Being a Doggy Mama - Ball fight!

 

We took the doggies to the dog park yesterday.  Puppy Dog is still recovering from his FCE injury and is now at the stage where he can benefit from swimming on his own.

Puppy Dog has a bad habit of taking other dogs' tennis balls.  Lots of dogs do this, but Puppy Dog doesn't give them back, which can lead to some unpleasant encounters.

I am always amazed at how protective people in a dog park are over their tennis balls.  I mean, who cares?  

It's a tennis ball.  

If it's so goddamn precious to you, why'd you bring it to a public place?  Keep your gem-encrusted, 24 carat gold sphere at home.

I've written about this before, more than once.  So I won't bore you with it again.  So, why am I writing about it again.  What was different this time?

Bear with me...

Mr Fatty throws ball into water.  His dog doesn't go after it.  Puppy Dog does.  We call him out of the water.  We try to get the ball from him.  His jaws clamp down.  He pants hard.  He won't let go.  We offer Mr Fatty a ball nearby.  He declines, because "that isn't my ball."  So far, the story is the same as always.  

I finally give the owner our ball, which is way better quality that his.  He inspects it first, then grudingly accepts.  We walk away, annoyed, but not wanting to behave like the arseholes we detest.  

Puppy Dog is still panting, chewing the ball, salivating.

But here's the twist.

After a few minutes Puppy Dog drops the ball, and we get the attention of Mr Fatty, trying to do the right thing and give it back to him.  Mr Fatty walks over.  But then, Mr Bignose steps in, saying the now free ball belongs to his dog.

Mr Fatty and Mr Bignose proceed to have an argument over who owns the extra-special-preciousssssss red and blue tennis ball.

Voices are raised, shoulders are squared, hips are thrust forward.  The last ten minutes of our planet's history, pertaining specifically to the 5 square feet around us, are retold by them in turn, each in the firm belief that they are the source of the absolute truth.  They address each other, with dripping sarcasm, as "Sir."

I look at Fluffy Bear.

He looks at me.

In one tiny glance, which takes a milisecond, we both agree, silently, on the utter stupidity of the situation. 

We walk away, leaving two grown men posturing over a cheap commodity on a sunny Saturday morning. 

"None of this would have happened," snorts Fluffy Bear, "if that stupid guy had taught his dog to actually retrieve!"

To read more in the Being a Doggy Mama series, click here.

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