we were feeling adventurous, we’d go on a field trip to a different park. The dogs let us go along for the treats we provided. Besides, we had the car keys.

 Flat Rock is a magical place for dog walking. The reservoir is ringed by piney New England woodlands. The “beach” is accessible through several narrow pathways most of the dogs loved to run down. Many of the dogs were most excellent swimmers, chasing sticks thrown way out into the water from the shore. Some went down to the water more reluctantly, not caring too greatly to get wet.

 It took Dolly awhile before she was willing to put her front paws in the water to get a drink. Bubba was pretty cautious also. As spring turned into summer, the dogs got hotter and thirstier and trips to the water happened more frequently. Kody did the water buffalo, submerging himself to slightly deeper than belly deep and standing still. Star swam around, just a bit. The goldens in the crowd became enthusiastic seals. Two chocolate labs, not yet in touch with their inner water dogs, took swimming lessons with their human father.

 Dolly and Bubba cautiously remained on the outskirts of this but each day became a bit bolder in their water explorations. Soon they were standing in the water up to their elbows. One day Dolly got her belly wet. Big news on the pit bull front.

 “Look,” I said to Peter and Ken, “Bubbs is almost over his head.”

 “Oh, good boy,” Peter encouraged him.

 As we watched, Bubba disappeared under the surface. There was a slight sucking sound as he disappeared a few feet from shore.

 “Oh, my god, oh, my god,” someone said. Maybe it was me or maybe one of the men. Most likely, all of us.

 “BUBBA!”

 I started hitting my pockets, searching for items that could be damaged in water, preparing to use my decades old lifesaving skills. Ken and Peter jumped around frantically, probably checking their pockets for valuables too.

 The two are remarkable similar in body type. Both men are tall and rangy. Peter is a yoga instructor, but absolutely exercise phobic. Ken is a former rugby player with two replaced hips to prove it. They were in their shorts, leashes wrapped around their necks and wearing caps. Neither was usually an excitable type. Except when it came to their dogs.

 “BUBBA! BUBBA!”

To be continued…

Note: Prevent this from happening to your dog. check out http://www.dogtrainersearch.com/blog/2009/12/dog-swimming-teach-your-dog-to-swim/

Whenever someone new shows up at Flat Rock it is cause for both joy and caution. Joy, because a new friend is always a good thing. Dogs don’t acknowledge human inhibitions; they cut straight to the butt sniff and chest butt. Within moments of meeting they determine who is boss bitch, who plays how and who prefers to walk alone. This system is virtually foolproof until well-intentioned humans butt in.

Thus, the cause for caution. A new dog, or more accurately, dog/person unit, may or may not integrate into the group. The butt sniffing and chest butt protocol entails growling, barking and snapping; behavior that can be alarming for anyone not expecting it. Fortunately it doesn’t usually mean trouble.

 Common knowledge at Flat Rock holds that a new pit bull can be an exception to the general dog way of fitting in. Some are just “dog aggressive” and must be avoided at all costs. You never know. Better safe than sorry.

“Here come some new dogs,” Wendy said. “Better leash Dolly. It’s a pit”

 Two goldens and a heavy black dog came bounding around the corner followed by two men. “No, no. It’s okay,” one of them called out. “He’s very friendly. Let them go”

 We were cautious. Dolly was still on the leash, Wendy, Peter and their dogs surrounded us.

 “Bubba, come here,” the man with the thick eyebrows called.

 “Wait a minute. I know them,” I said. “Ken? Ken Jones?”

 “I think they are okay,” I said to the others. “I’ve heard about Bubba. He’s a marshmallow.”

 Paul, that friend who said me and a pit bull bitch would be a perfect match, told me about this dog. He was very impressed with the black pit bull cross. The Bubbs spent lots of time sitting on the couch and snarfing cookies from guests. I’d known Bubba’s mother for years. We taught a class together at the local college and I teach in an after school program she runs.

 I decided to let Dolly go when everyone arrived and the dogs were starting to calm down. After all, Bubba came from a good family. It turned out to be a most excellent decision.

Immediately Dolly recognized Bubba as one of her own kind. She growled and snapped and jumped all over him. Bubba growled and snapped and sat right down. He already knew to take advantage of his superior size in the never ending games of strength the two dogs would come to play. Dolly, younger by a year and a half and much more svelte, overcame his weight advantage with energy and enthusiasm.

