This Alpha Dog thing. It’s not quite as easy as you might think. And afterwards there’s the constantly nagging oh-so-human question: Have I learned what I should?
“I’ll do my workout,” said my son Will. “Takes about 30 minutes; then we’ll have some dinner.”
“Fine,” said I. “I’ll take the dogs for a walk. Otherwise they won’t get out today.”
It’s a late summer day some 15 years ago; I’m visiting Kansas City for the weekend from New York City. Will, then 35, is recently divorced. We’ve made pancakes and been to the petting zoo with my then three-year-old granddaughter, who is now back with mom; we’ve been to a farm team baseball game and eaten one meal in (grilled) and one meal out (barbeque). Now it’s Sunday afternoon. The Kansas City television stations have been talking all day about some midwestern thing or other: a Severe Thunder Watch. On the TV there’s a little picture, a Grid of Counties (this being Kansas, of course it’s a grid) with a fat yellow line with squishy green insides moving in a diagonal down and to the right. There are very severe-looking red patches mixed in the middle of some of the green parts. The weather folks have several times interrupted the golf telecast to tell us that, for instance, Aberdeen County has seen winds up to 76 miles per hour and hailstones the size of golf balls. Outside the window on Millridge Road in Western Kansas City sun and clouds are steadily alternating. I stick my head out the front door. It is humid enough to throw a goldfish on the sidewalk with fair assurance of survival. So, I’m thinking, get out there with Payson and Banshee for 15 minutes, do them good, do me good (I’ve been slugging around the house most of the afternoon. I could use the exercise.
Banshee is a Boston Terrier with classic black and white markings, bandy legs, and that snort and snuffle they have that passes for breathing. Payson is a small mid-brown and black German Shepherd crossed with some incredibly nice breed; just a sweet, patient dog with a great sense of humor. You watch the two of them going after each other (which they do at least once a day) and you know they are the best of friends. They are also very well mannered. Which doesn’t stop them from sniffing every blade of grass and straining at their 10-foot long canvas leashes. They do, however, manage not to tangle up themselves or each other. Will puts on the leashes, and suggests a couple of short walks. I say something non-committal like “Okay.” And the three of us—gray-haired dad in black t-shirt, blue KC Royals cap, cargo shorts; Payson with her brown coat; Banshee with her black and white design – head off out of the front door as Will goes downstairs to do his workout.
I am, of course, tempted to intone “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples...”
We Are Where We Are
Millridge Road is in a housing development carved out of a farm. There are, out here in Shawnee, many housing developments carved out of many farms. These former-farms-now-housing-developments have those characteristics of all housing developments everywhere in the United States, maybe around the world: the streets curve, providing the lure of the unknown beyond where the eye can see; once around the curve, the vista of more houses on more curving streets does not, as the developers hoped, provide some sense of secure satisfaction; rather, because all the houses look remarkably similar, the general effect, when riding through these so-called neighborhoods, is one of disorientation. It’s nothing on Alice in Wonderland, but when the similar-house-syndrome ceases (turret on the left, turret on the right, stand up, sit down, fight fight fight!) and models more or less grand appear (bay windows! triple garage!), you know you’re in a new neighborhood. Another clue—street names have stopped being presidential and are named after trees or women. All these factors one remarks on with a kind of wry detachment when one is being driven from home to the Price Chopper or Home Depot or Target and back again. Or when walking the dogs with your son as he goes right and left from this curve to that, a true learned savant in his own neighborhood, one who knows the difference between Pastor John’s former residence on a particular corner and that of the woman who sells real estate who lives in the third house over there, the one with the two dormers instead of three and the forsythia bushes in the side yard. Yes, yes the New Yorker says with patient fortitude. Isn’t that interesting. All the while thinking that if he did this much walking at home we could have bought a bagel at Murray’s, gone past the Greenmarket in Union Square and seen some really good tomatoes, or maybe have been all the way over to RiverPark and seen a really good view of the old Colgate clock in New Jersey. But the one thing the New Yorker is definitely not doing on these excursions? He is not paying attention to landmarks or topography.
