78
Stage Five
[reconstruction]
• The Truth – Charles, Lower Topia 2024
• Lower Topia – A home. And a dog park.
• Morning Dew
• Bones
• “Oh, happy days”
•Bailey
“I Will Guide You”
• Better Late Then Never
• Lower Topia – A Rainbow Bridge
• Lower Topia – Homes and Junk Yard Dogs
• JYD
• Tucker
• Kingston
The Truth
Charles, Lower Topia 2024
Finding a central character for Stage 5 had become a challenge. Searching for that capable protagonist proficient in reconstruction, rebuilding rather than internalizing, stewing or coopting blame, was my main task. It’s said that ‘history repeats itself.’ This was my problem since we, the human being, just cannot let go. Blame was always our ladle, agitating and mixing the brewing pot of disappointment and dislike; as in a pitcher of tea, being stirred by the spoon, a whirlpool forms sucking us further into our own abyss. We just never learn. We repeat than renew, then repeat. I decided to take a chance and accepted an opportunity, to leave this box in which I exist, into which I was fitted, and find another, better possibility for the role of ‘reconstructionist’.
Dogs.
Lower Topia
A home. And a dog park
Whether it is a durable, stable foundation or a transitional rest area in someone’s life, guided by a state of mind, a place called Home doesn’t always have a mailing address attached to it.
Tradition does teach us to bolt our home to the earth, but sometimes we do not need this level of planning, nor to be in one place for an extended stay. Sometimes there is just pure chance to guide us, with some degree of envy from onlookers. Thus, giving a point advantage to the daydreamer, society’s visionary, who is not necessarily homeless because they do things differently.
In Lower Topia there is a dog park. It is for its most valued residents. Here the population will have full reign of their conversation and of the plot. It is all about these beasts that have survived their Guardian’s control. It is in this dog park that they have claimed a corner as their domain. Bailey, Bones, Kingston, and Tucker call it their Junk Yard; a clearinghouse, of sorts, for a multitude of discarded ideas and hopes, and piles of plans. Because they manage this piece of the park’s daily functions, they will be known as the Junk Yard Dogs.
Morning Dew
They were driven to Lower Topia’s community dog park. They would arrive in time to see the rising sun. They could have walked to the park, but their Guardians made that decision for them; “It’s easier to drive there” Guardians would say and then immediately added “Jump!”. As their Guardians eventually found their place under the shade of a pavilion’s canopy located in the middle of the park, the dogs, after receiving their treat, would gather in the rear section. There was a perimeter fence in the back section that bordered the soccer field; an extension of the perimeter fence of the main section, a boundary that ran adjacent to and the full length of the soccer field and park. In addition, there was a separate fence that separated the main and back sections of the park; it ran perpendicular to the soccer field boundary. On the two remaining sides of this back area of the park there were more chain-link fences that would completely enclose the Junk Yard. Their Guardians made sure that the three gates that provided access to the Junk Yard were always closed. Their hope was to proclaim this area was off limits to the general traffic; well at least providing them with some warning. To the ire of everyone, the closed gates, occasional signs and even the presence of the large dogs themselves, never seemed to prevent some from entering. Respectfully. Carefully.
Early morning arrivals discovered the grounds would still be damp from the night air. The rising sun that would aid in drying the damp grass and dirt was just about to make its grand entrance.
The Junk Yard dogs walked to their favorite patch of grass. Bowing their heads in unison, and with the grace of an Olympic gymnast doing a floor exercise, flip over onto the wet ground, basking in the immature rays of the morning sun. Almost spiritual, mostly routine, their backs now in full contact with the dew, wiggled the opposing ends of their bodies in different directions, waving their feet as they were now pointing into the sky; showing reverence to that golden orb that exclusively began their new day. It was some type of orchestrated, ceremonious dance, and they were in a recital. Their fur began to mimic the ground’s scented moisture. They would continue to carry that aroma all day; to be perfumed by this wet grass in which they had just rolled and felt privileged to wear.
Except for Tucker.
They eventually stood tall and pompously erect, with their shadows casted away from the sun. The oils from their skin would begin to rise to the surface of their damp fur. They would become iridescent, glistening in the early morning light, giving each of them reason to glimmer with pride and delight. They seemed to gleam a kaleidoscopic luster, a rainbow of sorts, that some Guardians would find symbolically worthy of an Instagram post. Ritual complete.
Both Guardians and dogs were within their own assigned niche, ready to resolve their world’s problems. Each group discussed the issues of their immediate influence. For the Junk Yard’s residents, it was to finally agree that the only thing that was important to them was being happy and content.
Bones
Under the command of the same Guardians, Bones was considered the second dog. Bailey supported that directive, and Bones understood this would be his role to bear. According to Tucker and Kingston, Bones was considered the “kid”. In the Guardian world, if there are Greek letters that are delegated to the various levels of influence, Bailey was considered the Alpha, Tucker and Kingston shared the Beta role. Bones, by nature of his assigned status, would then be a Greek letter below the others, but never Omega. Bones had his boundaries that he expected all dogs within his immediate world, even his fellow pack members, to respect. Bones was proud of who he was, and singularly would demonstrate, if allowed, that he would enjoy being independent. Bones was focused on one event at a time; most definitely fixated on maintaining what he considered to be his personal space. He was far from stubborn, just more relentlessly, tenaciously, determined to prevent others from encroaching into his personal cosmos. His size and weight made him average among most large dogs. His ears were set slightly back from his eyes, with the shape almost of an arrowhead; they hung further down on his face then Tucker’s and Bailey’s ears, but much shorter than Kingston’s. A blend of tan and beige fur, with small patches of white, and to the dismay of his Guardians, prone to shedding. It would be a really great day if Bones was able to convince Tucker to play tag with him. He liked Tucker a lot. Bones’ admiration wasn’t something Tucker ignored, just not an feeling that was overly shared. Yet when the game got real for Tucker, Bones would immediately concede.
Be it known, although his status within his group was considered beneath the others, Bones was truly loved by his pack. His pack might not be able to stop Bones from going where he should not go, but they would surely be there to pull him out of harm’s way. And when there was an issue that this pack was confronting, it was assured that Bones would gladly close all issues for them. They were, after all, a pack.
“Oh, happy days.”
“Oh, happy days!” Shouted Bones as he peered through the diamond shaped opening in the chain link fence that ran between the dog park and the soccer field. Laying on the park side of the fence, his nose barely fit inside the opening; wiggling the end of his nose that passed partially through the fence, he was trying, with the help of his keen sense of smell, to forecast the appearance of some creature as it took center stage on the soccer field. Beyond his reach.
‘Amazing entertainment for a beautiful morning.’ Bones thought. With heavy breathing, caused by expectation, imagination that ran the full gamete of possibilities aided by his endless creativity. He had his adversary running back and forth along the soccer field side of the fence, and as only he could have possibly imagined himself doing, chasing it.
‘Greyhound vs. Rabbit. What a race!’ thought Bones. Exhausted but energized at the same time.
Drained, muscles aching, from that pretend run, breathing heavily as he felt himself pass through to the other side of the boundary of the dog park, sprinting, freely spirited, onto the soccer field. ‘No fence in the way of my pursuit this time. You old bunny, you’re mine. All mine.’ Bones exclaimed to himself.
His unleashed excitement produced a lot of spent vapors that was emitted from his nose. Mixing with the cool morning air, this in turn formed small liquid droplets of mucus that dripped from the tip of his leathery muzzle, puddling onto the brown and tan ground directly beneath him.
