I once mocked the dog park dorks, but now I’m one of them

It’s hard to describe what it’s like to love an animal. It’s a complex mixture of feelings that exists far beyond the rational and tangible. The things I’d do from a mere tap of my dog’s paw would disturb most. It’s challenging to describe the hold this fluff ball has on me in concrete terms.

Then I remember, there’s no need for words because every day, twice a day, I am at the dog park. This act is undeniable proof of my feelings because who on earth would go there if not for love?

Cowboy with pet Eliza Reilly.Credit: Pat Stevenson

The Australian dog park. A place where humans can go to watch their dogs have more fun being alive than them. I first became part of this awkward community in 2021, when, as with the rest of Australia, I got my compulsory lockdown pooch. We named this sweet thing Cowboy and every day since, Cowboy and I rise before dawn and head to our local dog park because I apparently hate myself now.

I suit up in durable clothes along with SPF50+, a hat, dark glasses and trail boots. Catching myself in a reflection of a shopfront window, I seem more appropriately dressed to scale Kosciuszko than hang around oodles of poodles. Yet, here I am, adorned with hardware. Leashes, carabiners, utility bags full of stupid things that squeak, and tiny plastic bags I use to keep my dog’s excrement in. I already feel weird about my life, and it’s not even 6am.

Before the brilliance of Cowboy came barrelling into my heart, I was truly free. The dog park was just another strange place to witness on your way to brunch or the beach. The people there looked so stuck, so eerie. Hovering together in an open field away from everything and everyone else. Around their legs, dogs rolled and barked and played. It seemed utterly unorganised, and yet, all in a divine arrangement. There was something undeniable drawing me in.“Those people don’t seem to want to speak to each other,” I’d think, “And yet, there they all are.”

You won’t realise until it’s too late but in this liminal space, there’s no work to be done, no relaxing to be had. For one thing, it’s a mistake to do anything sitting on the grass for too long lest a French Bulldog mistakes you for a pissing pole, or in my case, an Irish Wolfhound named Baby could sit down on top of you, and then you’re like, “okay, this is where I die.”

It’s equally impossible to do any sort of exercise among a mass of animals. As interesting as that sounds, it just never works. Now, I merely dress in activewear, hovering semi-stationary as Cowboy dives into yet another pram to lick the face off whatever sleeps inside. I’m no better than a hostage audience during an independent performance-art showcase, with nothing to do but yield to time.

This one man at my dog park is still processing the transition from being a “human” into being a “dog’s human”. I watch him across the field, contorting his body, trying desperately to fit in reps of blah-blah exercise while his Afghan Hound puppy shits somewhere nearby. “He is deluded,” I think to myself, now knowing better than to fight against the tide. “You’ll never keep that up,” I guffaw, “Take it from me. I used to do stuff too, you know!”

So, with no escape, one has no choice but to strike up conversations with other people. Who on earth would willingly sign up for this? Me, that’s who. Turns out, I took a small fortune out of my savings to pay for the privilege of standing in a circle with a herd of strangers for three hours a day. Will wonders ever cease?

I have grown a stoic resilience in the face of small talk. However, for all its tediousness, I am realising how much joy I feel when I’m there. I’ve grown to need it and truly value the relationships I’ve made while trying to separate our dogs from humping one another. All around our country, dog parks force together a lucky dip of two-legged and four-legged species and get them to look each other in the eye without losing it.

The author Eliza, depicted here hungover at her local dog park.

During lockdown, these people were the only ones I’d see for months at a stretch. Now, it’s the only place where I feel like I can be me. In fact, at the dog park, no one gives a shit about who you are. If your dog is cool, ipso facto, so are you. There is no pressure to perform or be “on”. I’ve spent years yakking away with the same 15 random assortments of dog owners, and not one of them has asked me how my career is going, what I’ve been up to, or if I still wake up thinking about that time I pissed myself at year seven talent quest. It’s incredibly relaxing.

The Australian dog park is the modern civic hub we never wanted or asked for. Like, where else on earth can I discuss the importance of nail-clipping goldendoodles with a senior detective of an anti-terrorism squad? Or hear heart-wrenching stories of our hospital’s front line from a doctor who can’t stop her bull mastiff from gorging itself on a degustation of crotch.

The truth is, I was born with an iPhone in my hand, so without my Cowboy, I’d have no way of knowing how to meet members of my community, let alone face to face. So in some ways, I’m grateful to know people whom once upon a time, I’d have vomited to avoid.

Canine companions are crucial to the cities they call home and they play an important role in peacekeeping by demanding their human gets out of bed to reconnect with real people in real life. They have possibly prevented a civil war in doing so.

I’ll be a local at the dog park for the next 15 to 20 years depending on Cowboy’s seemingly boundless joie de vivre. It’s a haunting thing to acknowledge, but now that I’m a part of this dorky clan I once mocked, I totally love it.

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