I decide to take the dogs to the park. Nature. Definitely more interesting. And I know where the park is. The dogs are very excited as we cross the road in the thick, humid air—the dogs know there will be bunnies in the park. They don’t like to chase them, they don’t even bark; they’re interested in them in the same way an anthropologist might be—Wow! Animals that aren’t dogs! Check it out!
This Park or That Park?
There is only one path into and out of this park. It starts by the giant plastic play set with careful no-law-suit rounded corners and happy colors that make it look like a McDonald’s reject. Then the path plunges across a bridge that spans a little brook (not much in there—yet) and then curves in a well-designed way (those wonderful curves again) across grassy fields through uncleared woods on both sides. About mid-way there is another path across a bridge out of the park. Towards the end, a third bridge. I’ve been here before. This is a good path. It moves along this strip of nature with that main road on one side and a very ritzy housing development (“Homes With Natural Wood View”) on the other. The dogs are happy. Bunnies! Strange smells in the grass! Places to pee! Yayyyy! And I am relatively happy to be moving around, looking at trees and bushes and the back decks of smart houses. The hairs on my arms begin to elevate with the increasing electricity in the air. We are at the bottom of the path: basketball courts, a small dark wood gazebo, picnic tables. Time to turn back. Come on, guys! Happy dogs make the turn and continue their smell-a-thon in the grass, pulling at their canvas leashes, one orange, one gray, romping along.
And then there is a thunderrumble. No lightning, just the low noise off somewhere on some part of the increasingly gray horizon. Well, okay then, let’s see. There seem to be three bridges over the creek. The creek, which, I think, no, I believe... The creek, I think with certainty, runs parallel to the main road. Let’s cross this here third bridge, get back to the road, hightail it for home. Come on, dogs!
Except… except across the bridge the path leads a little farther to the right than I think it should, and suddenly I am, instead of being able to see the road, in another housing development. This one with somewhat mature trees, slightly different houses, although, in the increasing gloom, it is difficult to ascertain anything with any certainty. But it seems a good bet that the main road will be straight ahead, up that hill, and around that (yes, of course!) curve at the top. Come on, dogs!
Splat! Splatsplat! Large drops. Increasingly large doses of very large drops. And wind. Gusts of wind whipping the branches of these teenage oaks and maples, ripping off the occasional set of leaves and flinging them away and about as the sky color moves from light gray to dark gray to black, now, suddenly, illuminated by flashes and the occasional downward finger of lightning. Hey, I guess those TV weather folks have had a little experience with this thing.
The promised road is, it seems, over another couple of hills. The wind is whipping the rain. Thank goodness it’s still fairly warm, and the dogs have their fur coats. Though Banshee, the Boston Terrier, seems to be shivering a little between her snorts. But then I seem to remember that Boston Terriers shiver even inside. I decide not to worry. I turn back, trying to save a minute or two by cutting around a block. Looks like if I take a right and go back downhill I’ll be headed back for that bridge and that park. But to be sure, I ask.
Questions and Answers
The guy in the corner house is pushing his power mower at a really fast clip. Almost a run. I’m a former homeowner. I remember getting the lawn finished before the rain, pushing the power mower along, that feeling of hoping against hope that the already-wet grass wasn’t going to clog up the blades, stick in the grass exhaust, leave you with half a cut lawn for your neighbors to see and comment on your sloth and lack of planning as they stood dry behind their neat, tight windows drinking warm tea and looking smugly at their perfect, yester-mowed lawns. I hail this fellow mower, catch him as he’s making a turn, ask him “Is the park down the hill?”
“Yeah,” he says hurriedly. “Go to the bottom and turn right. Couple of blocks along there.”
That’s a little counterintuitive, I’m thinking. It should be left, not right, I’m thinking. But hey, it’s probably a short cut. Take me to that second bridge. And a good thing, too, since the rain is now pelting and the wind is threatening to blow off my new KC Royals baseball cap with its pre-rolled peak. I put the hat in my pocket, squint through my glasses that could really use a windshield wiper right about now, and forge ahead. Now we are getting into wind-driven rain zinging down in horizontal needles. Good dogs! We’re almost there, guys!