‘So awesome. What a rush.’ Bones was pleased with his make-believe race.
“Oh, Bones, give it up. You are a dreamer. What would possibly want to stare you down? Some squirrel high on rotting fermented acorns sent here from some old Live Oak? Come over here and join me. Kingston and Tucker will be coming soon. You and I need to set up our greeting now, before they arrive”. Bellowed Bailey. Bailey was stuck in a grove, as usual; things needed to be ready before they had to be. And, Bones, needs to cooperate and join him, “Now!” Bailey finalized his command.
Bones wasn’t quite ready to obey his older brother. ’Common you little bugger. Come out wherever you are. I’m here to chase you.’ Bones continued his visual hunt while trying to keep his attention away from Bailey’s directive, and remain focused on that illusive rabbit, wherever it is.
Throughout their whole life together, they practiced being in total unison. Under the directive of his alpha sibling, Bones was always willing to position himself so that they would be together, a pair of winged Sphinx framing the entrance to a tomb. For Bailey it was the perfect imagery of his total command over his household. For Bones, it was mostly about the sense of purpose, of belonging. Bones didn’t have any nurturing as a young puppy that Bailey had. As a puppy, Bones was orphaned. There were times that Bones demonstrated to Bailey that he needed his independence; but it was a given fact that Bones would eventually join Bailey’s purpose and conditions.
However, if it was expected that he wouldn’t obtain a sense of independence from Bailey at home, then at least at the park he should be able to hang out alongside a fence; projecting his daydreams into an empty soccer field and pretend that he owned it. If only with his imagination that would do just fine. This seemed, albeit temporarily, to support his doctrine of liberation. He’d hold onto this feeling of self-determination for just another second or two more before he coalesced to the desires of his adopted older brother.
Bailey realized immediately that his instructions had been obviously falling onto deaf ears. He saw Bones was hopelessly locked into his own predatory zone, as the ground beneath Bones’ nose was getting more saturated by each nasal drip.
“Bones!!” Bailey bayed.
With his head fixated in the direction of his dreams, Bones rotated his ears, independently of his head, turning them slightly towards his brother’s voice. He heard Bailey this time, but decided to stretch out his concentration to the soccer field for any movement, for just a few more seconds. He was now totally certain that he would be satisfied, at the very least, with just a flighty whimsical bird flying across his field of vision.
Nothing.
Bailey
Bailey had his imperial role in this pack guaranteed by the fact that he was the elder of the group. They all accepted this to be true. Bailey came first. It’s just that simple. The others would naturally fill their position of influence within this group precisely behind Bailey as it was beholding of them to do so. Bailey would steadfastly remain at the head of their “table” throughout his tenure. Regardless of all that status that was bestowed upon him, or because of it, Bailey was kind, his heart was forgiving. However, his tolerance would surely have its limitations. He wasn’t close to being as large as his ancestors had defined him to be. He was, however, stouter than the others in his group; broader without being taller. His head was wide, matched with a short nose, and a long tail, that curled proudly. It was the sheer eloquence of his tail, with its wispy fur swirling upward as a feather. that helped him demonstrate his status as royalty. He wore a smooth yet shaggy double layered coat that was yellow, no imperfections or slight inclusions of any other shade, just variations of yellow. Gentle, intelligent, and at times affectionate, he would, with unfaltering respect from his group of friends be the first to venture down the trail. Purpose shown by his independent decisions allowed the others to find confidence with him in the lead; they would be okay to follow. Although Tucker had been known on occasion to challenge Bailey, in the end, even Tucker would fall in line. Kingston was content to allow Bailey to take on that role; he had other more important things to do. Kingston would wait for Bailey to move first, find the path, then with his long stride inevitably place himself out in front; no disrespect intended. None taken. Bones just knew better.
It will happen someday, when this pack will try to look for existence as a whole unit without Bailey’s aura. This will be difficult, almost impossible. Bailey’s appeal for cohesiveness would be sorely challenged in his absence.
“Bones, now. Come here!!” This was Bailey’s last warning. Bones knew Bailey had reached his limit of his patience. That hefty, robust bark from his brother, was the sound of the ultimate command. It was convincing enough for Bones to respect his brother; Bailey was demonstrating that there was an end to his patience, of being ignored. Bones loved his brother, and he ultimately needed his strength and direction. In the end, Bones just wanted to please Bailey.
‘Oops. Bailey is pissed.’ Bones accepted his brother’s instructions. Not too submissively.
This time Bones turned his head to the same direction his ears had previously faced, from where the exclamation originated. For Bones, it wasn’t necessary for Bailey to have become more visible above the blades of grass between them. Without rising higher above the ground, Bones’s peripheral vision allowed him to see Bailey’s snarl. Turning his head even more towards his brother, now fully within his field of vision, Bones saw that Bailey was framed by the that deep guttural sound being sent to him. Bones decided it was time to let Bailey know that he noticed him, to acknowledge him, and to visibly show he would give into his brother’s directive.
Bones rose. With all of his legs working in unison, he lifted his body as easily as a hydraulic lift would raise a car on a lift. Just as Bones’ body was fully erect, above the matted grass where he just laid, Bones decided to stretch. Maybe his last act of defiance, maybe to show he was okay with obeying Bailey’s rule to a point. He decided he would show just enough disobedience which would hopefully satisfy his own ego, and at the same time, appease his alfa brother. With his fully achieved stretch, he allowed his front legs to reach out as far as they could in the opposite direction of Bailey, while his hind legs, facing his sibling, lifted his rump into the air, causing his body to incline. His lower jaw rested on the ground facing the soccer field, while his butt pointed at his brother.
Bone’s body gesture replied silently to Bailey, ‘Smell that bro!’
‘Stretch! Don’t let him see you’re rushing. It’s all about showing concern. That’s what he wants. It’s exhausting to have to show him respect all the time. Ugh!! Well, the others might do that. But I’m just so over this. Who put him in charge? Oh, yeah, our Guardians.’ Bailey decided.
Bailey received Bones message. Although he wasn’t at all pleased with the delay, and his brother’s body gesturing, Bailey did understand Bones better than even their own Guardians. Even though Bailey never outwardly allowed Bones to realize the space he gave him to show his independence, Bailey did know Bones was undeniable loyal; a little bit of independence was more than acceptable.
‘That’s okay Bones. Dance for another few seconds. But not too much longer Bro.’ Bailey continued to stare.
In the end, Bones knew he needed Bailey’s love and approval. So, Bones finished his stretch, then repositioned his front legs so they would now be directly under him. His body was once again parallel with the ground, as he stood as tall as he could. He then slowly turned and walked over to Bailey and laid down, belly first, next to him. To add his show of independence, however, he refused to recognize Bailey’s prominence, and sat without first sniffing his brother’s butt. With an after-thought of love and respect, however, Bones pressed his mouth close to Bailey’s ear and licked it.
Bones sighed with an affirmation of his belonging, as he laid alongside his brother.
Both facing the same direction now, guts down on the grass, each with their rear legs curled underneath their bodies and their front paws stretched straight out in front of them. They instantly became predatory, majestic statues demonstrating their combined pillar of strength that would always exist as their combined gesture, their signature, within their realm. This is how Bailey imagined his message would be interpreted by every being that approached them. With Bones parallel to Bailey, together they have become those indisputable icons of comradery.
