What Dog Park Blog?

Oh, right, this dog park blog. I've been cranking away on a manuscript--juggling the ancient Egyptians and the imperial Chinese. 2600 B.C.,  1400 A.D., I don't even know what millennium I currently inhabit. Throw in a new software program (I'm on a first name basis with the good but terribly confused people at Adobe) and an "urgent" proofreading assignment this weekend, and I'm completely knackered. So I go to dog park every night, but I'm not really there. I'm thinking about how to explain to twelve-year-olds that imperial China's most ruthless and effective ruler was a woman named Woohu, who got her start in life at court as a courtesan from a common family. Soon she was running the place. She married up, she plotted, she connived, she assassinated, she overthrew her own son, and she renamed a dynasty. Cool. No wonder she was the only girl. She tore the place a new one.

Right, so dog park. Look, I'm just going to play my bad hand here. My head's just not in the game. I got nothing. Bupkis. So, I took a couple hours off on Friday afternoon to watch a movie on my computer. I may be the last person on earth to have discovered A Town Called Panic, but I loved it. It's like a mash up of Gumby, Monty Python, and high school French club. Small, plastic molded cowboy, Indian, and farm animal toys come to life, playing piano, taking showers, drinking cheap wine, chasing mermen, and falling to the center of the Earth. Intrigued? Check out the trailer below. There are no dogs in the movie, alas, but one sat under my feet while I watched it.
-z

Welcome to Bizarro World

I rarely go to Dog Park in the morning because I have a long-standing aversion to several people who frequent the morning shift. I call them, collectively, The Coven. A trio of queen bees, they scare the crap out of me. I have been on their bad side for the better part of 7 years for objecting to one of their dogs harassing my Roma. Keeping track of these *lovely women* on my internal radar is enough work to ruin a morning's walk. Who needs the grief?

But today Muzzy definitely needed a morning run, so we went to Park. And after eluding the woman who teases me for wearing boots when it's not raining, Muzzy and I managed to complete almost an entire loop when there she was: the #1 member of the Coven,  whom I'll call Nyoo Yawk N. NYN is notorious at Dog Park for a voice like a fog horn that broadcasts opinions about everything, but a favorite topic is the only way to raise, train, and walk a dog, i.e., her way. Nothing grills a Texan, even a non-native one, like a loud-mouthed New Yorker, and most people stay out of her way. But today she had no minions to lecture, and so I had no warning until she was on top of me and the Muzz. I tried to keep my head down, but I was in her cross hairs. Nyoo Yawk N. stopped me, pointed across the field, and then peppered me with questions like a wise guy in an old RKO gangster picture: "Are you parked over there? Are you going to your car? Do you know that woman in that car? Whose dog is that? Do you know what it did?"

I could feel only the blood pounding in my ears and the laboring of my breath. Instead of formulating answers to her questions, my eyes darted in search of an exit. I managed to stammer out answers, but they really were beside the point. NYN. had launched into a monologue about how the woman across the field had let her dog out of her car, and it proceeded first to terrorize NYN's own small dogs before it went out into the field and took a dump, which the woman did not pick up. NYN was offended in every possible way. She said, "And I waved my arms and yelled, 'Helloooo! Your dog is pooping over here,' but the woman didn't care! She just sat there in her car, and I think that is so wrong, people letting their dogs out while sitting in their cars. I mean it's just not a good thing, and the people who work here hate us because we let our dogs poop in the field without picking it up." She paused for the merest breath and then said, "So if you want to over there and talk to her about it, that would be a good idea."

I have become a deeply suspicious person in recent months. I trust no one, least of all NYN, and I kept waiting for the sucker punch. I kept expecting to hear the whistling of the anvil as it fell from the sky onto my head. And then the world tilted on its axis a little as I understood, "She doesn't remember who I am." And then came the realization that NYN was treating me as an ally. I was stunned, stupefied, but I saw my out. "Yes," I said firmly, clenching Muzzy's leash purposefully in my hand. "Yes, I will talk to her right now." I grabbed Muzzy and strode forward. As I walked away, NYN continued to appeal to me, "Because it's just not right. We need to keep this park clean for everyone."

