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The Dog Park

Dog park.

 

Everyone says that people look like their dogs.  Not at this park, it’s the opposite. 

 

Twitter, the small black schipperke looks nothing like his owner, Miss Lando, an ample woman with a bleached short n' sassy hair-do.

 

Ella Fitzgerald the blood hound has no resemblance at all to her owner, a frail, retired neurosurgeon. 

 

Looks aside, they are all identical in their love of a good back rub. 

 

Miss Lando, a lonely heart, has a weekly appointment for a massage at miniluxe.  Neurosurgeon has regular appointments at a rub-down facility with edgier outcomes.  The dogs insinuate themselves on any hands close enough to give a good pat.

 

Neurosurgeon and Miss Lando spend half an hour each evening watching their dogs play at the park.  They sit on the damp wooden bench and talk about dog park things. Dog food, veterinarians, the Red Sox, jobs, families, heartbreak, loneliness.    

 

One night, Neurosurgeon put his hand on Miss Lando’s comfortable back, and started to rub. It was dusk and they rolled around in the bushes like a couple of dogs.  It was carnal and carnivorous.

 

Every night from then on they spent an hour in the park.  The first half an hour was watching the dogs and talking, and the second half hour was for rubbing backs and rolling in the bushes.

 

Miss Lando brought Neurosurgeon bags of KFC to eat after the rolling around.  She shared her coat on damp evenings, brought toys for Twitter and Ella Fitzgerald, and cleaned up after both of them.  When he expressed a new interest in reflexology, she rubbed his feet.

 

The colder months began.  Miss Lando felt warm and wobbly, ill and dizzy.  Neurosurgeon rubbed her back.  It helped a little. 

 

They named their baby Wexford.  Miss Lando fed him, wrapped him in warm clothes on damp days, gave him baby toys, cleaned up after him, and rubbed his feet.

 

Neurosurgeon took Ella Fitzgerald to a different dog park and never looked back.

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