Man discovers wife has friends; dog unavailable for comment
A columnist joined his wife's morning dog walk and encountered a phenomenon documented by every afternoon-shift dog walker in history: the morning shift has a society, and he is not in it. His wife greeted a dozen people. Strangers greeted the dog by name. The columnist was greeted by nobody, an outcome he has now converted into content, which is the traditional remedy.
The dog, Jean, remains indifferent to her fame, as dogs reliably are. She accepted the treats, performed the in-jokes, breached the festival perimeter, and moved on with her day. She does not know she has a network. This is, arguably, the secret of maintaining one.
Festival walls have gone up in the park, as they do each summer, and were compared to a prison yard, as they are each summer. They will come down in September, as they do, whereupon the comparison will be retired until next June.
Everything described in this column — the parallel park societies, the nameless friendships, the man known only as his dog's assistant — has been true in every park since parks, and will remain true. Tomorrow morning, Jean will be greeted by name at the tennis courts. Her owner will not. The lead connects them regardless. Nothing happened today. Correct. Bye, Jean.