What had just happened? Had I fallen into Bizarro world? Was I walking in Alternate Reality Dog Park? Had the world become a place where NYN makes sense? Where her bellowed entreaties to keep Texas beautiful actually fall on deaf ears? Where people ignore her without retribution? Where NYN will make an appeal to me, a lowly outcast, to set things straight?  I blinked, but the sky above me was still blue, and the cicadas still sang their songs in the grass.

I went back to my car, and on seeing the offending woman and her dog up close, I realized that I knew them slightly. The dog is a sweetheart—frisky but distant, and the woman, who was just now extricating herself from her front seat, has a bum hip or knee that forces her to rely on a cane to inch her way around the trail. I said good morning. We exchanged pleasantries, but I said nothing about the dog's poop. I had run out of bags myself and thought that I'd simply put things right later by picking up an extra load when I came back in the evening. It would be my own quiet form of justice.

As I put the car in reverse, I saw Nyoo Yawk N. approach the parking lot. She seemed to hang back and watch the other woman hobble into the Park with her dog. And I thought that NYN looked like one of those giant Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloons—only half deflated, with her big head drooping on the fabric stem of a neck, her mouth puckered and downturned, her arms not outstretched but sagging in what looked like defeat. Welcome to Bizarro World. I think I kind of like it. -z

A Narrow Fellow on the Path

I am so going to have nightmares tonight after spending half an hour trying to find a picture of a snake that looks like the one several of us encountered at Dog Park Sunday night. It looked a good bit like this one. 

The snakes in the pictures are pretty close. They are Texas rat snakes (formal name: elaphe obsoleta lindheimeri), and, frankly, the one I saw was not quite obsolete enough for me. To be fair, it was simply minding its own business, stretched across the trail at the bottom of the center path, not far from the creek. And it did a far better job of playing it cool while everyone else lost their minds. Four humans and six dogs hopped around and yelped (well, only the humans yelped) for the better part of a minute. Most of the dogs didn't even see the snake until it darted into a nearby clump of trees. Only Frankie ran after it. 

The snake was about four feet long. Its skin was a light beige with a darker and beautiful diamond pattern on its back that faded to a blur when the snake scooted away. It also had a head so tiny and pointy that I got the ends mixed up. I thought for a full second that it was moving backwards away from us. It was quite chubby in the middle, which means it is finding plenty to eat in the underbrush.

Here are the facts that I found at this site, which is "assembled and edited" by Jerry Cates, who also took the pictures, I believe.  

Rat snakes are not poisonous, but they do not like to be messed with and will bite, according to Mr. Cates. They mostly eat mice and rats, but will occasionally dine on small birds. They hunt at dawn and dusk. We saw our narrow friend around 8:45 p.m. 

In honor of our new Dog Park neighbor, here's Emily Dickinson's poem "A Narrow Fellow in the Grass." The last few lines capture perfectly how I felt after our encounter.

A narrow Fellow in the Grass

Occasionally rides—

You may have met Him—did you not

His notice sudden is

The Grass divides as with a Comb—

A spotted shaft is seen—

And then it closes at your feet

And opens further on—

He likes a Boggy Acre

A Floor too cool for Corn—

Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot—

I more than once at Noon

Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash

Unbraiding in the Sun

When stooping to secure it

It wrinkled, and was gone—

Several of Nature's People

I know, and they know me—

I feel for them a transport

Of cordiality—

But never met this Fellow

Attended, or alone

Without a tighter breathing

And Zero at the Bone—

Courtesy of The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson (Little Brown & Company, 1960), p. 459.

Watch your step! -z

Under Construction

The construction along Bull Creek Road has been nothing but a big pain in the neck. First, we put up with two years of construction mess while the new fancy apartment complex got built. (Every day, a mattress delivery truck double parks outside, gumming up the turn into dog park.) Now we have the annex to the Westminster Manor going up. (My old man always used to add an extra syllable to Westminster--"Westminister.") I stupidly tried to ride my bike down Bull Creek the day that the City of Austin was digging up the water pipes, too. I was going to get a mammogram, but I needed a defibrillator by the time I had navigated around flaggers and tar trucks and dump trucks and taco vans. I know, I know. Central Austin is a desirable piece of, um, real estate. Fine, fine, and fine. I just hope I live long enough and well enough so that one day I can retire and move into Westminster myself. (Do they take dogs?)

