There is a theory, held, I suspect, by Gus, that a dog park is a place one visits. One arrives, one assesses the perimeter, one determines that the assessment is sufficient, and one finds a person to stand beside. The lap is ceremonial. The point is the standing.

I do not share this theory.

Today was warm. Warm enough that Gus made his circuit. Measured, deliberate, the full sweep of the fence line at a pace that suggested he had somewhere else to be and was simply being polite about leaving. And then he was done. One lap. He found shade and the nearest available human and that was the end of it for him.

I was already at a full run by the time he stopped.

This is the thing about the ball. I am, in most circumstances, a considered animal. I have opinions. I weigh things. I understand the value of a well-timed pause. But the moment it leaves the hand, that particular arc through the air, the faint sound of it landing somewhere in the grass ahead, something older than any of that takes over entirely, and I am simply running. Not thinking about running. Not deciding to run. Running.

It is the one place the literary sensibility goes quiet.

Dad threw it until my tongue was out further than seems anatomically accounted for. I brought it back every time. I always bring it back. This is not obedience, it is closer to necessity. The ball returns so the ball can be thrown again. The logic is complete and circular and I have never questioned it.

Gus watched from the shade. Occasionally he shifted position. He may have napped. I was not paying close enough attention because I was running.

By the end, I was moving at something that could generously be called a trot. The grass smelled the way it always does after you’ve been close to it at speed. Crushed stems, dry earth, something faintly mineral underneath. That smell does not change. It was there the first time I ran at a ball and it will be there the last time. It is one of the reliable things.

On the ride home I was in the back seat. Usually I have more to say about car rides. Today I had nothing. The window was down. The air came in warm and I let it.

Gus was already asleep before we reached the first light.

I considered this for a moment. His complete economy of effort, the way he had simply decided the day was a certain length and not argued with it, and then I put my head down and slept too.

He is not wrong, exactly. He is just solving a different problem than the one I find interesting.

~P.W.