It is the Season of the Stick to all dogs at Comstock Park.
The snow is slowly, but mercifully, receding and reveals any variety of sticks felled by our winter weather. Some are literally tree branches, others sturdy logs, but most are the perfect type for throwing to dogs.
The dogs of Comstock are acutely aware of this and make their needs known, growling and grumbling, nudging and gnawing, until we dog walkers find sticks. And throw them.
It is organized chaos.
Unless you are Ben, who is v.e.r.y. o.r.g.a.n.i.z.e.d in his outlook on life (including
Except Ben. It matters to him whose stick it is. Particularly when, according to his universe, it's his.
At least in the way Ben defines them.
But when all this canine sword-rattling is done, my 12-year-old Ben, now one of two elder statesmen at Comstock, inevitably hangs back. . happy to let the younger crowd have their way, wheeling and rending around the park in pursuit of wood. . . while methodically stripping the bark off the stick defended so vigorously.
|Note the paw firmly planted on stick in defense |
of any and all stick interlopers.
Curse you, stick interlopers, curse you!