Still, I have to admit that while I hate driving on the same roads as big rigs that deliver gravel or pull land-moving machinery on double-wide platforms, I think construction machinery is cool. I have always wished there were an amusement park for grown-ups where we could don hard hats and then use backhoes and bull dozers and jack hammers. You know, push dirt around and smash stuff up. (I did drive a tractor once in West Texas. It was a small one. I got caught on the gate post a couple of times but managed to drive across a field without tipping over or stalling out. I could have walked in the time it took, and I did not get to cut wheat or plow a field or listen to AM radio.)

I am not alone in this fascination. When I went to Portland a couple of years ago, the city set up bleachers around a major construction site in downtown. Hundreds of people (mostly guys, but also some gals), sat and ate their lunches while men in hard hats dug a big hole in the ground. It was fascinating. And when I was in Berlin in the late 90s and it was under serious reconstruction after the end of the Cold War, the cranes were actually programmed to do a little choreographed dance at night. The Germans can be so creative.

What could we do to make this construction site more palatable and less intrusive? Could we wrap it in pink plastic (a la Christo)? (Of course, in this town, the plastic wrap would have to be burnt orange.) Hmm. I guess as long as all the construction stays on the west side of Bull Creek Road, that will have to be enough.

Ta. -z

Survey Says

Okay, so a lot of people have been commenting on (and fretting about) these surveyor markers that have appeared along the east side of the "Dog Park." In fact, speculation has not been limited to on-site Parkers; one source tells me that the topic was raised earlier this week on the local radio station KLBJ. (I tried to research this, dear readers, but the fact is that I don't get paid enough to listen to a slew of podcasts of morning shock jocks, even for the sake of factual accuracy and blog dish.) I am not sure what to think about about the fact that listeners to a show on a station whose Web site provides links to Rush Limbaugh know and care about our "park." My source also says that people on the show were outraged by the possibility that the surveyor stakes might mean our precious land may be turned into a commercially developed parcel. The usual nightmare scenarios were discussed--parking lots, grocery stores, condominiums. (My dear old dad used to call those "condoms." Snork.) As you might expect, a form of populist rage erupted, and people called in to say that they wanted to go right out to "the dog park" and tear up those posts. Power to the (unorganized but rage-filled) people, but do you have to publicize our "dog park" on the (AM) radio?

As you can see, a few days later, the posts were still there. Plus, I have seen no evidence of hordes of angry Tea Party members or Libertarians trampling our fields. (Unless they are driving the lawnmowers.) Which is a relief. I'd like to mention, too, that another source, whom I trust highly, told me that the posts have been used by TXDoT employees practicing their surveying skills. My eyewitness says that she saw a group of folks out in the fields a couple of weeks ago with their measuring devices lining up the poles. Pshew. But I understand the momentary panic.

We are all on edge. Last night, at dark, a few of us stragglers nearly had heart attacks as a small SUV with the city logo pulled into the south parking lot. Everybody scrambled to find leashes. I flung Muzzy into the car. But the folks who pulled in actually worked for Victim Services. They had only stopped by for their scheduled break. In fact, they were meeting someone with dogs, and, while waiting, one came over to pet ours. Still, my heart was pounding. I am going on vacation in nine (9) days. For one (1) week. Far away. As much as I will miss all of you and all of this, I kind of need to get away.

Finally: Remember that Friday night is now "beer nite" at "Dog Park." Johnny and Michelle have been regularly bringing and generously sharing brewskis (and also providing much welcome seating on the backs of their white pick-up trucks). Thanks, guys!
-z

The Civil Dog

Last week, I ran across two articles on the online New York Times. One was an entry to Schott's Vocab and the other was a Well blog entry about how marriages would benefit if people treated their significant others to as much affection and forgiveness as they give their dogs.

Schott's neologism of the day was civilogue, "a civilized dialogue in which those in disagreement refrain from stooping to insults or knee-jerk generalizations." The word comes from a column posted online by a political writer named Jeffry Weiss, who thinks it is time to civilize the rhetoric all along the political spectrum, bringing it back to a more respectful and tolerant discourse. He recommends being polite, being kind, and being considerate when countering the politically incorrect blunders of others.