Except that the park, when we get to it, is not the park. It is another park. A corner park, with a fenced-in swimming pool, stacked white chairs. In the rain. I look around. Nothing—repeat, nothing—looks familiar. Not the size of houses, the yards, the street signs. Nothing. There is, of course, going back. There is also, in the great tradition of every explorer, going forward. Into the rain. Water streaming down my very damp gray hair and into my beard. Being led, still (game dogs! good dogs!) by a forging-ahead bow-legged Boston Terrier whose snuffles I can hear above the wind and a bright optimistic German Shepherd-ish brown-eyed wag tail who only looks back every now and then to check and see that I, too, am forging ahead. On the little-used suburban sidewalk, under trees never pruned (because no one walks on the sidewalks) under which I duck while making sure the leashes don’t get tangled. In the rain, the rain, the rain.
Shakespeare on Call
I am, of course, tempted to intone “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples...” But I think I am pretty much making enough of a spectacle for anyone looking out their comfortable front window, away from their Sunday afternoon golf or basketball. They don’t need to see me raging at the storm. And, in fact, I don’t feel like raging. I’m really zenning out on this experience. Nothing I can do at the moment, couldn’t retrace my steps if I wanted to, because now I’m coming out of this current development (It was William Bendix on his show The Life of Riley who would turn to the camera and exclaim “What a revolting development this is!”) only to find myself on a major road that bears no relationship to any major road I’ve ever seen on any of my travels, either walking, being driven, or even, when I rented, driving a temporary car of my own. I go through one or two Twilight Zone moments, then a car pulls up and, silly me, with my dogs, in the rain, I go over and make a turning motion that will, I hope, make him roll down his window. A little. While he’s waiting for the light to change. I smile. In the rain. And ask a logical, but, even as I’m saying the words, useless and silly question.
“Can you tell me the way to Millridge Road?”
He looks at me as if I’ve dropped from the sky and says, “Route Seven’s over that way.”
Well, I think, if I had ever heard of Route Seven before, that would be really helpful information. As I’m thinking about trying to formulate another question, the light changes and my local informant guns his engine and makes a turn. For Route Seven.
How about all those fucking pick-up trucks that could have slung the three of us in the back? Or how about somebody even stopping to say, “Can I make a call for you?”
The Phone, The Phone
I pause here to express some minor disappointment. There is, of course, no reason to expect anyone anywhere to look at a gray-haired, gray-bearded man with water streaming down his face, drops so thick on his glasses you wonder if he can see, dressed in sopping wet shorts and a t-shirt out in the rain with two dogs, and say something like “Gee, you look drenched out there. Can I give you a lift?” Two wet dogs in the back seat of a car? I don’t think so. I didn’t even expect it. But how about a van stopping? How about all those fucking pick-up trucks that could have slung the three of us in the back? Or how about somebody even stopping to say, “Can I make a call for you?”
Ah, the cell phone. Almost takes the adventure out of adventure these days. There are now those kids in the Peace Corps halfway around the world phoning home at least every week to assure mom and dad they’ve taken their malaria pills and are tucking in their mosquito netting every night. And there I am, on a road in Kansas with two dogs, and why am I not just whipping out the old cell phone to call William and ask him to come and get me?
Because earlier that day my cell phone had stopped broadcasting. I was having those really annoying conversations with people where I say, “Hi, there, this is Robert, and I was hoping...” And they say, “What? What? Who is this? What? What?” and then hang up. I could hear them fine, but they could not hear me. So I had left the phone at home. I was, after all, only going out for a short walk with the dogs. Still, to have had someone stop and ask if I would like to use their phone would, at this very wet stage, been nothing short of brilliant.
