FEATURES

We were somewhere around West Chester, on the edge of the cultural desert, when the ennui began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel a bit heavy-lidded; maybe you should drive...” From the back seat, Skinner, my loyal, attentive canine companion, returned my gaze in the rearview, his quizzical facial expression asking, “You really want a driver with a dewclaw instead of an opposable thumb, sahib?” Then: Abruptly, his features shifted, sharpened, became less sardonic and more pointed (odd, since he’s not a Pointer but a German Shepherd*), his message unloud but clear: “Stop anthropomorphizing me.”

I didn’t begrudge him that bit of snark. After all, it’d been a long haul for both of us, what with nine road trips to nine dog parks in the previous 12 days. And it was another dog park that had brought the pair of us to the congested streets and retail omniglut of West Chester, and me to the above-cited edge of ennui: Voice of America Park’s too-cutely named Wiggly Field. I stifled a yawn, anticipating another unfamiliar-yet-similarly-tedious space for Skinner and I to explore, experience, and, if we’d learned anything so far, never step foot in again.

* To clarify, Skinner’s a 7-year-old solid black German Shepherd. It’s a rare walk that someone (often multiple someones) doesn’t see him and remark, “Beautiful dog.” Strangers take his picture and have their picture taken with him.Drivers do U-turns for a closer look. I swear. And I can’t tell you how often I’ve answered the questions, “Where’d you get him?”; “Are you going to breed him?”; and “Do you think he’d date my sister?”

Allow Me to Provide Some Context That You Can’t Stop Me From Providing
What’s a dog park? Depends on whom you ask. Socrates called them “anarchies covered in fur and plagued by feces.” Shakespeare considered them “realms of sound and fury signifying nothing more than an unsupervised beagle and an anxious schnauzer.” Benjamin Franklin aphorized Philadelphia’s first dog run as “a place where Hounds are Rightly Hounds and Cats are Rightly Slain.” Then there’s James Joyce’s allegorical use of dog parks in Finnegans Wake, but since no one ever reads Finnegans Wake, who cares?

In less lofty, more concrete terms, I would define a dog park as a fenced or otherwise enclosed area where dogs are permitted to run, play, and interact—with their human caretakers and canine brethren alike—off-leash. In the Cincinnati Metro area, there are, by my count, 11 such parks—eight public, two members-only, and one hybrid—ranging in size from roughly two to five acres. All of which I have now visited. Sadly, none, as yet, has a liquor license.

Going to Wiggly Field, et al, is not what Skinner and I normally do. There are four reasons for this: 1) We have a perfectly fine neighborhood to walk in right outside our door; 2) We’re good friends who enjoy each other’s company far more than that of others; 3) We relish our routines; 4) We’d both just as soon minimize our exposure to hookworms.

Luckily, as a writer, I’m underemployed out of my own home, making it quite convenient for Skinner and I to take a 45-minute walk every morning plus a second, 30-minute one most evenings. We maintain this schedule rain or shine, high pollen count or low visibility, in the bitter abyss of winter and under the inversion domes of summer, regardless of whether my street is besieged by 17-year cicadas or—horrors!—door-to-door Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Still, when the opportunity arose to take Skinner to all the area’s dog parks, I jumped at it. Because I love spending time with the boy, love taking him to new places, want to expose him to a variety of stimuli, relish seeing how he responds to different situations and environments, and truly feel it’s incumbent on me to give him every chance to thrive. Oops, sorry. My childlessness is showing.

West Side Backstory
Eleven years ago, I happened across a classified ad in CityBeat asking anyone who’d received a ticket for letting his or her dog run off-leash in a Cincinnati city park to phone the provided number. As a beneficiary of two such citations (with Skinner’s predecessor, Purly, in Eden Park), I called and spoke to Bob Krongold. Bob, the recipient of a ticket in French Park, claimed to be the victim of a Cincinnati policeman with a well-known and serious dog hate. I, on the other hand, having been ticketed in the dead of winter in an all but empty park and therefore posing no threat to others, considered myself a victim of circumstantial overenforcement, a contention I was prepared to defend but not define.