This is a wonderful idea--in theory. I don't know much about politeness. I'm from New Jersey, from a family with barely concealed working class roots, so I was not reared with much politeness, kindness, or consideration on parade. The few social graces that I have mastered are the product of living for twenty years in the South among kind and considerate people who were taught by grannies in white gloves to sit up straight and say "Thank you, ma'am" and "Yes, please" even when they'd rather not eat another piece of pie. The flaw in the system, though, is that everybody has to participate, or things fall apart. By that I mean, I have found that politeness and kindness do not work when the person you are dealing with—for example, Crazy Guy, or the guy who got in my face and screamed at me until the veins popped on his forehead because Muzzy chased his tiny dog—are not interested in civil dialogue but in venting their rage at a stranger, particularly a small, female one. I know that I provoked Crazy Guy to race after me on his motorcycle because I told him to eff off. ("Young lady, if you ever use language like that with me again, why I'll . . ." hop on my motorbike and call the police on you, apparently.)  Yet, I know that there have been folks at the Park who have tried politeness and reasoning with him to no avail. (I did capitulate to the Screaming Guy. I told him I was sorry and that I respected his feelings, but I had to do so at the top of my lungs, which kind of made it sound hostile, which it kind of was. I have never seen guy since.)

My response to all the hostility that I keep running up against at Dog Park (Rich, don't ever call me a bitch again. No one should have to touch your dog's slimy tennis ball), in the neighborhood, at the grocery store (Please, just run me over, Mr. BMW. I know that your business is so much more important than my safety as a pedestrian), on the road, and even online is simply to be prepared to fight fire with fire. Every potential encounter now is fraught with tension. A neighbor I've never talked to in seven years approaches me while I'm walking Muzzy, and I tense for a rebuke about dog pee on her lawn. Instead, she kindly asks what happened to Roma. I feel relieved. Also like a jerk. But I can't let my guard down. Because the next person I meet may come at me with guns blazing. Poor Muzzy. She is so used to these encounters now that she just sits--politely--and waits for the screaming to stop.

Oops. There's no time to write about the second article. I'll do that another day. Here's my attempt at civility for the day: Thank you for reading, as always. I hope that you have only polite and considerate encounters today.
-z

Just Call Her Grizz

Okay, you'll have to indulge me again. I am still learning how to turn fuzzy videos from my digital camera into watchable clips. In this one, Muzzy takes on Scott's Bailey and Maggie while a mortified Bandit looks away. The clip was recorded on a windy day. I'm still figuring out how to edit sound, but Bailey's grizzly bear impressions are definitely audible. Enjoy. -z

The Singing Dogs

Recently, Frankie and Teddy showed off their singing chops at Dog Park. Muzzy, who has only once before burst into song, is mostly a spoiler here.

(It's a rough edit. Every time I played the clip, Muzzy would fret and circle the room, so no fine-tuning.)

(Also, remember that if annoying and inappropriate ads pop up in the bottom of the clip as it plays, you can click the bottom right corner to stop them.) Enjoy. -z

The Rules of Dog

One of my favorite Web sites, Schott's Vocab, had an entry about universal laws and principles that are less well understood than gravity but just as undeniable. Here's a sample submission from a post-er named Stan:

"Muphry's Law: The principle that any criticism of the speech or writing of others will itself contain at least one error of usage or spelling." Nice one, Stan.

(A corollary applies to Crazy Guy's sign: "The principle that any bogus warning about the consequences of leash-free dog walking on state land will itself contain spelling errors that reflect the writer's profound ignorance.")

Are there other universal laws that regulate Dog Park? I can think of a few.

The Rain Boot Conundrum: The wearer of rain boots will inevitably discover that precipitation did not in fact fall on Dog Park. Wearer will be teased mercilessly for her/his choice of foot gear.

The Treat Defeat: The only dog that does not respond to the call of "Treat!" is your own, which is behaving badly by running after state employees or in front buses on Bull Creek Road. You, meanwhile, are swarmed by dogs whose owners hate you for tempting their dogs with freeze-dried liver.

The Poop Bag Principle: Whereby the absence of poop bags in one's pocket will cause immediate  and repeated eruptions by one's dog in full view of the parking lot. Public shaming will ensue.

The First Law of Sunscreen: The amount of sun shining is in inverse proportion to the quantity and SPF of the sunscreen you have slathered on or forgotten to apply before heading to Dog Park.

The Primary Principle of Self-Jinxing: A cosmic comeuppance in which you inadvertently summon health problems for your dog (and accompanying vet bills) by uttering the words, "We've gone a whole month without a trip to the vet."