“Oh, boy,” I warned. “Stand back.”

Dolly raced to the edge of the woods and grabbed a stick. It was as if none of the other dogs or people existed. She ran straight to Bubba and stopped. Front feet extended and tail up in the air. The budding coquette looked up under her eyelashes at her new conquest and said, “Errr.”

Well, that was it for Bubba. He was completely enchanted by the pit bull temptress. He grabbed the other end of that stick and the rest, as they say, was history. For the next 20 minutes they tugged and growled, periodically racing keeping to catch up with the others. The other dogs ignored them; the owners seemed enthralled by the single-mindedness of the two pits. By the end of the walk the stick was history and Dolly and Bubba firm friends.

 “We’ll have to do this again,” Ken said. “But how do you know me?”

 Turns out the humans still needed to do some sniffing and butting.

For a more serious look at dog socialization vist: http://site.bigpawdesigns.com/blog/?p=508

“Dolly jumped up and tried to take my glove,” the dour woman with a gang banger’s watch cap declared. Somehow, this woman knew my name. I didn’t ever remember meeting her before. She was large; tall and bulky. Her moves were awkward, like a golem come to life or a small child wrapped in too many outside clothes. Any conversation was stilted; seemingly she had to remember how it was reasonable and appropriate to talk to someone else. Always she was alone when she went on her walk. The sounds her car made as she pulled out of the lot indicated new ball joints were severely overdue.

“Did she get it?” I wanted to know.

“No.”

“Well, that’s good.”

I thought no more about the incident. I was preoccupied with more the more demanding issues in life. My parents were showing the effects of over a combined 150 years of good living. Since I’m the only kid in the area, I’m the one getting those scary “Your father fell down and can’t get up” calls in the middle of the night.

Other than that things in general weren’t too bad, just busy. Work was interesting and absorbing for the most part and even better, didn’t usually require suits, silly shoes and a pair of nylons. Getting everything squeezed into the day was a challenge, between work, parents, my new duties in dog care, working out and keeping two old cars running. I need the extra one for when the other is in the shop. Besides, I have a thing for Mazda RX7s. Perhaps it was a good thing I had no significant other hanging around asking for another bit of my time. Of course having someone with a sizable income would be an entirely negative thing. A freelancer’s income is never steady.

I thought things were going well overall in the dog department. Not one “accident” in the house. Nothing had been chewed up and annihilated in months. Dolly had met all kinds of dogs and lots of different people and seemed to like everybody. Then one day at Flat Rock the man with two Bassett Hounds said, “There’s a woman over there who’s afraid of Dolly. Don’t worry, she turned around and went the other way.”

“Huh?” First of all, Dolly was friendly to all. In the second place, if someone was afraid of dogs, they could go walk somewhere else. The dog walking all happened on a single mile-long trail. There were at least 12 miles of trails in the conservation area. I knew. I’d mountain biked almost all of them at one time or another.

“It’s not all nice people up here,” Wendy said. “Sometimes they try to get rid of us. Have you met mean man? You have to be careful of him.”

“He’s a homophobe,” Peter said. I had figured out that Peter was the tall thin man in the raggedy sweat suit and Kody, the ambling shepherd mix. “You should have heard what he said to Eric.”

“Who’s Eric?” I asked, once again confused. “Is he gay?” Peter would know, being unabashedly gay himself.

“No, but he’s odd,” Peter clarified.

I decided to steer clear of these troublemakers as much as possible. The last thing I needed was an altercation with some whack-job in the woods. After all, I was trying to raise Dolly to be as non-confrontational as it was possible for a dog to be. Instead of cursing loudly and inventively at one of the myriads of idiots on the road I tried to grit my teeth so Dolly wouldn’t learn to get aggressive in the car. Did dogs understand “the finger?” Maybe non-verbal venting might work.

Most of the dogs Dolly played with were happy-go-lucky and well-behaved. They set good examples for her. Jumping was rare, and most of the animals stuck close to their people without too much calling. What was missing was a dog who would play rough with Dolly. I was still adhering to Pit Bull Commandment #6, no tug of war.

Scroll down to chapter one to read the adventures in order!

Over the next few months we met up with the walkers several times a week. The blurry group gradually became a collection of individuals, each with an interesting take on life, each just a tad odd. Some came up more often than others.

Wendy was known as the dog-yeller. She kept tabs on everyone and everyone’s dogs. She was also the resident expert on all things Fitchburg and all things dog. Sometimes though, it was difficult to figure out what she was talking about.