Bailey and Bones laid facing the front gate, hundreds of feet from them. For now they were, along with their Guardians, alone in the larger main dog park area that was between the front gate, and the section in the back of the park that they called their personal domain. They would not go to the back area until their pack were all present and accounted for.
Baily made his prediction known to Bones.
“Which one do you think will be coming next? I think Kingston. Tuck is always last to get here.” Bailey proclaimed with authority.
“Possibly.” Bones replied with a tone of expertise. “I think Tuck’s Guardian just doesn’t move as fast in the morning as ours. In fact, Tuck’s Guardian doesn’t ever move fast. When they do eventually get here, I love watching Tuck run to us. As if he had missed some major happening because he was late, again. Always blaming his owner for being so unhurried getting here.” Bailey smiled, nodding in agreement.
Suddenly, in sync, both Bailey’s and Bones’ concentration intensified as they fixated their gaze towards the front of the park. Their senses had noticed a familiar being walking towards the front gate from the parking lot. Even though the front entrance was far away, with their keen senses, they would conclude, without disagreement, that in fact one of their own pack members was about to enter the park. Kingston.
“Kingston! Kingston, is here!” Bones shouted, rapping his tail hard on the dirt behind him. Dust flying, landing on his rump. He always had a problem curtailing his excitement. Bailey side-eyed Bones without turning his head.
“Geez Bones. Calm down bro. It’s not that we hadn’t seen him just yesterday.” Bones didn’t pay attention to Bailey’s advice. He chose to ignore Bailey’s almighty demeanor. Bones was happy to see Kingston. And he was totally okay with showing his excitement.
With his long, graceful strides, that seemed to pull his tail as if it was tied to a biplane waving it up and down like a advertisement banner, Kingston would reach his two buddies seconds later. Leaping, like a Gazelle that was being chased, from one clump of grass to another with as much joy his body was able to muster, he arrived at the encampment. Kingston didn’t hide the fact that he was very excited to be at the park. Free at last from laying on the ceramic tiles all night, with a colorful Afghan throw between him and the grout. Kingston then completed two compulsory revolutions around Bailey and Bones, making sure to include the mandatory sniffing of the posteriors of his pals.
“Hey, you guys. How’s it going?” With his breath still even, hardly affected by his sprint, Kingston eventually stood tall in front of his two friends. As he bowed with a stretch, he waited to be acknowledged.
Bailey again side eyed Bones with a look that could have only said, ‘Whose’s your daddy? Was I right or was I right? Tucker will be last as usual.’
“Hey Kingston. How’s it going with you this morning?” Bones said after reading Bailey’s private commentary to him. He was first to acknowledge their friend’s arrival.
Kingston moved closer to the pair to take his position in their court. With some of the race still in him, he wasn’t ready to completely settle down at first. He began to slowly pace back and forth in front of the brothers. Twice. Then with the compulsory butt sniffing having just been completed, his brain and body settled down long enough for him to lay in front of Bailey. Facing Bailey as a virtual image. He remained polite, never allowing his eyes to make direct contact; that gesture was returned.
“I’m fine. Finally free to run” replying to Bones while concentrating on Bailey’s presence, “anything new with you guys this morning?” Kingston asked his pair of friends.
“Kingston, we just saw each other yesterday. What’s with all this protocol?” Bailey a little impatient.
“Nah. No worries. Just asking.” Trying to ignore Bailey’s picky attitude. Trying to be casual, he lifted his head, then turning it, looking towards the front section of the park, where he just came from. “Seems I beat Tucker? Again!” Kingston making it obvious that he was looking for small talk that just wasn’t coming out of Bailey this morning.
“Sorry Kingston, I guess I’m still just a bit wound up. Seems Bones was being uncooperative this morning. More so than most mornings.” Bailey turned to glare at Bones.
“Hey, man, I was busy looking out for that rabbit in the field. I wasn’t ready to sit by your side.” Bones defended himself.
“All good, guys. I’m here now. Let’s be civil” Kingston entreated. Then trying to change the topic he added. “I don’t know about you guys watching the TV at your home, but if I had to hear any more financial advice from the business channel my Guardian watches, I would have just howled.” Kingston was venting.
Bones offered a peak into his world and shared, “It’s just sports for us with our Guardians.”
Kingston knew he already said this, but needed to say it again. “So, seriously, where is Tucker? He’s never been this late before.”
The unobstructed view of the park would be just inches above Bailey’s and Bones’s heads. Easily accomplished with Kingston’s long neck now stretched like a periscope looking above and beyond his friends, watching the emptiness that existed in the back section of the park that morning. Then, slowly rotating his stare, straining to see the front entrance where he just came. Nothing?
‘Still no Tuck, there? Did I really expect him to be here before me? He’ll show up soon. But he’s never been this late before.’ Kingston thought. He knew it wouldn’t be the same until his pal got there. He loved Tucker.
Bailey, with a calmer voice, “No, not yet. Just us and now you. The park has been pretty quiet so far. But not for long, I guess. The sun is about the right height which usually means that the rest of the regulars will be here shortly. Tucker will come in as usual, out of breath, expecting us to fill him in with all the things we didn’t do yet and plans we haven’t made yet. He knows we always wait for him before we go to our place in the back, and before we make any important decisions. I wish he would get here. Yesterday we had planned on taking a walk to check out that turtle we spotted the other day. We can’t until he arrives. You know Tuck goes crazy every time he sees a turtle.”
Kingston finally repositioned his body, so now the three of them stared at the front entrance, patiently waiting for their friend to show up. There is always room for one more Sphinx.
It’s an accepted truth, that as a group, the four of them, Bailey, Bones, Kingston and Tucker, have justifiably earned the nickname of Junk Yard Dogs; partly because of their protective ownership of this back section of the dog park, but mostly because they were considered a consequential pack. A pack that would never, could never, to be torn apart, separated, or willingly be isolated from each other, by any artificial or natural barrier, or, as they agreed one day long ago, not even by life itself.
I will guide you as you guided me,
Walk slow so you can follow me.
I will lay beside you, as you did for me,
Sharing this broken time with me.
As we recall what we have, what we had.
It is easy to see now what was there.
When we lose what we have, what we had,
As our lives now lay open, so bare.
Unconditional, our companions sharing,
Giving us their space, life and time.
Fur, hair, scale or feather,
Blending their love into rhyme.
There is a bridge, they say, that is to be crossed.
Where the stream flows strong, never lost.
Till then, dear friend, I will remember,
To share our love with others, so tender.
CDK 05/19/2024
[In loving memory.
Travis – 2010-2024]
Better Late Then Never
He waited patiently. The anticipation barely allowed him to postpone his descent onto the pavement. His Guardian was slower than normal this morning. Now, finally here at the dog park, he sat in the back of the car. The back hatch was now fully open. He stared and tried to make eye contact with his friends in the middle of the park, where they were supposed to wait for him. With little warning, but totally anticipated, a small platform appeared somehow from underneath the car.
‘There they are!!!’ Tucker shouted to himself; wagging his tail so forcibly that his Guardian swore it moved the car back and forth in unison.
“There you go, buddy,” his Guardian reassured Tuck he could leave the car now. The platform extended beyond the back bumper. It was positioned so he wouldn’t have to jump to the ground. Tucker realized that his legs were no longer able to absorb the shock of hitting the pavement from this height. He does appreciate that his Guardian installed it; he was willing to wait for it to be properly positioned for him. Showing some impatience, however, was just normal jostling to claim who does what and for whom.
