Going To The Dog Park With Giants

I’m trying not to bite the heads off all the people asking me if they can ride my dogs.

Moon Pie checking in with Pinot. My personal photo with their permission.

For the millionth time, NO! You cannot ride my dogs.

It’s no secret. I live with giant dogs. People think they have big dogs. Maybe in their world, they do. I used to think my shepherd/lab mix was big at almost sixty pounds. Now I know she was a veritable chihuahua.

My puppy weighs one hundred and forty pounds. He just turned one on March 6th. My older boy, at five, weighs one hundred and seventy-five pounds. If we were on the Moon, he’d weigh only twenty-eight pounds, but we don’t live on the Moon. If we lived in England, he’d weigh 12.5 stone. We don’t live in England, either. Here in Florida, he weighs one hundred and seventy-five pounds, plus a few extra ounces for humidity and drool. He drools. A lot. He’s got tusks made of viscous, eggy drool. It’s a huge hit in the dog parks, especially when he shakes his head. I secretly love watching people get peppered with saliva or dive for cover as graceful arcs of white spittle fly through the air.

I give you Exhibit A, complete with a dangling leaf. Pinot has a seemingly endless supply of this stuff. This is, of course, my photo. Who else would take a picture of one of these streamers?

The problem with dog parks.