-z

Waning Wildflowers

I took my camera to Dog Park last night. I wondered if I could find anything new to snap. We've had an amazing wildflower season, but it peaked long ago. The fields are in a sorry state--half mowed, half covered with shaggy, dried up stalks. To my surprise, though, amidst the spear grass and burrs, I discovered thistle and red poppies, flowers I have never seen at Dog Park before.

Can you see the ladybug in the bottom part of the cluster of blossoms?

Such a sky and not a drop of rain.
-z

Doglers

A few days ago, Erica reminded me to check out one of my favorite Web sites, Schott's Vocab. The word of the day was doglers,  defined as "dogless dog lovers who ogle other people's pooches." (The verb form is to dogle. Perfect!) I was once a serious dogler. Until I got Roma, I swooned at the sight of any and every dog. "Adogadogadogadog!" I would squeal from the passenger seat as we passed one on the street. I wanted to lay hands on every one I met--to ruffle its ears, pat its tummy, and smooth its brow. Logic dictates that the best way to remedy this ridiculous response to the mere sighting of a dog was to get me one. I am sure that my boyfriend expected the utter mundanity of walking, feeding, and scooping up after a dog of my own would cure me. Alas, after 15 years of dog ownership, I am still a dogler.

And Dog Park provides the perfect opportunity. So many dogs, so many ears to squinch and butts to pat. The proximity of big dogs (Labs Barney and Dooley, @120 lbs apiece, with their pancake-sized ears), pocket dogs (peanut-sized Daisy, Sadie, and Andy), tough dogs (Bandit and Elphie), scruffy dogs (Dasher and Willie), herders (Cocoa, Bindi, and Daisy the heeler), sleek dogs (Naya, Bailey and Mindy), low dogs (Arlo the basset), ball chasers (Joey and Wilson), and singing dogs (Elsa the coonhound as well as Teddy and Frankie) makes me a little giddy. I just love to pat them and to marvel at how different they all are.

Muzzy is less happy about my ogling than Roma ever was. Roma was too busy making the rounds, running her treat-stealing scams and searching for illicit tidbits to care about what I was doing. Talk about a confident dog. Muzzy, however, is more sensitive about my cooing at others, and so I try to rein in (or leash) myself a bit. I can't help it. We always think we want what we don't have. I love the Muzz, but I do sometimes wish she were small enough to carry in the crook of my arm or had spots or was a little less spazzy. So we have a simple deal--one that will sound familiar to any Parker. What happens at Park, stays at Park. I don't talk about other dogs at home, and Muzzy sits firmly at the center of my universe.
-z

It's a Brand New Day

Sigh. We need something a little lighter today. I thought I'd post some of Richard Whittington's (Elinor and Zoey) photos from Dog Park. Some of you may have already seen them on the listserv, but I love the way they are so saturated and deeply colored, so they are worth another look. This one is my favorite.

Muzzy and I encountered this young man and his dog on the same day as this photo was taken. The boy was so serious and silent. This photo perfectly captures his furrowed brow and slightly cocky stance. After all, he's walking a gigantic dog. He's the man.

Here's a windswept Wolfie. When Wolfie was a pup, everyone assumed he was an Irish Wolfhound. They predicted great things and proportions. Wolfie's as tough as his name, even though the rest of him didn't grow very much.

Playful Cholito! He's small but proud. Oh, how the Muzzy likes to chase him. But she cheats. He runs and runs. She waits and triangulates, then POW! Cho can take it, though.

Senior Andy-pants, a new Dog Park regular, puts out the vibe "Chase me." Andy is usually the center of a scrum of dogs at least three times his size. Muzzy loves him, but in the wrong way. (Love = I want to devour him whole.) Muzzy's joy at seeing Andy is usually tinged with disappointment at being yelled at. "Let Andy be" is a particularly hated command that is obeyed with regret and sad face.

This photo of our "boyfriend" Frankie is such a nice one. It's as though he's on the set of Friday Night Lights, show that is shot in Austin and makes the most of our golden twilights and plentiful fields of St. Augustine grass. Here, a shadow-streaked Frankie might be thinking wistfully of the championship game that could have been. He coulda been a contender.