Now, finally on the ground, free of his confinement, free of any tether that his Guardian rarely attaches anymore. While he waited for his Guardian to unlock the park’s gate, he was free to explore the amazing aromas left by his pack outside the main entrance. He knew that his friends were positioned in the middle of the dog park, also waiting, impatiently wondering, when he would eventually get there. Tucker had found every single message they left for him to find. Texts, olfactory in nature, were left on all the key waypoints by the front gate. By the fence post, that clump of weeds, the rock, the signpost, it was all there for him to read. Confirmation affirmed his friends’ earlier arrivals. Messages of their plans for the morning, scents indicating conversations left open from yesterday’s gathering, aromas listing the arrangements that will be needed to be formulated for their anticipated wanderings yet to be accomplished.
Reading, with special interest, one of the messages. This one was left behind by his buddy, Kingston. Tucker let out a muted sound, “Yes! Kingston wants to have an epic race today. You bet we will buddy!”
Finally, as his Guardian unlocked the park’s front gate, and now inside the park, Tucker stood steps closer to them than before. He found them, recognized each one, and placed them as they were exactly and presently positioned, hundreds of feet due east.
Tucker turned his head to their whereabouts, held it there motionlessly, then completely focused all his senses to their perceived location. With the help of the morning breeze blowing into his face, perfumed signatures from his friends seemingly, and without rationalization as to how it were possible, emanating all the way from the middle section, that they are here, they were there, present and accounted for. Tucker lifted his head higher, his nose fixated.
Their aura now filled the air where Tucker stood. It was as clear as this day now exists, that at this exact moment, the wonderful mixture of all their scents were streaming to him.
Tucker said to himself, ‘Musk, that must be Bones. Give Bones an opportunity to roll in the earth. Ha!! Water, like on a moist cloth. Yes. That’s Bailey. Mixed with his own particular brand of oils, his thick fur seemed to hold the saturated damp aroma from day to day. Awesome!’
Tucker than verified. ‘I feel him.’ Tucker thought. ‘Yes. Flowers? Scents of Hibiscus, Pentas, Daisies. Yes…there he is…my main man. Kingston!!! I would have recognized his scent anywhere. His guardian loves to dress up her parlor with the fresh flowers from her garden. Kingston would just lay under those vases as both were coated with the bright rays of sunlight. The flowers’ fragrance would than drip onto his fur.’
All this, Tucker was sure, having smelled the scent of his friends so many times before, their presence spilled over onto him now from where they waited for him, his pack was there. They waited for him.
With assurance of their bond and comradery, the mere distance they were from the gate would never be a wide enough barrier to block Tucker’s existence from his friends. It was Tucker’s aura’s turn, as the breeze now willingly, but briefly, changed direction and traveled to his friends like a shared handshake. He was now identified. It was an acknowledged fact that Tucker’s scent originated from his Guardian. Based on stories Tucker had shared, it was known that every morning Tucker would roll in the residue of powder his Guardian’s body couldn’t hold on to. His friends would kid him about that smell. Mostly Bailey.
“Hey, Tuck, your smell, where did you get it?” Bailey would rhetorically ask. Partially to fool around with Tucker’s lack of any Earthy smell, but mostly to keep Tucker in his junior position within the pack. “I think your aroma isn’t from the Earth. Nope, yours fell off your guardian.” Bailey would laugh. Kingston and Bones would grin nervously.
Bailey would then finish, “You and he are a team. What he can’t wear, you wear.” Bailey would conclude in front of the pack, “You and he are one being, Tuck!”
Tucker smiled and simply nodded in agreement.
Tucker, now free inside the fenced park, locating his friends, as only a spirit of dreams and memories can do, he ran. Tucker ran hard to his friends. As a memory knows its origin, as a cloud vaporizes than condenses, a dream will simply repeat itself; he found where he needed to be.
Lower Topia
Rainbow Bridge
Guided by their tireless sensory receptors, plotting their never-ending journey, just wandering, they find that the metes and bounds of their explorations are not infinite, as they had wished. Rather, there will be margins that will continually confine these self-proclaimed nomads.
They have, over time, accepted these limitations; always wondering how far they will be allowed to roam freely. They have acknowledged their reality. That there will always be unbreachable boundaries in their way; inflexible, permanent obstacles that will stop their explorations. Both artificial and natural, flawless, there are synthetic limits such as Interstates, and fences, as opposed to those that are designed by nature, swamps, rivers and mountains.
Yet, of all the possible restraints with which they must cope, it is confirmed that there is one that was specifically designed to possess these beasts. An artificial bind has always been their undeniable, vilest regulator of all; the leash and the accompanying collar. Rarely matching in pattern or color, these constraints offer two distinct restrictions: one of ownership, and other of proposed direction. This duo of checks and irons has accomplished a primary role of control and has remained such for a millennium of time, capable of overcoming this being’s strongest internal directives, to meander and to stray.
The leash and collar complimented, thus defined, their domestication as retractable, prong, choke, harness, or slip; occasionally for the supposed more knowledgeable owner, the Martingale®. Their personalities will be further defined by the fabric used to make this tether and its collar, and of the design imprinted on it. Some of them might be so fortunate as to have a label imprinted on the collar, what their Guardians have called their moniker, “name”.
Sadly, for these creatures there is yet one more act of subjugation that will ultimately define them; that will irrevocably replace their native identifier, the expiration of their inherited sex. Clinically proven, socially required, not approved by them, it will be surgically removed, ending their unique definition. Forever releasing them from procuring a natural function of survival and succession.
In the end, they will be given just one performance, that of submission.
Whatever personality they had inherited has now been altered to fit inside a predetermined mold, one designed before they were consumed by their Guardian culture. Removed as an innate character, this living being has been casted to fit a programmed form, not of their choosing. They will be assigned a breed, a character to match that breed, then a name, and subsequently denied their free will without any options.
Yet we should know, regardless of these acts, within their own realm, if left alone, they ensure that there will be no race, no class among themselves, and most certainly, there would be no prejudice, nor predisposition between them. They will retain their ability; to reconstruct, to accommodate, to reposition themselves in their endlessly guided world.
Dogs.
With all that has been levied upon them, they have survived. More than that, they have thrived.
They will be the perfect protagonist for Stage Five. Notwithstanding the intent of their compliances, they will masterfully reconstruct their lives. They understand that they can still pilot their own personal exploration within the limitations afforded them; plotting, concurrently calculating. just how far the retractable leash will stretch, and how distant the boundary lines inherent to a lawn will extend. They will, shrewdly, spend an exorbitant amount of time plodding from one blade of grass to another, purposely stretching their Guardian’s patience and tolerance. As a united pack, when left alone, untethered, in a park bordered by a system of chain-linked fences, they will exhibit basic nomadic tribal personalities. As this park’s valued populace, this assembly of dogs, will become a family; loyal and true to only themselves, as their Guardians congregate a distance from them, lost in their own conversation.
Unless interfered by their Guardians, dogs will never had a predetermined race, thus there is no reason or purpose for any subsequent racism. There will be no mention of a breed, no class categorized by any physical feature, nor arrangement based on past gender and heritage. Whether farmed or alley raised, they are all equal. If left alone, they will be companions that are bonded to a common, natural core of ethics, understanding, and survival. It will be warm bodies lying next to each other on a cold day, a touch of a wet nose on a quivering ear to quell a fearful heart, or just standing next to each other, offering cumulative strength as a group, readied to answer a challenging stare, a competitive sense of survival with just one united gaze.
