Yesterday morning, after I finished posting to the blog and Sam finished watching Run Fat Boy Run, we decided to take Grr out to Fort Funston, which, according to our neighbors and other dog parents we've met, is like the Cadillac of dog parks. How can we deny Grr the experience of the Cadillac of anything?
So we set out on a windy Sunday morning and headed westward to the ocean.
(An interesting "encounter" on our way: we drove past a funeral procession, a cavalcade of stony-faced men rolling down the freeway in matching SUVs. Similarly somber women and children sat in the passenger and back seats, all of their eyes shaded by sunglasses. We passed countless cars, one after the other with the same FUNERAL sticker on the back and the same grief-stricken faces inside. Their leader, a pristine, ebony hearse, followed two police escorts on motorcycles. They all charged down Highway 280 like soldiers toward their next assignment. I don't know why, but I was particularly moved by the sight of them, all those cars. In their multitude, I saw bravery, even though I had no idea who any of them were, whose body led the way in that hearse.)
When we got to Fort Funston, the wind had died down, a surprising treat given San Francisco's blustery coastline. We faced a beautiful day of blue skies and clear horizons. I opened the back door and, as is our usual routine, carried Grr out of the car. (Yes, we had become one of those Best in Show, embarassing dog parents who insist on carrying their dogs no matter how ridiculous it looks. My excuse, though, is that I usually have to, as Grr takes a few minutes to warm up to new situations. He also likes it, I swear.)
But when I picked him up and closed the car door, he was so eager to explore that he wriggled like an earthworm to get free. Dogs of all kinds littered the landscape, and I imagined Grr was thinking, "Dad! Let me down, you're embarassing me!"
Turns out that Fort Funston was less of a dog park and more of an intricate maze of walking trails abutted against a cliffside, overlooking the ocean. Hanggliders floated above, but Grr was already too busy to pay them any attention. Between all the dogs, the open field, and the myriad of new smells that greeted him in the air, he could hardly tear his nose away from the sand and ice vines to even look at us, much less lift his head to watch what looked like giant, prehistoric birds looming overhead.
It felt good to get some sun on my face, breathe in the sharp sea air, but the best part was seeing Grr adjust so well to the outdoors. Though it may just be a factor of his youth and puppyhood, I have come to learn that he is quite the skittish pup, scared of everything from an umbrella in the hallway to a leaf in the wind. Fort Funston, however, seemed to have brought out his courage. Sam and I walked wordlessly as Grr traipsed a few steps ahead, turning back every so often to make sure he had not lost us.
For a while, I have been afraid that Sam and I were falling into a rut of sorts and running out of things to say to each other. So many of our conversations are about Grr nowadays, and we rarely get time alone. True, Grr is a dog, not a person, but a presence is a presence, an easy conversation topic if there are few others to be found.
I began to wonder if we have become one of those couples with nothing to talk about, and in the great expanse of Fort Funston's paths and fields, it became all I could think about. I felt sand begin to seep into my shoes, my socks, between my toes. Sam was never great with conversation, and I can only be as good as the people I converse with, not like some I've known in my life who can work with anyone to create a rich and meaningful dialogue. They are the Macgyvers of repartée, and we are no Macgyvers. Sam was a few paces behind me now, and Grr a few paces ahead. It really was a beautiful day, and though I could say just that, in those words, what would Sam say in response? What could he? "Yup." "Totally." What was there to converse about?
Then Sam caught up with me and quietly took my hand, interlocked his fingers with mine for a few seconds as we walked along. Then he let go, called for Grr, and did a little football shuffle as Grr pinned his ears back and ran towards us. They walked further along as I hung back. The ocean's faint percussion played off in the distance in step with the singing of various insects in the bushes. The sun assumed its high noon position. It really was a beautiful day.
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