#OccupyDogPark

I woke up ready to change my world. I’ve always felt a secret admiration for cats. They’re often maligned, labeled “aloof” and “distant.” Who speaks for cats? I will, I thought to myself.

I will speak for cats.

I headed over to the neighborhood dog park and chained myself to the gates at five in the morning and waited.

Waited (played Angry Birds on my I-pad).

Waited for the first dog-walkers to arrive and begin my protest. It’s a myth that dog owners are early risers. The first couple arrived at 8:45AM with a grotesquely overweight basset hound that smelled of polyurethane. Were they wrapping the dog up in a new raincoat every night?

“What’s up?” asked the man, a squatty fellow with a monk’s hairdo.

“I’m occupying this dog park,” I said, “like those Wall Street protesters.”

The woman bent her yellow-frosted head close to the man’s shoulder and yelled, “There’s an octopus in the dog park? That’s farkin ridiculous!” She wore a cocktail dress and patent fuscia heels.

Her shrill pierced the bucolic surroundings. Quarter to nine didn’t seem that late anymore.

The man rolled his eyes. “She’s hard of hearing.”

"Oh," I mustered, fearing I would become emotionally attached to one of my oppressors.

“What’s the purpose of your protest?” asked the man half-interested, trying to shimmy past me and the chain link while dragging the plump, plastic-smelling ‘Beano.’

“You’re not going to fit. You’re both too--.”

The man shot me a look.

“I’m really bolted on here,” I bragged.

He retreated a step. The woman started to wander back towards their BMW, the stilettos clicking against the gravel of the parking lot.

“Seriously,” he said, drawing a long breath and resisting an outburst, “Beano wants to walk.”

“Wouldn’t Beano be happier if his feline counterparts could walk with him? Every 11.2 minutes some well-meaning American is posting a photo on Facebook of a dog and a cat communing together, but it’s all a farce. Most of those pictures are photoshopped. Or the cats are drugged. Cats aren’t allowed here. It’s a segregation of the species. Everyone turns a blind eye. There’s real injustice happening in every dog park across this great land,” I finished.

“People don’t walk cats,” the man defended.

I noticed the woman started to edge dangerously close to the side of the road. Seconds later a school bus nearly de-heeled her.

“Are you going to go get her?” I asked.

“She’s fine. Sees like a hawk,” he muttered. “What do you attempt to change?” he asked, perking up. “You’re only one man. There are hundreds of dog parks in New Jersey, thousands in the country.”

“My peeps are coming. #OccupyDogPark is all over Twitter. We assembled a Finance Committee. Donations are pouring in. We’ve made contact with the feral underground,” I said, my adrenaline starting to race.

“You and Beano and Whatever-happened-to-Baby-Jane over there better get used to cats sharing this dog park,” I announced, certain of triumph.

Just then the woman fell over a highway cone and plopped on the far shoulder of the road.

“Are you--” but he didn’t let me finish.

“Fine, fine, fine,” he waved me off.  “She’s sleepy.”

Beano started to howl and paw at the matted grass.

“I am getting angry,” snarled the man. “Beano is getting angry, too, aren’t you boy? Yes, you are. Angry Beano. Badass Beano. Going to bite the shiftless rabble,” he bent down and started stroking the dog’s scruff.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman’s motionless form. A Poland Springs water truck rushed down the lane, the force sucking one of her Betsey Johnson heels off her foot; her pink heel landed between the double yellow lines.

Still, she didn’t move.

I couldn’t unlock myself fast enough and run to her.

Victorious, he boomed behind me, “that’s the problem with you kids. You abandon the cause too easily. Cats in the dog park. Ha! Never happen!”

I heard the fence open and Beano pant as he entered the Promised Land. 

When I rolled her on her side, I caught the first whiff of caramel alcohol. She reeked of Amaretto. Another car pulled into the lot. I saw a brown lab bounce excitedly from front seat to back inside a Saab. I had forfeited the advantage. More dogs would come.

The woman reached up and grabbed my arm as I knelt beside her.

“Waffles?” she slurred, one eye a-flutter.  A streak of drool, like a snail’s slick, lined her cheek.

I would not speak for cats.