Buddhism believes that dogs live for the moment; that they exist within the boundaries of a simple life of uncomplicated emotions. Buddha continues to teach, that dogs are also the living example of enlightenment, capable of teaching the world within their realm, responsibility and love. The Guardian will attempt to agree; how unsuccessfully schooled they are in the presence of such admirable characters.
For that moment while untethered from any ownership, their goodness is interlaced with their soul.
Yet, away from their nomadic life, in the home of their owner, they perform the roles that were assigned to them; to support, to serve, to offer therapy and companionship, and to perform and entertain. Some execute this objective better than others. Even those among them who can’t fetch, sit, stay, come, or roll over, will be conditioned to focus on only one thing: their loyalty to their Guardians that we will call Homes.
Homes: Guardian Being. According to Homes definition, a “culture-bearing primate classified in the genus Homo, especially the species H. sapiens”. [Homes law states that they are in charge.]
Dog: Domesticated Being. According to Homes definition, a “domestic mammal of the family Canidae, and the order Carnivora”. [Homes law states that they are considered property; a coffee table.]
Dogs will speak to their Homes using mostly glandular secretions, barks, whines, yips, growls and body posturing; nothing more than a collection of indistinguishable sounds to their Homes. This language, to their fellow kind, are mystically meaningful, a communication for their own kind.
There are some Homes who faithfully, ominously, use the spiritual tag that will painfully remind us that ‘dog’ spells ‘god’ backwards. Oh, give me a break. What god shits and pees on your rug at 2 am? [That question was meant to be rhetorical].
Hedonism: self-indulgent, pleasure seeker, debauched, profligate, decadent, epicurean. Who would deny a dog to live its fullest expectations as only an epicurean being could?
These beasts allow their wits to roam the earth in absolute cosmic order, organized chaos. The head searching from side to side, define the true meaning of mental anarchy; a compass needle seeking as many waypoints as there are degrees in a circle. Their Homes might tug on their leash to get them from a point A to a point B, but their brain is finding destinations their Homes cannot even begin to imagine exist. Their senses, and any other attributes of awareness, a sixth sense of sorts, that they may have embedded in them as an internal control panel, are all fired-up, pumped up, juiced, amped fibers of over sensitive nerve synapses, fully focused on everything and all at once.
Dogs have blended the colors of Rainbows to bridge eternity. Proclaiming that their survival was a product of their belief in expectations and renewal. Who better than a dog to exemplify Reconstruction and Hope?
Lower Topia
Homes & Junk Yard Dogs
Tucker never disappointed his friends. Out of breath from his run to join them, he was never asked to explain why he was late. As his friends figured, he would always be on time to share their warmth in the inner circle, to which Tucker simply belonged. So, they waited for him. That’s all that mattered. He is here. Each day they would be clustering around the same patch of grass before he arrived; in the same position before he reached them. Nothing seemed to change. They made room for him to fit within their sphere when he arrived. Next to Kingston. Bones would border his other side.
Lower Topia was their home. It became so by chance. It was never destined for them to be limited to just one place within Lower Topia. Their world would expand, their excursions made that so, albeit those visions were mostly imaginary.
On any given day at the park, when everyone was finally in attendance, there was a ritual, a custom, that separated these park residents from the others. This ceremonial act would be composed and orchestrated by their Homes. Or so the friends made their Homes believe it was.
“!@#$%…sit…@#$%” said Tucker’s Homes, with expectation and compliance that normally followed that command.
Tucker recognized the sounds, along with his Homes’ downward stare, and decided to slowly sit, but not completely, more of an acceptable squat. Cocking his head skewed upward, he looked at his Homes, then turned his gaze to the right toward his friends for both their support and to give his own directive, and then back to his Homes with questionable eyes. ‘Anything in it for me when I do?’. There was no doubt, Tucker will sit. Between him and his Homes, it came out as a request, but it ended up not much more than a suggestion. And, without any doubt, he was going to get a treat for his efforts.
“!@#$%…sit…@#$%” Kingston’s Homes’ added her compact with Tucker’s Homes’ directive.
“!@#$%…sit…@#$%” joined simultaneously by Baily and Bone’s Homes.
Tucker was reminded of a synchronized swim team he saw on TV the other day. He watched his friends, as this group of dogs obeyed their directives, the orchestrated group began some sort of formation.
“What a circus this is turning out to be. And we’re the circus animals. No, clowns!” mumbled Bailey, side-eyeing his buddies. Bailey’s friends laughing as they heard him grumble for the benefit of the Homes that bothered to listen to him. Their Homes heard Bailey’s snarl only as a submission.
“!@#$%…sit!…@#$%.” “!@#$%…sit!…@#$%.” “ !@#$%…sit!…@#$%”. The Homes repeated in unison, but now with more harmonization; a daily routine everyone has learned to do without variation.
The dogs all began to sit. Then opened their mouths, pulled back their lips into what could only be described as a ‘cute doggie smile’ that their Homes simply adored. Yes, they agreed, Homes can be conditioned also. This action was quickly followed by involuntary drops of saliva that dribbled slowly, with varying degrees of elasticity, out of their open mouths, as they waited for their earned prize.
Soon they were all sitting firmly on their butts, their tails lying flat, forced behind them on the ground. Wagging their tails, making single winged angel designs on the loose dirt beneath them.
With their posturing translated by their Homes as an “okay”, the dogs then asked, in unison, a combined guttural affirmation, “Where’s our reward?” Bones wagged his tail harder than the others. He believed if there were going to be treats, his sign of extreme glee would serve him well. Tucker’s Homes was always a sucker for cute, and this synchronized event was most definitely one for the books. They each got one biscuit and then shooed off to play on their own, leaving their Homes to accomplish their goal for coming to the dog park, to be on their own, alone.
As it was so on that day, on most days, their Homes didn’t join them in the back section. The Homes instead deposited themselves in the center of the park, sitting on composite benches under a gazebo just large enough to accommodate them; a good place for them to discuss whatever Homes discuss. While Bailey, Bones, Kingston and Tucker gathered themselves in the back section where they were no Guardians.
A tightly woven pack that have, over the years, proclaimed this section of the dog park to be their personal space. They did share it, most of the time. Many of the other dogs in the park respected this decision; but not all. When it wasn’t completely honored, it was at the very least shared, sparingly, without too much fuss. This back section within the large dog park was filled with its own arrangement of grass that survived the weight of their bodies, trees that shaded them during the summer days, and freshly dug holes reaching a roaming tree root. It was their Junk Yard with all its parts serving them well. Their pile of sand, their section of chain link fence to pushed with their bodies and pulled by their teeth.
Over time, and with rough play, they had misshapen the fence designed to confine them. Tucker was the main culprit. Tucker’s Homes would proudly proclaim that his dog hadn’t distorted the fence, just merely sculptured it. Head butting one section of the fence at a time, then lifting it up the poles it was attached to, was Tucker’s personal thing he loved to do. Kingston watched patiently as his partner accomplished this skill, then would fly underneath the raised links and run free into the open soccer field. Free until his Homes had to walk to the main gate and around the soccer field outside the dog park to bring Kingston back inside. Tucker laughed hard, Bones dreamed he was brave enough to do the same thing, and Baily just observed this foolishness. Bailey would watch Kingston run freely in the adjacent soccer field. Bailey would summarize that although it was Tucker’s strength that lifted the chain links, it was Kingston who was the star at that moment; allowing Kingston to move one notch higher than Tucker, up the hierarchy of the pack.