“I’ve been coming up to these woods since I was little. I know every trail. My brother told me not to walk around alone up here. He’s a state cop. That’s ridiculous. I know these woods better than anyone.

“My father used to raise Brittanies. We always had Brittanies. The girl at the vet’s just got a pit. You don’t know if they are any good until they are two. They can turn any time, but if they reach two and they’re still good they’ll be okay.

“There’s a lawyer who lives over there, he has a mean dog and he wants us all to put our dogs on a leash. He just can’t control his dog, you know. Henry said we don’t have to leash our dogs.

“Oh, look at Dolly. DOLLY, DOLLY! What a good girl; go play with Star. STAR! Star doesn’t like to play. He only plays with his ball. Ruby thinks she’s a poodle too.”

“Who’s Ruby?” I finally got a word in edgewise. I didn’t remember seeing any dog named Ruby but that doesn’t always mean much.

“Oh, she’s a pit who only plays with poodles. She lives with Star’s sister. She’s always cold.”

“Yeah, Dolly hates the cold too. She shivers a lot,” I confided. “Her feet used to bleed in the snow until she toughened up.”

“Well, you have to let her sleep all the way under the covers with you,” Wendy advised.

“No way.” I was adamant. “She snores. No dogs in the bed.”

“Ruby sleeps under the covers.” It seemed like Wendy was becoming Dolly’s strongest advocate.

“Well, goody for Ruby. The Doll will just have to adapt. I’ll get her a fleece blanket.”

“They had some good ones at the Salvation Army,” Wendy recommended.

It would be some time before I got the complete cast of characters straightened out. As the weeks went by, it became increasingly obvious there was a group of us and a group of them.

Doll and I were one of ‘us.’

The saga of Dolly the pit bull continues. If you are new to the blog please read from the bottom up so you can follow the story. Enjoy!!

Doll- The Social Butterfly

As advertised there were dogs running free and their people were good with it. The pack welcomed Dolly on their own dog terms; butt-sniffing, running in circles, gratuitous barking and other expressions of general canine joy. Dolly sniffed, ran and barked with the best of them. She was a young and exuberant dog but the other dogs accepted this. After all, they were young once also. If she got too rambunctious somedog was sure to give her an “errr” and straighten her right out.

I was overwhelmed by the statements and advice being batted around.

 “Watch out, there is a woman who comes up here who is afraid of pits,” someone to my right said.

I turned to my left. “Well, Fiona is the alpha female, she’ll put Dolly in her place.” “NO! STAR BENNETT!” I stumbled in a startle reflex. Guess that was one of the dogs getting yelled at.

“Look, Dolly has a crush on Bruno. He’s awfully handsome but there’s nothing between his ears.”

The owners and dogs were a motley crew. A young family with a double stroller and three children gathered in the shade at the edge of the thick woods surrounding the reservoir.  Several women walked with leashes draped around their necks for easy access. One of them used a cane. A tall, thin man in a raggedy sweat suit kept watch over everybody. The dogs were just as diverse. A white standard poodle with an unfortunate haircut, several small dogs who stood their ground and didn’t say much. An older german shepherd mix was a slow-moving object. Large bounding dogs and some mid-sized models rounded out the canine mix.

The group gathered us in and took us for a walk around the pond. Sounds innocent, doesn’t it? Here was this pit bull, a dog with a “bad rap,” playing just like any other dog. The people broke into groups of two or three as the trail narrowed. The dogs cavorted and gamboled through the undergrowth, ran ahead on the path and came barreling back for treats. I kept a close eye on my dog, what if some other dog really annoyed her and something happened? What if she knocked over the woman with the cane?

As the group circled back to the parking area, the others took stock of us. We were the new kids on the block. The owners looked at each other, the dogs sniffed and butted. Nothing was said, but apparently we received the stamp of approval.

“We usually come up here around 10,” the man in the sweat suit said. “Every day.”

“Kody likes Dolly,” he continued. “She plays with him.”

“Um, who’s Kody?” I asked, still confused by the crowd. “Oh, him,” he replied pointing at the ambling shepherd mix.

“Oh, okay. We can come up sometimes then, but sometimes I have to work,” I said. “I know Dolly had a good time.”

I glanced at my watch. “Oh, my god. I’m going to be late for work! Dolly, get in the car, come on Dolly!”