Behind the apartment where Rachelle and I live is an abandoned public school where I take our dog for her daily sessions of “fetch.” It’s the perfect dog park because it’s fenced in, protected from the speeding industry of Queen Street and not very well known.
However, Captain America and his show-off Doberman have been strutting onto the field when Heidi–our Miniature Dachshund– and I are trying to do our thing.
Captain America has an intentionally rugged two-day growth of beard on his face and walks with a ramrod sense of martial purpose. When I say, “Hi!” and wave my yellow Chuck-It stick at him—while Heidi jumps up and tries to grab the ball out of the catapult claw thing–Captain America wordlessly nods.
I hate him.
I think it’s important for you to know that I’ve developed tendonitis in my elbow from throwing the ball for my dog every day.
That’s how much I love her.
As a result of this painful injury, I now just sort of do short, underhanded tosses, bouncing the ball against the wall of the school for our little dog to chase.
It looks, I guess, kind of girlish.
Captain America will watch this display for a second, and then march deep into the field, twirling his Chuck-It stick like a lightsaber, and then fire the ball, as if hunting prey.
Like a fucking missile, the ball whistles by me exploding thunderously against the wall, immediately to be caught by his joyless robot dog.
And after each launch Captain America holds his follow-through pose—arm forward, leg elevated and back—as if plucked from the top of a Chuck-It trophy.
Amidst this bombardment, I continue to do my little tosses for Heidi, who chases after the ball, clumsily knocking it about with her snout before picking it up and running excitedly to deposit it in some mud hole about 50 yards from where I had been standing.
Captain America continues his assault on perfection.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
As I plod past him to try to find the ball he says, “it’s all about leadership, you know,”
I didn’t really hear him, so I just smiled and nodded.
“You see,” he continued, “you walk like this.”
He made his body into a question mark and dragged his feet along the ground. “And you’re twitchy. You flinch when the shadow of a cloud passes overhead or when a cell phone goes off. You need to stand up straight, show the animal that you’re the pack leader, and then they’ll respect you, like my dog respects me.”
And then he rocketed the ball across the field and into the wall.
I watched as his slave-dog caught it in one fluid leap. The animal then returned the ball to Captain America’s feet and sat there, awaiting further instructions.
My dog was rolling on a worm she’d pulled out of the mud with her teeth.
Captain America looked at me like I now owed him money.
“I have a gun,” I replied, “and I’m high.”