By Al Carlos Hernandez
I had some time to kill yesterday before I picked up my son. Have you ever had like 45 minutes to kill and have driven around aimlessly having absolutely no place to go? With the price of gas it can be an expensive waste of tiempo. Can’t win because if you park somewhere in a blacked out 2007 Charger on dubs, it attracts the wrong kind of attention from police and player hating thugs alike.
Recently, Miss Sally our fluff ball diva house doggie has been riding shotgun with me, albeit that phase seems like an oxymoron, and because she is so cute makes me look like that moron in question.
We rolled past a place called a “Dog Park” and out of curiosity and my developing pet parent intuition that informed me in my paternal being, that Miss Sally may had to tinkle, we decided to check it out. OK, I’ve been reading too many how to care for your K nine books written by rabid bad hair having socialists.
Ironically, last year Sally Hernandez was one of the most famous Bichon Fraise dogs on the planet in that, the three articles I have written about her have been published in the internationally known full color high gloss official Bichon Fraise magazine. This is the same pooch who loves chicharron, carnitas, and carne asada, who don’t?
I parked the bat mobile and had to carry her in, she wasn’t going willingly. All of the females in my extended classically Latino family are by nature obdurate.
There is a series of fences to keep the dogs safe allowing them to run off leash. I am assuming this is how most recently divorced folks feel when they off board the plane in Las Vegas.
Inside the first door there are two options, dogs 20 pounds or less to the left gate which leads into a small yard. Dogs 20 pounds and over directed to the right. For those of you, who think I have gone soft, view this as a political metaphor.
La Mamita is well under 20 so we went to the left into the small yard, I thought about old friends who are walking the big yard, and had to toss up my set, another hard core political reference.
The place was empty. Sally was unimpressed; she looked at me and didn’t know what to do, I didn’t either. So I took out my phone and called my daughter a serious business woman, to guess where I was, while the pooch stayed only on the concrete not wanting to get her paws dirty. I blame her glam hair designer pet Mama for allowing her to become so prissy.
I informed my daughter that we were at a pet park and how Gay was that? A politically incorrect statement, yet most non defensive oratorally hip Gay people I know, would acknowledge the phrase as true.
Sally did indeed need to tinkle. As she was casing the joint, called my biker son at work, he made the Gay comment before I did. I let him know that caring for a little one shouldn’t be gender, cross gender or gender bender specific and that Homies like us need to show a nurturing side, irrespective of the social consequences. He said there is no one there, is there?
OK, with 40 minutes left, I found a well worn communal green tennis ball. This was not an ordinary tennis ball, the kind we played stick ball with in the projects back in the day. This ball albeit exactly the same had a monogram of a dog on it. I tried to get a game of fetch going; she played along sin ganas without enthusiasm.
The intent of the place was to provide a safe location where dogs could socialize with other similar sizes pooches. The idea seems defeated if you are the only ones there.
We hung around for a while enjoying the sun as most folks and Fidos were at work. She wasn’t the lonely one, I was.
It wasn’t until we were back in the car and well on our way to our appointed rounds, did I realize that she stole the ball.
The Homies walking the yard would have been proud of her.
Al Carlos Hernandez writes from Hollywood.