Long backstory short, Bob and I, esprit’d to the core, resolved to fight for the right to let dogs (well, our dogs) run free in the parks. We started making phone calls and before long we were taking a meeting with some relevant authority, which, as all meetings do, led to another meeting, which led to several more meetings, with police officials, park administrators, community leaders, dog lovers, meeting lovers, et cetera. The outcome of all this activity? The creation of Cincinnati’s first dog park in Mt. Airy Forest (nearly 5,000 years after the first one in ancient Greece [see above]).

Once opened, Purly and I tried the park a couple of times but it wasn’t for us. Kind of dull, really. Frankly, I hadn’t wanted a dog park, per se. I wanted well-behaved, off-leash canines to be decriminalized in city parks or ignored by police under certain conditions, i.e., when no one else is around. No such luck. As two subsequent tickets went a long way toward proving.

Now, however, 11 years later, I felt certain dog parks had been updated, upgraded, improved. How? Who knew? But since I’d also failed to foresee in-car DVD systems and the doubling of the amount of bacon one could reasonably expect to find on a fast-food cheeseburger, I knew that greater minds than mine were at work on all manner of things.

Wiggly Field itself, we soon discovered, is an undistinguished space with, ironically, zero wiggling—at least upon arrival. That is, besides Skinner (who doesn’t wiggle in public), there were no dogs. The only things I found inside the sturdy fence were an expanse of grass, a few low benches, and the oppression of the afternoon sun, from which there was no relief. So we kept moving, walked the perimeter, me looking and sweating, Skinner sniffing and panting, the fence standing and confining.

An eternity later (that’s 10 minutes in dog park years), a couple and their two charges—a collie and what looked to me like a Pekinese/woodchuck mix—arrived. Spotting each other, Skinner (dutifully) and the newcomers (eagerly) approached each other. Once within nose-shot, they engaged in a classic three-way circular walking butt-sniff, then each dog smoothly and simultaneously pivoted 180 degrees, executing an inverse three-way walking butt-sniff. At some invisible cue, a sudden group sprint began. Briefly. Less than 100 yards later—boom—done, over as quick as it had begun. At the finish, Skinner was 20 to 30 feet away from the pair. He stared, they stared. A few seconds later, he turned and trotted back to where I still stood, alone. Translation: his token effort at mingling had once again totally beaten the crap out of mine.

Meet the Cast!
Skinner is highly socialized but not particularly sociable. Ditto for me. Which is not to say we don’t have differences: he’s sleek, spontaneous, confident; I’m rounded, wary, inhibited. He has strong, perfect teeth he’s done nothing to deserve; I have a mouth with a growing number of expensive crowns despite brushing and flossing like it’s my job. He’s annoyed by visits from the UPS man; for me, it’s phone calls from family.

Fact is, my public persona could be and has been described as aloof, a resilient alloy forged from extreme shyness, low self-esteem, and a protective, preemptive rejection of prospective rejecters. Put another way, fun not only doesn’t follow me around, it’s under the impression I have a restraining order against it. In a dog park, that means I’m the guy standing alone, watching dyads and triads of bipeds and quadrupeds enjoy each other’s company.

Skinner I would describe as all-but-aloof; that is, he can’t resist sniffing a few aromatic nether regions but it reads as more obligatory than heartfelt. At several of the dog parks we visited, after just a few of these tentative olfactory sorties, he trotted to the exit gate, stood and waited, his nose pointing in the direction of “Can we GO now?”

In retrospect, I’d judge my previous two dogs as equally aloof. Begging the question: Am I attracted to such dogs or am I, through some behavior or vibe or pheromone, creating them? Or could it be the German in both of us?

A couple days after Wiggly Field, we were scheduled to visit WagsPark in Newtown. Yes, scheduled. Because Wags is a private dog park (read: charges a fee; daily, annual, and other contract periods available) that requires one’s pet to pass a temperament test before joining (documentation proving all shots are up to date is also required). So, on the strength of my association with this magazine and the perceived promotional value of my writing about their newly opened facility (think they’re having doubts about that yet?), I’d been invited to bring Skinner out for a free test (normally $20, applicable to membership), and should he pass, we’d be permitted in at no cost. I have to admit, for me, the promise of free trumps ennui.

