LONDON, U.K. -- The doggie dam has burst.
You knew I would return to this subject, didn’t you? Dogs under lockdown. The man’s obsessed.
So let’s take a little poll.
Raise your hands all those dog haters (just joking) who are tired of hearing stories about dogs on leads, dogs off leads, dogs that roll in the grass, dogs that plead for freedom.
And may I suggest you wash your hands before raising them. To the tune of God Save the Queen, no less.
Okay, here’s the latest: Sammy has been freed of his shackles. Let us hear the cheering. Liberation has arrived.
In fact, it was canine anarchy this morning in the beautiful surroundings of her majesty’s royal parks. There was no longer even a pretense of obeying the rules.
And the rule, if I may remind you goes like this: “Dogs should be kept on leads.”
But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. You need to hear the buildup.
A few days ago a very earnest British woman—I would say she was in her mid-70s—walked into the park trailing her dog. Large. Brown. Happy to be unbound.
She made a point of stopping to speak.
“You know,” she said, looking down at Sammy, still fastened at the collar. “You don’t have to keep him on the lead anymore.”
It was meant to be helpful. It felt lofty. Her dog had wandered off by now and found a nice tree no doubt.
“That’s what the police told me. I just thought you’d want to know.”
Thank you very much. We already knew that, and believe me, we’ve discussed the matter thoroughly.
He: “What do you want to do?”
She: “They’re still saying we should keep him on a lead.”
He: “What do the ladies say?”
She: “Undecided.”
The “ladies” have been walking their dogs in The Regent’s Park for many years. Their word is sacred.
It was quickly becoming apparent that we were in the minority. Instead of feeling guilty about breaking park rules, we felt guilty about not letting Sam loose.
I swear he had learned to make his face look despondent.
She: “It doesn’t seem fair.”
He: “Life isn’t fair.”
She: “No, I mean…it doesn’t seem fair that other dogs are running all over the place. He’ll think he’s being punished.”
By Tuesday of this week our principles were beginning to slip.
By Wednesday, the boy was offered a short trial.
By this morning, all human resistance had disappeared. All moral reluctance had been buried. Click, he was free to run.
And run he did, ears back, tail down, careening around trees, leaping at unreachable squirrels, prancing around with a stick firmly planted between his teeth. I swear he was smiling.
I’m not sure there’s any going back.
Of course, there’s a great irony in all this. As dogs roam, the rest of us remain locked in our houses, with no expectation of being released for a very long time.
England’s chief medical officer of health said it yesterday with a depressing bluntness. “Socially disruptive measures” will be with us for at least the rest of the year.
Well, at the end of Day 31, consider this:
The grown daughter of friends wanted to visit her parents and simply sit in their back yard for a while. Just to be around them. To make sure everything was okay. She walked into the house, careful to keep her distance—no hugging, no kissing—continued through to the patio and sat there, in the very strange and poisoned universe we now inhabit.
Her mother cried.