Except for one small problem. I have programmed William’s cell phone number into my cell phone, and I have never seen it again and have no idea of his number. Like most of us, I know that if I go into my cell phone’s directory, there will be an entry called Will, and I will highlight it, and press call, and, as if by magic, be connected with my son. Long gone are the days when we committed people’s telephone numbers to memory. It’s not that I can’t—I’ve got credit card numbers in my head, bank account numbers, addresses, even a word chain told me by a friend that, he assures me, if I continue to remember it, will help ward off Alzheimer’s. It’s that I never tried to remember, because there is no reason to. Memory is now old school. At least as far as phone numbers go. And no, 411 or some such other directory is not possible. His is a work phone, unconnected to any switchboard there. And as, of course, these cell phone thoughts are coursing through my head, almost in time to the rain, the thunder, the lightning, I’m thinking Oh, goodness, poor William. I’ll bet he is really worried. But all I can do is send good thoughts, and look for a way to get me and the dogs out of the storm, which, at this point beginning to get very serious.
I look toward Route Seven. Really nothing in that direction. I look the other way. A building set catercorner at the intersection of two main roads, I can tell because there are traffic lights there. “Come on, dogs!” I say, using my heartiest, most positive voice. I’m the Alpha Dog at this point, so I better put on a good show.
Temporary Shelter
It’s a Catholic church, deserted now on Sunday night. There is a covered arcade running along the front. There are three sets of doors, all locked, but there are lights on behind them. And the porch, covered, is blessedly dry. I sit on the ground, feeling my wet clothes squish around me. The dogs move in. We watch the rain run sideways across the lights in the parking lot; we watch the lighting move across the sky and down to the earth; I count the seconds until I hear the thunder. The clap of thunder makes Banshee inch forward, as if she could meet that thunder and eat it up. Payson, on the other hand, moves her furry nose close to my back then tucks her head all the way behind me, between me and the wall. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I keep hands on both dogs and count the seconds, watch the lightning, listen to the thunder, and watch the occasional car go through the intersection. I know that if I panic they will sense it. So I consciously breathe very deeply and begin a mental intonation Zenzenzenzenzenzenzen coupled with a few Ohmmmmms every now and then. The Ohmmms seem okay at keeping the electricity from the lightning at bay. And the rain stays outside the portico. And I am, on the whole, fairly comfortable, sandwiched between two dogs, out of the rain. It seems quite cozy. For the first fifteen minutes. The second fifteen minutes things become slightly less wondrous. At the 45-minute mark, I’m ready to stand and head into whatever the storm might have to offer. The Alpha Dog has lost his patience.
Finally, the rain begins to let up. A little. And the thunder and lightning seem farther away. So we start up again. Except that there is another part of the storm—more rain, more fireworks—and things begin to get a little dicey again. But I get my bearings. The church is on the corner of that main road, Monticello (why we are suddenly in Jefferson country I can’t imagine) and one of the three East-West roads in the county. It takes a few moments of reorientation on my part to get in line with the East West North South. The dogs are incredibly patient. And then it is just walking along, like a regular walk, only in increasing (still) rain and thunder and lightning up a couple of hills, along some sidewalks that have turned into streams, under dripping trees.
Home Again Home Again
William and I get home at the same time. He was out in his car looking for us; then out on his bike, in the rain, with his cell phone, which got wet and shorted out. And his neighbors, out in their car, looking. And his brother, Peter, on tour with a rock band in Germany. (“If Dad’s had a heart attack, the dogs would be home by now; and if he’s gone senile, he’ll eventually turn up. It’s 3:00 am over here. I’m going back to sleep.”) I was spared the police department, only because William couldn’t get through (“This is the Shawnee police department. Our regular business hours are Monday through Friday... “). And I was spared a lecture from William, who was relieved, but didn’t couple it with the anger that most sons/fathers/mothers would have coupled it with. “Come through the front door, get out of those wet clothes, have a shower, and I’ll fix you some dinner.”
The dogs shook themselves off, ate their dinner, drank some water, then lay down in front of the TV and watched William watch basketball. All the fret and agita and rain and sturm und drang drained away. Not the best of endings to a weekend in Kansas City. But surely not the worst. It could have been a tornado and I might have landed in Oz. As it turned out, it was an adventure. In the rain. The kind where you get to walk through the middle with wet hair and wet clothes because that’s the only thing to do. And, when it’s over, you’re very glad you had two great dogs to do it with. Dogs who made you, for a storm-drenched moment or two, their Alpha.
Even if you felt like a displaced Lear.