Or maybe I should say my hope for free springs eternal because just a week earlier, we’d been to the only other private, members-only park in town—the Red Dog Park in Oakley (membership: $99 a year)—and we’d found it something of a letdown. All they had that the best public dog parks didn’t have was music (classic rock emanating from speakers camouflaged as plastic rocks), a small wading pool with a fountain (admittedly very popular with the panting-to-cool set), and some agility equipment no dogs were using. And why would they? If these places are humanity’s selfless gift to canis familiaris domesticus, a preserve to unwind and temporarily de-domesticate, do you think Fido’s ever, of his own volition, going to decide to charge through the tunnel or weave through the line of sticks or walk the seesaw? What’s next, the elderly tipping more than 10 percent?

A Few Specific Facts Setting Up a Few Specious Conclusions
Honestly, the first 10 parks we went to were more or less the same. Expect to find: a list of 15–20 rules you’ll either adhere to without even reading them or ignore with impunity if you do; at least one water source for your dog to get a drink; bags for picking up after your pet; a separate smaller enclosure designated for small dogs. (Most dogs I observed in these areas were so small a single flea could be considered an infestation. Also, I found myself wanting to tell the owners, “You know, your dog doesn’t know he’s small.” I resisted. Just like I resist telling people in pet stores who are buying their dogs rubber toys shaped like pork chops, “Sorry, the only thing that looks like a pork chop to a dog is a pork chop.”)

I will, however, single out four parks for special mention:

Loneliest: Symmes Township Park Dog Run. Maybe because you have to walk a quarter-mile to get to it, this place was more deserted than Wiggly Field. We hung out there over a half-hour one warm, pleasant summer evening and never saw another two-legged or four-legged soul.

Least Loneliest: Otto Armleder Memorial Dog Park. Like Facebook but with dogs. Expect lots of YPs either connecting, networking, hooking up...or looking to. A place as much about dog owners as dogs. But be warned: Those who chit-chat often fail to notice their pet’s shit-shat, resulting in a higher rate of surprises per step.

Worst: Mt. Airy Dog Park. The oldest in town and the most run down. Looks grungy, seems germy, feels skeevy. If it were a nursing home, it would be under investigation by the state.

Best: Anderson Dog Park. Clean, comparatively large, usually a not too big/not too small crowd, ample shade for sunny days, plenty of places to sit, plus the added bonus of a mammoth, mysterious concrete cube smack dab in the middle that puts me in the mind of Hanger 59. Yes, it costs $45 a year to join, but the money goes to the Anderson Township Park District, not a private company.

Skinner passed WagsPark’s temperament test with flying colors. He didn’t spook at loud noises; didn’t lunge at sudden moves; didn’t growl at or mount the “control” dog that was brought in; didn’t cop an attitude when asked if he’d put on a few pounds lately; didn’t freak out when his PC crashed; didn’t even whimper at the end of Old Yeller when Tommy Kirk had to go out and shoot his beloved dog.

It’s Only My Opinion But I Certainly Have to Agree With Me
This is going to sting a bit, so prepare yourself: Next to my dog, your dog kind of sucks. Sorry. Skinner is bright, willing, well-trained, good-natured, adaptable, agreeable, loving, an absolute quadrumensch. Not that he came out of the box that way. No. One has to put in the time, the work. There are no shortcuts. Despite what Dick Cheney claims in his Enhanced Obedience Techniques DVDs.

I’ll be plain: WagsPark showed me a dog park can be fun. It has, among other amenities, an abundance of sturdy agility equipment (again, not Skinner’s cup of au jus, but I guess it’s possible some dog somewhere is self-directed), lights for after-dark visitors, chaise longues for owners, a not-quite-Jumbotron big screen, on-site staff (to answer questions, monitor activity and, I suppose, resolve disputes among mammal groups) and, their big selling point: water features, including a spring-fed pond deep enough for the largest of breeds to swim plus a dock (for leapers); a second smaller wading pond; and a spraying, spouting, spurting, many-nozzled fountain-like contrapparatus that had Skinner and I both scratching our heads.

Obviously, what makes the place fun isn’t the stuff that’s there but whether your dog digs the stuff (figuratively, not literally). And it turns out, despite Skinner’s previous indifference to it, he was soon digging the water. Just waded in, deeper and deeper, taught himself to swim, then kept on swimming. Like he’d been born to it. Boo-yah, Portuguese water dogs!

