In 2002, I returned home from Colorado to my beloved Park Slope after years away. I negotiated a deal for a lovely apartment entirely online, one block from Prospect Park. A broker took digital pictures and sent them to me as email attachments one by one, which was quite new at the time for people who were not in desktop publishing.
It had fallen into place for me easily because I know the neighborhoods and the apartments well. This is my home.
Because of our proximity to the park, my dog Ted and I could be there in less than five minutes. Given the urgency of his irritable bowl, it saved me a lot of time and effort. On the most trying mornings, I would shove slip-on sneakers on my feet with no socks, grab my powder blue coat and put it on over my pajamas, running with him to the park to avoid accidents. It was exactly how I planned it to be. Ted would remain on Mountain Standard Time for the rest of his life, which meant he could wake up and have to go at any time between 3:30 to 6 a.m. A "late" morning in my household began at 7:30 a.m. and those were very rare.
Ted was an early walker from the start. My ex worked an electricians job that had him out the door by 5:30 a.m., and that was back on Denver time, so Teddy was accustomed to very early mornings as it was and a transition of a couple of time zones earlier meant I started drinking coffee, something I found bitter and harsh though I tempered it with lots of cream and sugar. I never needed an energy boost before, because I am a naturally bright-eyed morning person, but for him I set my schedule to accommodate. That's what we do for love, right?
Dog park people are a breed unto themselves. I met many characters at different times of the days and nights, coming away from these interactions with the dogs' name and not the owners, like parents at a PTA meeting. I can be quite shy, especially when I am working hard and have a lot on my mind, but with Teddy interactions were mandatory. There's no hiding behind a 150lb. Malamute who is spectacular, gregarious and friendly, but I could at least drop into the background as his handler for awhile. I relished the role of being adjunct to him so I could just be.
One of the more quiet people on my street was an older woman with a white dog. I could tell she had something going on with her, the way folks 'round the way here get a sense about what's what and who's who very quickly. It's a survival skill that's been honed from thousands of encounters in a populous city. I noticed she had small fluffy white dog, and I would see her shuffling slowly up and down the block with her dog occasionally. They lived on the other side of the street so we didn't have much contact with them, and she clearly wasn't a park walker like we were, in her bulky knitted grey sweater and pink shoes. In his heyday, Ted hiked for hours with a heavy pack on him, turning his head to look back at me with that characteristic Malamute smile. How alive we felt! But this was a different energy indeed.
I'd been hustling hard since my homecoming. The economy tanked and NYC is always the most competitive market, but I was grinding it out like I do. I was constantly worried with nervous energy over how I was going to eat that week and take care of Teddy and pay the bills and the rent, or maybe it was just a beautiful afternoon for a walk, but I found myself on the other side of the street at the exact moment the lady with the white dog hovered uncertainly at the base of her stoop. She was skittish and scared, but gentle. I talked to her that day and learned her story.
The white dog was her sons' dog. He was killed in one of the towers on 9/11 while at work. She carried his little dog around in her arms. She told people on the block that the dog was her last living link to her son as she pressed her nose down into it's fur. No wonder she held that dog so close to her heart. I saw her a few other times after that, pacing the block slowly and telling me the same story. She was on lots of medication, struggling to cope. "I told you this is my sons' dog, right? He's all I have left of him." She'd tell me again, stroking his little pet in her arms. "I have a lot of problems. I haven't been right since it happened. Since my son died."
I felt the weight of my world pressing on my shoulders: no job at first, no boyfriend (he bugged out of New York in 10 days and ran back to Colorado, stiffing me with all the bills), the sole care of Ted, getting back into the stream of my own crazy New York family and those heavy obligations, then navigating a toxic workplace filled with desperate employees who sent me overseas as a mandatory requirement for getting my paycheck. I was under pressure all the time, but I was still here. This twilight my neighbor was in, there was no waking up from.
After a few sidewalk chats, I didn't see her much anymore or maybe I avoided her because there's was nothing I could do with my own woes closing in on me from every side. The last time I saw her, she carried the same dog and told me the same sad story that I listened to out of patience and love. She talked to me with a far away look that placed her gaze somewhere behind my head towards the park, and she softly asked me as she raised her hand to her face, touching it with her fingertips, "Do I have tears running down my face? Because I can't feel them anymore." I said to her, just as softly, "Yes, you do."
For the people of 10th Street.
