I have one big daily chore, and that is to walk the dog. He's out two or three times a day, depending on his needs. That is how I find myself at least once a day in the small dingy park in our neighbourhood.
I've walked the same route hundreds or times. Down our street, past the spot where Wonder Dog once found chicken bones (and therefore will always pull towards their phantom memory), down to his favourite tree on the corner (where he does his business with such precision, it usually falls on the same pile as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that). We take a right to walk under the balcony of a fluffy white dog with a Napoleon complex. Bark. Bark BARK. Onwards to the big crossing, Where the dog can see the park already, and so I have to hold the leash tight and save his life every day all over again.
And then - The Park! ("AHHHH!..." goes an angel choir in the background.) He sniffs around and pees on every corner (after all, it's his!). The big fountain in the center of the pond, then the regular two bums on the benches, and on to the big pile of leaves the park attendants rake up (as he digs around in it, I always imagine him finding a foot or an arm, CSI style).
I've seen this park almost every day for the last 6 months or so. It's always the same. Sort of. And though I dislike that dirty park (I call it the Bird Flu Pond), it still has it's moments. Little things which make it bearable. Like the baby ducks whose development I followed for 2-3 weeks in June. Like catching the sun in just the right angle to create a huge rainbow in the fountain. Like somebody's cigarette smoke in the path of some light rays shining through the shade. Like the turtle I saw a few weeks ago, sunbathing. Like the ducks at sunset, standing all in a row on the edge of the water, and all jumping in at the same time at our approach.
And on we go, past the Bench Parliament of old Afghans who nod to me and keep away from the dog. The only word I ever understood in their loud arguments was "Taliban". And then up up the path, one last squat and we're good to go.
Back down to Livingstone Avenue ("Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" flashes across my mind whenever I look up and see the street name). And back up towards home, barking at random balconies, because little fluffy Napoleon could be lurking here too! (they're not.) Barely avoid the dead pigeon, and that's it. We're home. Only 7-8 hours till I have to do the whole thing all over again.
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