So there I stood, grinning like a simpleton, watching my dog enjoy himself in a whole new way. Looking around, I couldn’t help but notice that the 20 or so other humans who were there with their swimming and running and dashing companions were smiling, too. Were I an entirely different person, I might’ve mentioned that to someone. Or at least continued smiling.

Oh, the Humanity…One Finds in the Company of Caninity
Everyone knows there are two kinds of people in the world: those who think the world can be divided into two groups and those who don’t. But what about people in a dog park? How many kinds of them are there? My research (methodology: collective cognitive osmosis) indicates seven:

Anti-Ambulators: Formerly known as Lazy Asses. This group takes traditional low-impact dog walking to the next level—no-impact standing-around dog watching.

Schmoozers: Found in pairs and small clusters, Schmoozers consider a dog park a place to see and be seen, their pets having to do the work usually reserved for mojitos.

The Crazy Busy: A CB’s schedule is simply too wall-to-wall to squeeze in even a short walk, so, to save time, s/he loads the dog in the car, drives to the park, unloads the dog, lets him run a while, re-loads him, re-drives back home, and re-unloads the dog.

Organics: These individuals want to give their BFFs (best four-legged friends) the opportunity to be themselves, to indulge their true dogness, to be free, natural, and uninhibited pack members so long as it doesn’t include fighting, humping, rubbing in something disgusting, chasing and killing small varmints, or coprophagia.

Exhausters: Exhausters own dogs with the manic energy of a meth-addled Barney Fife. They’re typically seen throwing balls, Frisbees, sticks, whatever, for their hyper pets to chase, in hopes of wearing them down to the level of an espresso-addled Barney Fife.

Respite Seekers: Sometimes a person needs a break from the demands of unconditional love. Kind of like taking a kid to a movie you’re not wild about them seeing but, hey, it shuts them up and gets them out of your face for two hours.

Big Babies: An omnibus category that includes anyone who refuses to see him- or herself in the above categories and is going to write a letter to or call the magazine and complain about me.

Standing there, watching Skinner swim, I thought,

We could join.

This could be fun. And $365 a year—that’s not terrible. For all this. For him.

For us.

Of course, that was the whiskey talking.

A Never-Before-Attempted Pre-Ending Postscript

When Purly was diagnosed with degenerative myelopathy, a debilitating spinal disease, the vet recommended swimming as a beneficial, non-weight-bearing exercise. So, the last year of her life she spent hours dogpaddling in still, deepish, membership-feeless pools of the Little Miami, a couple nearby lakes, an occasional pond. That made me smile, too. If I’d known her swims were saving me 365 bucks, I’d have smiled till my face cramped.

Which brings us here: “Yo, Skinner, let’s go for a walk. To a swim.”

Where to Park Your Dog

Anderson Dog Park, 6701 Kellogg Ave., Anderson Twp., (513) 357-6629. Annual permit: $45. Daily permit: $5.

Bark Park at Miami Meadows, 1546 State Route 131, Milford, (513) 248-3725. Free.

Ft. Thomas Dog Park, 85 Mayfield Dr., Ft. Thomas, (859) 781-1700. Free.

Kenton Paw Park, 3950 Madison Pike, Covington, (859) 525-7529. Free.

Mt. Airy Dog Park, 2970 Westwood Northern Blvd., Westwood, (513) 357-2604. Free.

Otto Armleder Memorial Dog Park, 5059 Wooster Pike, Anderson Twp., (513) 521-7275. Free.

Red Dog Park, 5081 Madison Rd., Oakley, (513) 733-3647. Annual membership: $99.

Schappacher Park Dog Run, 4686 Old Irwin Simpson Rd., Mason, (513) 701-6958. Free.

Symmes Township Park Dog Run, 11600 Lebanon Rd., Loveland, (513) 683-6644. Free.

WagsPark, 3810 Church St., Newtown, (513) 322-5432. Annual membership: $365 (with permit). Day pass: $15 (with permit). Other contract periods available.

Wiggly Field, 7850 Voice of America Park Dr., West Chester, (513) 867-5835. Free.

Originally published in the September 2009 issue.