They would be called by all the beings of the park, Homes and dogs, the ‘Junk Yard Dogs’. They wore that label with remarkable pride, like an exclusive club’s sport coat’s embroidered cloth patch sewn to its breast pocket.
JYD
Tucker
Of all his friends, Tucker was most misunderstood by Homes, in general. His dominate features were predetermined and labeled by Homes culture. He had a short, very broad head with distinctive strong jaw muscles; wide, short muzzle, and ears that folded quickly over at the tips. Where he was black, it was black to a point of perfection. However, he was also marked with a pure white apron, white paws, a strip of white fur running down the center his nose, and finally a tip of white fur on the end of his tail; described by his Homes as Picasso’s brush. With his inbred ancestorial and behavioral attributes strongly intact and distinguishable, by Homes definition and by planned inbreeding, it was anticipated that he would be aggressive and bull stubborn. But Tucker sincerely believed, he was being falsely maligned by those whispered accusations. Despite his good nature, however, he did let it be known, that if tested, pushed beyond his sense of justice, he would reassure his antagonist of his true strength and mobster nature. Fearlessly loyal, arguably more independent then obedient, he was stronger than most imagined, with his tenacity to break through or lift any of the Homes-made barriers that were built to contain him. Tucker was globally known, and respected. He loved children.
“Come on Tuck. Let’s do it. Look. The back gate was left open again. Not a lot, but enough for you to easily push it out of your way. Get outside this park. Go to the soccer field. We’ll meet right there.” Kingston turned his head, pointed with his nose, to show Tucker where exactly along the fence they were to meet. He described how he would be on one side and Tucker on the other.
“Cat and mouse, kinda. Right? Let’s do it.” Kingston was almost harassing Tucker to agree.
‘Who’s going to be the mouse, buddy?’ Tucker thought.
Tucker looked to where Kingston was pointing, ‘Oh, who cares. We will be nose to nose, with the diamond shaped wire of the fence framing our snouts. Getting ready to run. This should be fun. I can’t wait to be outside this park.’
“We’ll chase each other!” Kingston said with increasing anticipation of beating his friend’s butt in a race he loves to have with Tucker, and knew he would win. They’ve done this before.
“He may be stronger than me, but he will never be able to catch me!” Kingston proudly thought.
‘He may be faster than me, but I love planning on how to screw with his head.’ Tucker laughed to himself on how he will out smart his best friend.
“Yeah. The gate will be easy for me to move aside. No problem there. Okay. Challenge accepted.” Tucker acknowledged the plan. “You’ll be my rabbit trying to reach its hole before I grab you and throw you.” Tucker laughed out loud.
‘Better than a cat and mouse. We would spend all morning trying to decide who would be who.’ Tucker laughed at the thought of deciding who would play the mouse. Kingston heard the laugh as a challenge.
“In whose lifetime do you think that would ever happen? I’m nobody’s rabbit, you black fur ball!” Tease was returned; Kingston was getting fired up for the race. Tucker was getting excited, too.
Kingston
Kingston was undeniably Tucker’s partner. These two would always show allegiance to each other; they were undeniably bonded. Kingston was born of the same common shelter-thread as his pack members. Yet, his features were undeniably more regally worn, contrary to how it was written in his shelter’s database. Weighing around 70 pounds, his heft was the average for the other members of his pack. However, Kingston stood taller than the others. He was sturdily built, slightly longer than he was tall; some called it slender. This lengthy statue, with a pronounced tapered body, highlighted him with a proud, self-assured manner. From an unfamiliar eye, he seemed aloof. He wasn’t. He had a slightly broad, flatten head, long drooping ears, and a black muzzle that was, when viewing him from the front, framed with a broad strong chest. Designed for speed, his long drooping ears would unfurl in the air as he ran, giving to the belief that flight was next on his agenda. His coat was a gradient blend of fawn, brown and dark brown to black. His was always on the hunt; his prey was everything and everywhere. His discoveries, as he hunted, were announced with the sound of a bugle, proudly heralding his finds. He was also aware, to his advantage, that these well-tuned vocals were excellent to also announce his need for attention. But mostly, Kingston was surely a master of his gait as he ran, unmatched, with precise and measured strides. He was rarely interested in the common joys in which the others would have shown. Given an opportunity to just run, independently, kept Kingston always in front; not to lead, that was Bailey’s job, but to get there first.
Anticipation at its peak, Kingston was already crouching and at the exact spot along the fence that he had pointed to moments ago. He began pawing at the earth beneath him; impatiently waiting for Tucker. Pieces of grass with soil still stuck to the roots were flying from underneath and between his rear feet. The loose soil showered the ground behind him. Kingston’s head bobbing up and down each time he pushed against the earth beneath him; he continued to shove the dirt backwards until a decent pile of fine silt eventually formed. A bull trapped in its pen, ready for the race to begin.
Tucker reached the back gate. It was, as he was told it would be, open just a little bit. He imagined the last Homes to use it probably thought that the springs on the gate would have had enough tension to close on its own. That Homes was wrong. The opening, however, wasn’t large enough for Tucker to get through without him first pushing on the gate to widen the gap just a little bit more. It wasn’t easy. The springs might not have had enough tension to close the gate, but it was more than enough to make Tucker work hard to open it to allow himself to fit through. His body eventually, slowly, squeezed through the widening gap he created. With his tail as a doorstop, he was careful not to let the gate close completely behind him as he exited the park. He knew he would be doomed to remain outside the park with all the Homes distracted with their conversation on the status of the world and other meaningless gossip.
It was a feat that Kingston knew only Tucker could accomplish.
“Ouch!” as the gate closed onto his tail. But his muscular tail sustained the impact and did its job well. The gate remained ajar and ready for his return to the park.
Nose to nose as bookends with the smell of galvanized steel between, inhaling each other’s breathe, Kingston let out a few grunts to prove his sincerity, his commitment to a race he knew was about to start. The guttural sounds gave Tucker a sense of personal challenge and being dared. Tucker returned snort for snort. Their eyes met; they became strangers. Their stares were demanding and serious; their feral instincts were in control now. Each foe offered the other a row of large white sharp teeth, framed between their mucous moistened black leathery lips. Saliva gushing out from each opponent soaked the ground below. The saliva that was sprayed forward, as their heads jerked with each bark, made the linked wires of the fence glisten. These friends had successfully reached their own personal peak of excitement within seconds of their noses touching. Combatants now. A role that demanded respect, fear, and undistracted attention.
Crouching as low as the earth would allow them to go, and arguably, Tucker believed, with the no warning of completing the entire number “one” in the count down, Kingston sprinted from his bowed position and ran along the fence line that separated the dog park and the soccer field. Tucker reacted in less than a second afterwards, with his only focus now on Kingston’s tail that was attached to his competitor’s surging muscular rump.
‘Damn him! Okay, no more than a tail length behind him. Dig! Damn it! Dig!’ Tucker scolded himself.
