Based on a true story Across the road from my apartment there is a dog park. It’s not quite the dog park you’d expect it to be, there are no shaggy golden retrievers playing Frisbee with their owners or Dalmatians sitting sedately sunbathing. Instead, it looks more like a Californian strip mall comprised of a narrow grassy lawn lined with the kind of boutique shops that probably have bought their “designer” merchandise from a local student-run market and simply added a few zeroes to the price. This place, O____, is targeted at socialites and their yapping, hairless handbag accessories they like to call dogs. However, in addition to the rabble of Chihuahuas, you get the occasional blow-dried rats, which I believe are Pomeranians, or as my sister and I prefer to call them, Poufferaniums. It was to this canine cotillion that I would bring my puppy for his evening walk and some socializing. I am the proud owner of a slightly psychotic one-year old Labrador, aptly named Toofaan, meaning Typhoon. He has an excellent pedigree, and his parents are show dogs. However, despite his blue-blooded royal lineage, he seems to be the black sheep of the family. My sister often moans that we are saddled with the runt of the litter: he’s a block-headed, rude, obnoxious, black monster, whose lips perpetually trail slimy ropes of drool. Nonetheless, he is adorable, with chocolate brown eyes, a quivering nose, a sleek coat the color of ebony, and a heart of gold. Many experienced dog owners we met at O____ would coo at the sight of him, and tell us that we had a beautiful and very playful puppy. A moment later, their expressions of amusement would slowly morph into disgusted horror as he would begin sniffing them in highly inappropriate places. Toofaan loved meeting new friends, but I’m not so sure their owners loved him too. I think they viewed him as the big bad bully of the playground, but they had it all wrong. He just wanted to play; he can’t help it if he’s just bigger than the rest of the dogs. More often than not, Toofaan would be going about his own business, completing his daily ritual of leaving little liquid messages at every bush, when a beagle would approach him and start frolicking around him, enticing him to play. Toofaan would oblige, and soon they would be involved in a highly energetic game of tag. But the game wouldn’t last long, because soon, the owner of that friendly beagle would think his dog was being bullied and sweep it up out of Toofaan’s reach. Owing to misconceptions such as these, our reputation at O_____ was being steadily besmirched to the point where our arrival was like a scene from an old cowboy movie, where as soon as the bad guy arrives, the streets are emptied as the townspeople hurriedly bar themselves inside their houses. One day, the owner of O____, finally having had enough, came to have a word with my mother. Gesticulating wildly, he exclaimed in a thick French accent, “When Doofah comes, everyone has to leave! It is not fair on the other dogs! Mon Dieu! C’est pas drai!” I let this gross mispronunciation of Toofaan’s beautiful name slide. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but what can I do instead?” my mum inquired, forever the diplomat. “Stop coming here, you and that monster of a dog!” His moustache was quivering now. “You’re kidding, right?” She laughed it off. “No. I’m serious. You can’t come here anymore.” I abandoned my comfortable seat on the bench to rise and confront him. “So… you’re kicking us out of this dog park?” The disbelief was clear on my face. The tension was tangible, but was soon interrupted as Toofaan, oblivious as ever, trotted over, hips swinging like a South Indian fisherwoman, and started licking the owner, trying futilely to ingratiate himself with him. I tugged him back; he wasn’t improving the situation at all. “Yes! Leave! Now!” The firm directive was issued. We couldn’t argue. We walked away, our faces tomato-red, but still clutching the shreds of our dignity as the other patrons of the dog park silently glared. We almost made it, but then Toofaan took a fancy to the fish in the pond and almost leaped in to play with them. My sister hissed at him through gritted teeth, “Toofaan, you’ve done it again! You idiot! Now sit at home like a loner and get fat.” In response, he simply licked her hand, begging for a belly rub. This is the short story I submitted to the 2010/11 issue of Core Magazine.