Finally, here is Elinor herself, looking so sage. Those of you who are fans of the recent Doctor Who series may see a resemblance between our Elinor and the aliens called Oods, with their wrinkled faces and solemn, but gentle blinking eyes. Oods don't move like linebackers, though, which is Elinor's specialty. She and Muzzy love to spar. We can't wait to meet Elinor's baby "sister" Zoey.

Thank you for the lovely photos, Richard.
Enjoy!-z

Not Dumping

Can this possibly be enforced?

I see it all the time.

Okay, okay. We get it. Exercise some restraint.

-z

(Thanks to Lydia for her help in documenting graffiti at Dog Park last week.)

More Graffiti at Dog Park, Part Deux

Is this physically possible anyway?

Also unlikely.

I suspected as much.

-z

Even More Graffiti at Dog Park

The indignities never end for our poor signage.

Or on the listserv either.

That'll never happen.

Hmm. I just can't picture that one.

-z

More Graffiti at Dog Park

Other deviants have been hanging at Dog Park recently. This time, they appear to be deranged kindergarteners looking for a good time. I submit to you the following evidence:

-z

Tags That Don't Jingle, at Dog Park

Those of you who approach Dog "Park" from the northwest corner (Bull Creek and 45th Street) may have noticed this work of "art" on an outbuilding. Erica told me about it before I saw it (she also took this photo; thanks, Erica!) Before seeing it, I wondered if it were some kind of revenge on Dog Park Neighbor, the one who caused such a fuss last week on the "Park" listserv because someone had posted puppy pictures. She lives right along 45th Street and would have a decent view of this graffiti from her back porch. Despite the red circles that could, if you squinted, look like stylized paw prints, it is pretty obvious the thing is a gang tag, and not the work of disgruntled dog walkers.

Readers of the Allandale neighborhood listserv, which roughly serves folks who live between Mopac and Lamar, 45th Street to Anderson, can tell you that there has been an uptick in petty crimes in our fair section of the city. Burglaries, car thefts, and other unsavory and illegal activities have been diligently (if not obsessively) chronicled on the listserv. Gang tags, though, are rarely mentioned or seen. I remember noticing a spate of them in my part of the neighborhood, just northwest of Park, on a couple of fences about three years ago, but I assumed they were the product of kids acting tough, not actual gang members. What's more, I actually approved of the traffic sign on West Frances that had been vandalized to say "Stop War!"

But this ugly bit of graffiti—as well as the Dog Park listserv flame-outs last week and the fresh rumor that TxDoT is planning to join up with the Cemetery Committee to unload the"Park" land for residential development—makes me feel ambivalent today. I think that it may be time to detach from Dog Park and accept the idea that we will lose it. The fact that we have had access to a prime and beautiful piece of open land in the middle of a city that is bursting at the seams is pretty much a gigantic stroke of luck. Despite Crazy Guy and churlish neighbor woman and occasional visits by Animal Control, we've had a good run and a fine time at Dog Park. Let's not forget that, but let's also be realistic.

-z

Saturday in the Park with Lydia

Here are some photos from a Saturday jaunt through Dog "Park" with my young friend Lydia, who just turned 13. Happy Birthday, Lydia. (You can read about Lydia's exploits with her Mama and younger sister  on their Oklahoma ranch here, or click on the Cranky Girls' Farm link in the Blogs I Follow sidebar to your right.) Lydia took all the photos you see here today.

                                                                                    Moo!

Come on. All together now, AWWWW!

Thanks, Lydia, for your great photos and for putting the blog together today! -z

Dog Park: It's a Park for Dogs!

The good people who contribute to Schott's Vocab at the NYTimes Web site had fun over the weekend creating slogans for things that generally don't need them. Example: Gravity: "It's not just a good idea; it's the law."  I thought I might try my hand at slogans for Dog Park, should we ever need to advertise its charms to a wider public. Please feel free to add some of your own:

Dog Park: "Where everybody knows your dog's name"

Dog Park: "The place where snark meets bark"

Dog Park: "Got bags?"

Dog Park: "You are under video surveillance--Just kidding!"

Dog Park: "Don't tread on me, but you may sniff my butt"

Dog Park: "Because legal leash-free zones are so boring"

Dog Park: "Keeping Austin weird since {insert year you started coming}"

Dog Park: "Where certain guys are crazy, most of the women are angry, and all the dogs are above average"

-z

A Walk in the Park (Saturday)

Enjoy. -z