It is the kind of day I craved while laid up: a perfect fall Sunday with no plans. The sun is shining, there is just enough of a breeze, and Center City is once again my playground.
As I step out of the building, I think about where I want to go first. South to the Italian Market? East to Penn's Landing? North to the Parkway? No. I know where I'm headed. If I'm honest, I've known all along. West. To the dog park.
Along the mile up Spruce, I marvel at how well I am walking. Fifteen years of pain and limping (some years much worse than others) seem to finally be behind me. The summer of surgery recuperation was rough, but now I can reap the benefits. I roll my eyes at my own inner dialogue: "let's see what this bad boy can do."
...
The yard for large dogs is nearly empty, but at not quite 9:00, I figure it will start to fill up soon. There's one guy playing with his Boxer. Neither of them is terribly energetic, and the guy's rumpled clothes tell me he's likely still out from the night before.
Next to arrive are young couple with a German Shepherd who, poor dog, has an arthritic gait all too familiar to me. I wonder whose dog she had been before they became a couple. Perhaps I'm sexist, but I usually assume a shepherd is a guy's dog.
A few more visitors come and go. No one (canine or human) seems at all interested in interacting with me and there are no great ball chases to amuse me from the sidelines, so I start to head to the exit. Just then, a new pair enters the gate. OMG! I'm seriously not sure who is cuter: dog or owner. A fun, fluffy black and white dog with the sweetest face. A tall, handsome, decidedly masculine guy with the best hair. I immediately decide to stay put and I'm well rewarded. They are by far the most fun of anyone I've seen today. Energetic. Playful. Social. I want to know more. A lot more.
As my 30th or so lap around the yard brings me near to them, the dog bounds over to me. Yay! He clearly wants to play. I never engage without the owner's green light. I glance up and he's striding over to me. I ask "OK to pet him?" He smiles and says "Sure. Thanks for asking."
Suddenly I can't breathe. I barely remember to play with the dog. That smile. Oh my! It's one of those whole face smiles that instantly makes you feel like a million bucks just for being on the receiving end. Bestill my beating heart.
I ask the dog's name. When he says "Rover" I assume he's joking. But he insists it's true, so Rover it must be. Or he's messing with me. Which is also fine. I introduce myself and he tells me his name is Spot: it's a family name. I laugh out loud. But I don't press further for a real name.
The next 15 or so minutes are a blur of dog and man. Chatting while I rub Rover's tummy (hmmmmm, I wonder do they both like that?). Throwing a ball while trying to throw a sexy look. I'm not great at either but they are both still hanging with me. "Spot" takes a seat on the stone wall and pats the space beside him. OK then.
We chat for a few minutes about the dog, the revitalization of Center City, and live music we've seen lately. We even discover we were both at Live Aid. I clearly didn't see him there. I'd remember.