Their bodies stretched, straining every fiber of muscle and connective sinew; heads extending far from their shoulders, down and parallel to the ground. Their heads reached for the air in front of them. As they ran, they grasped the earth beneath them. Their front legs grabbing then pushing to the rear, at the exact moment their hind legs met the front paws under their bellies; then stretched the back legs far behind their bodies, parallel to their tails. Thrusting their bodies forward, using to perfection, Newton’s planned opposite reaction. Flying together in perfect unison, a chorus line of forward motion. Tucker, gaining, was now only inches from his adversary’s rump. Kingston skewed his head, careful not to lose neither his lead nor balance, to see Tucker in his peripheral vision. Tucker knew Kingston saw him but also knew that Kingston was just about to reach the end of available earth to grab. That point, the original agreed upon finish line, was about to be in Kingston’s reach; where Kingston’s track was about to meet the fence that marked the beginning of the middle section of the dog park. Kingston’s race was about to end.
“We’ll run from this point in the fence to where my path ends. There!” Kingston pointed as he snarled at Tucker just seconds before he bolted. ‘Agreed.’ Answered Tucker.
“Great. Awesome. He has reached the end of his run. He must slow down now before he rams into that fence. This will end his lead. I’m coming for you old buddy.’ Tucker was ready to end this race and possibly start a new one that would have allowed him to be better prepared for Kingston’s bolt from the start line.
The galvanized wire was destined to leave a lasting scar on Kingston’s nose if he hadn’t responded so quickly and precisely to its presence. Kingston’s reaction was instinctive, a survivalist thing that he really didn’t have to think about; calculations were already in auto-calculating mode. His front legs straightened and immediately dug deeply into the dirt in front of him; dust flew everywhere. If the friction between the skin at the bottom of his paws and dirt could have made a sound it would have squealed loudly, it would have been deafening. As Kingston’s front paws mechanically jabbed the earth, they were immediately followed by his rear legs sliding under his body and that same rising dirt was now reaching higher and was flying well above his head; dust just enveloped his whole body. His rear legs neatly folded under the front portion of his body, and he wasn’t sure how or even why, but he started twisting his body, corkscrewing in anticipation of it contacting the fence’s links. He was sliding into the fence. Kingston closed his eyes. Stopping before he crashed into the barrier was his primary goal. Being pissed that his run was about to be forcibly concluded would follow shortly.
‘I was winning. Damn it!!’ Kingston was angry.
Then Kingston, almost robotically, continued to twist his body like a swimmer changing direction in a lane as the approaching wall of the pool fell within his domain. Kingston’s hind legs continued to flow under his front legs and purposefully slammed into the fence. His thoughts were now moving at the speed of light, without any delay in his reaction. He used the impact of the contact to push off and redirect all his forward energy into a new direction, away from that chain-linked boundary. For reasons beyond his understanding and seriously pressed for rapid decisions that just seemed automated, he allowed himself to change direction of his forward motion. As the fence bellowed inward, it immediately rebounded past its stationary position, ejecting its missile forward. This inertial force helped him refocus his energy into the opposite direction. It wasn’t long before Tucker saw Kingston pass him in the opposite direction, and realized Kingston already redirected this race. Kingston was totally blown away by his amazing control of his body, and how well he just performed this acrobatic feat.
‘Nice!! Eat my dust Tuck!!’ mentally bellowed the winning antagonist.
Tucker, being on the outside of the fence, could have continued to run past that point if he so desired. But Kingston wouldn’t be there challenging him. Tucker looked at his opponent, and knew he needed to stop. He realized that this race has a new bearing and recognized this new challenge with an unbelieving stare that inquired about his adversary’s dexterity.
‘Did you just do that? Where are you going? The race was to this fence.’ Disbelief, annoyance, exhaustion all blended in his thoughts, he shouted to Kingston, “Where are you going? Are you racing to the other end now?”
Kingston, just as amazed with his stunt, trying to reserve his breathe for the new race that he just invented, turned his head to face his now stationary challenger and quickly replied, “Yep!! To the other end.” As he grinned, spit just flew out of his mouth. He turned his head back so it would follow his body into his new course and just ran to the other end.
Tucker’s predatory disposition gave him no choice but to accept his friend’s unnegotiated dare. It was all about the chase. Using the same maneuver of opposing forces, but without the aid of an opposing fence from which to push off, he stopped abruptly on his own. He turned and started running after Kingston’s trail of dust. With his opponent seemingly lightyears away, Tucker just knew his legs were not strong enough to catch that being. Tucker was exhausted, exasperated. He looked at how much energy he would need to even finish the run in second place.
‘Ugh!!! You knew he was faster than you!! Look at him fly.’ Tucker grasped the reality that this will be another Kingston win for sure.
Kingston reached the other end of the fence line, turned and started planning his return flight. He saw Tucker had stopped midway back from the other end. He saw Tucker looking at him with shattered disbelief. Kingston couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t try to hide his satisfaction. Tucker saw that grin.
“Damn!!” Tucker said.
Kingston’s energy was far from being fully spent, adrenaline now feeding most of his desire to continue to run. Again, keeping his head aerodynamically low and parallel to the ground, his front legs pushed hard to that location just under the center of his body, where his hind legs would meet them. Rear legs now readied to push his body forward. Repeat.
His body was flying back to where the perimeter fence was T-boned by the middle section fence, where he first tested his ability to change direction. Kingston was surely a mechanical wizardry of synchronized motion. He knew it. He was proud of it. If his Homes weren’t so captivated by their gossip, this would have been a video of epic memorial proportion. But it wasn’t going to be that moment. It was just meant to be something that Kingston and Tucker would recall when they can’t do this anymore.
Tucker had reached about midway between the ends of the perimeter fence. He stopped. He saw Kingston running towards him with as much force that he had moments ago, maybe because of his recent win, now with more determination. Breathing heavily, Tucker crouched, at the same place the race had first began. He placed his nose to the bottom of the fence where it met the ground. His rump raised high, tail pointing straight upward, a flag for his apparent unstoppable opponent, now on his way back, to see and to end his run. A signal to discontinue the present race.
“Stop!” was Tucker’s message. His body positioned; Tucker wanted Kingston to end his race. Tucker waited for him to arrive and respect his request.
Tucker’s head remained perfectly perpendicular to the lowest point of the fence, while his eyes were skewed to the left. He never stopped watching Kingston as he was coming towards him from that direction. He peered above the clumps of hard mud, monitoring his friend’s movements, coming fast.
‘He’s getting closer.’ Tucker measured. ‘I’m here buddy. Nose to the ground. Another challenge. Meet me down here. Another race, to the end, again. Okay? New race. New challenge.’ Tucker sent this clear message to Kingston.
Kingston saw it, read it, and stopped abruptly where Tucker was bowing. Dirt and debris flying all around the two combatants as Kingston ended this run.
He turned towards Tucker. Not a sound, nor any sign of victory. Just acknowledgement. Old challenge done. New one being offered. Accepted!
Kingston lowered his head to ground, to the bottom of the chain-link where Tucker’s nose now waited. Separated by a twist of galvanized wires, Kingston’s rump raised to the same level as Tucker’s. Eyes aligned, paired bookends whose noses were poised and were close enough to share the same air.
Kingston felt deep in his body that he had not completely lost his momentum. Within a few seconds, Kingston offered a short grunt. Tucker recognized this grumble. He knew he was about to fly. But he also had a plan.
Without any warning, again, of finishing the word “one”, Kingston sprinted away from Tucker. Kingston was again galloping to the same end of the park as in the first race. But this time, Tucker was ready to bolt, and he left nano seconds later. Kingston darted; Tucker darted with him. They were synchronized much better this time. Tucker stayed close to Kingston. Not nose to nose, but almost.
