Joe v. Miami & Me v. Me

This photo does not show Miami.

We met a comely woman and her dog ‘Miami’ at Marymoor Dog Park. Miami was sporting a glitzy, bejeweled collar in a shade of salmon pink. Her owner was perfectly turned out in lean-legged casual pants, a cropped cream trench coat, stylish wool cap with a coiled scarf under her narrow jaw line.

She wasn’t French (her accented ‘aboat’ for ‘about’ pegged her as Canadian) yet she reminded me of French women I’ve known. These women take great care with their appearance, without adornment they’d be quite plain. Miami's owner created a fetching air with her short, perfectly shorn haircut that accentuated her lovely skin, strong nose and the angular plane of her jaw line. She cut a lithe, dancer’s figure, accentuated by the flattering lines of her clothes, and her demeanor was winning.

I liked her, as she had a sweet child-like voice and an affecting friendliness yet found myself being a bit critical. I noticed myself thinking – ‘why, such a little girl voice in a woman of roughly 35? Why so perfectly styled for the dog park?’ Now, this most probably had to do with the fact that I do nothing with whatever I’ve been given. Clearly, I also direct my discomfort about this onto others. So I was mentally admiring the effect of her efforts while simultaneously slighting her.

I guess, though, in my heart of hearts I’d like to be nicely done whenever I go out. I’d like to be the kind of girl/woman that buys well, that takes the time to look ‘just so’ – that revels in such things.

I know I don’t adorn myself because I simply don’t feel up to it. I’d like to confidently make the most of what I have, rather than squandering whatever I do have.

Anyway, Joe and Miami began to play – Miami has 8 months and a good 3 inches in height on Joe. She is quick with an aggressive bite, clamping down solidly on the scruff around Joe's neck. Her teeth dug into his neck, thus positioned they’d trot side by side for long stretches of time. Time that no doubt seemed as long to me as to Joe. He tried to twist his head away but was pinioned in place; Miami had her face so buried in Joe’s neck that her eyes were barely visible. This went on for quite a while, she’d grab him, and then Joe would eventually maneuver his way out. He’d dance away and she’d quickly get him by the neck again. I hovered over them waiting for Joe to protest so I could separate them.

Joe never gave a squeak, never gave any sign that rough trade was unappealing. He would wiggle out of her grasp, block her, chase her, be caught by her – and endure another solid bite on the neck, again and again. Miami is without mercy; she snarled and growled as she played. Joe just good-naturedly batted at her head with his big, inarticulate paws. He danced along and seemed to be enjoying the tangling, the crush, the action.

Five minutes later her attacks grew more insistent. Meanwhile Joe had turned his attentions to a fascinating smell that ran along the fence keeping him away from the riverstream. He cantered alongside the fence, nose delving into the grass, his breath coming in short, happy huffs. Miami raked her teeth into his neck again and bit down hard. Without warning, Joe let out a deep growl and showed his new white teeth. Miami stopped short, her mouth agape, her legs braced in front of her like a mule. Joe fixed her with a hard, direct stare. She turned tail and raced off. And she didn’t come back.

He made his point. I was impressed. He’s only patient up to a certain point.

Throughout the Joe v. Miami bout while poised to intervene, I was also examined my reactions, my judgments about Miami’s owner. It is, I know, typical of women dealing with women. There's a hard-wired competitiveness that always saddens me when I see it in myself and others. When I really pay attention to what I’m thinking, and why I'm thinking it, I’m abashed, at best.