‘This is good. Better positioning.’ Tucker thought.
“The race is on now dear friend. Give me all you got. I’m right here buddy.” Kingston heard Tucker’s breath on him.
Tucker was keeping up with him this time. Kingston turned his head just a bit to his right, and this time he saw Tucker’s nose just behind his ear. He also saw Tucker’s mouth was completely opened, pulling back where his upper and lower lips met, creating more than a smile, but an intensity of purpose that his friend had never shown before. He saw Tucker’s long tongue flapping outside the mouth in unison to his undulating ears; Tucker had total determination. Kingston felt the intensity; the black fur of his buddy was on fire. Kingston pushed himself harder.
‘The end of this race is almost here. A new race will happen as soon as I make that magical turn again.’ for Kingston it was only a matter of seconds, as the main section’s fence was coming at him fast. Kingston thought, ‘But he must be ready for this to happen, again. Push off the fence harder this time. You have the advantage. He doesn’t have a fence to push off.’ Kingston placed his focus solely on the fenced wall approaching quickly. ‘He is ready now. It will be more difficult to fool him. I gotta plan my turn better, faster, more precise.’
Projecting where his front paws were to dig into the earth, ‘Bring in your legs closer to the fence. Hit that fence harder with your back legs. Make your turn tighter, quicker. Push off harder. You got this. I will repeat the win. Just concentrate. Watch your pace.’ Kingston calculating.
Kingston made a magnificent turn. Better than the first time. His approach and contact were masterfully done, even if he had to admit it himself. ‘This is not the time to be humble.’ Kingston praised himself. His turn into the new direction was almost immediate and flawless.
He soon passed the midpoint where this race, and the one before it, began.
Then he sensed it.
‘Challenge is gone. Why don’t I feel it?’ Kingston asked. He speed was constant, but the race felt empty. Tucker wasn’t there?
Emptiness. He looked behind. He realized now that he was alone. At this angle with the fence, however, it was impossible to determine exactly how far down on the other side Tucker was in this race.
‘Where is he?’ Kingston stopped dead; front paws digging, rear feet dragging, dust flying. Kingston ended up sitting on his rump. Breathing heavily. As he moved a little bit away from the fence, he was able to see that Tucker had stopped at the midpoint, and he wasn’t moving. He saw Tucker’s nose was once again touching the ground, butt up in the air, again, right angle to the fence as before.
‘What is he doing? Another challenge? In the middle of this race? Before this race was completed? He now wants to start in the other direction? Why?’ Kingston overloaded his exhausted mind.
“Okay, buddy. I accept your frustration. You hate losing. I get it. So, you want to start from there. You can have the lead this time. No problem. Go…run…I’ll catch up and still beat your ass to the other end!” Kingston shouted. But Tucker waited patiently for Kingston to come back to him.
Kingston walked back to where Tucker was waiting. Tucker had his nose to the ground. As soon as Kingston reached Tucker, he found his companion growling as his pushed his nose furiously under the links of the fence. Tucker wasn’t grunting, he was spewing angry challenges and accusations at Kingston from under the fence. Kingston was already annoyed that he had to come back before finishing the last run, now his friend is throwing abuse at him.
“We will match wit to wit this time buddy.” Tucker accused his friend of being unfair.
“No worries. In my mind, strategy is always part of any race, dear friend.” Kingston pushed his nose under the same fence that was sitting on Tucker’s nose. They touched, wet nostril against wet nostril. Now their lips flared backward exposing their long sharp white teeth. Snapping. Barking. Growling. Releasing frustration, anger, and fire coming from all the triggered, provoked nerve endings that seemed to rise to the surface of their skin. The touch of their noses against each other and the galvanized steel of the fence links only heightened their emotions. At one point, they each grabbed a link of the fence, and with their combined strength, attempted to pull apart the links that separated them from each other.
Then suddenly, and apparently without warning to each other, ignited in unison, both turned at the same time, facing the main park area. Both started running. But this time together, with the heighten fervor of a beast chasing the fresh smell of a blood-soaked prey. Each time their front paws touched the ground they produced a growl, then a yowl. Tendons taut, shoulder to shoulder for about 6 long strides.
Abruptly Tucker stopped running. Again.
Tucker then turned back to run in the opposite direction; back to where this race started. Kingston saw this change of direction mid-track. He felt compelled to stop and turn and run towards Tucker. Tucker slowed down, and Kingston easily caught up to him.
Once again, as soon as Kingston was alongside Tucker, Tucker stopped, turned and started running in the opposite direction.
Kingston stopped. Again. And then ran after Tucker. Again.
Tucker stopped, again. For what was to be the last time. Kingston followed in the footsteps of this dance that Tucker apparently created.
At his new station along this fence, Tucker finally stopped with no intention of running anymore. He stood tall.
Kingston moved toward Tucker. He stood as tall as Tucker, facing Tucker.
Mirror images.
Kingston was angry. He just stared at his friend. He felt played, his challenges were being mocked. His energy wasted with this game that Tucker had created.
Tucker was frustrated.
As they stood there glaring into each other’s eyes, their mouths quivered with disappointment of their antagonism. Dripping from their long sharp white teeth, like stalactites, saliva was pouring out of their mouths. Both combatants now gave issue to how the game was being played. Front paws pulling apart the same earth beneath them; they unintentionally started to dig a hole between them and from the earth under the fence’s links; dirt being displaced by these two gentle giants was beginning to pile up behind them.
A menacing thought became apparent from the audience that was watching these gladiators perform. How would one go about separating these two friends if they were on the same side of the barrier that now separates them?
Their dance suddenly was over. The dispute stopped. No formality. No surrender. No summit. No compromise.
Tucker’s frustration had reached a new pinnacle. Kingston’s sense of justice seriously needed a new definition. Both accepted that resolution would be forthcoming.
Tucker walked back to the gate. Kingston retired to the center of the back section, and away from the fence.
Tucker found the gate was still ajar, just as he had left it. Kingston was pulling blades of grass from the ground and squeezing the leaf’s well-earned fluids into his mouth. Tucker reentered the park and sidled alongside his best friend.
They stood together.
“What’s the chances of that the turtle we found yesterday is still there?” Kingston asked Tucker. Giving him some of his grass to chew on.
Tucker replied, “That would be awesome Kingston. Thanks. Let’s see if the guys agree. We can all go back there and look together.”
All that was left as proof of the recent campaign was the worn troughs on either side of the perimeter fence. Those trenches would always remain void any grass and would be as a monument to their comradery.
Bailey had overseen many of these events over the years, and was wondering if these two opponents would ever take the time to challenge him personally. Bailey decided it was lonely at the top.
Bones watched, too. It wasn’t his thing to play this game with either of them. He just never saw any thrill or excitement from this type of exercise.
Bailey as the undeniable leader. Tucker and Kingston would remain passionate with this repositioning duel as to who would be next in succession. Bones remained content.
This was a group of friends that would last for as long as life itself would allow. This bond lasted as long as they survived.
“Hail. The Junkyard Dogs!”
The Junk Yard Dogs of the Lower Topia dog park would rule this day forward; enjoying what authority they possess, what rewards that were there for them to earn. Those treats that their Homes’ thought was rewards for lessons learned, however, were for nothing learned, but only for the reason to be happy for that moment of time.
Charles/Charlie
78 Lower Topia
March 2025