Tim Dowling admits his dog has a bigger social network than he does, as revealed during a morning walk with his wife. The couple went to the park together on a Friday before a weekend trip, and Dowling observed his wife's extensive social connections there.
Wife's social connections in the park
“Morning!” my wife sang, waving at someone in the car park. The person waved back, shouting something I couldn’t hear. My wife laughed. “I have a lot of friends in this park,” she said. “And also some enemies, but mostly friends.” Over half an hour, she stopped to chat with a dozen people: couples, singles, professional dog walkers, park employees.
“You’re not used to this, are you?” she said to me. “The social whirl?” I said. “Just talking to people,” she said. “I don’t come this way,” I said. When I do the afternoon dog walk, I stick to a perimeter route where I almost never meet anyone I know, although I still run into people who know my dog.
Dog's name recognition
“It’s Jean!” they shout. The dog runs up to strangers, tail wagging, and they exchange greetings or share an in-joke. Then the person looks me up and down suspiciously, gives my dog a treat, and walks on. “Bye, Jean!” they call over their shoulders. “Who was that?” I ask the dog. “How do you know them? What kind of car do they have?” The dog sneezes, shakes her head, and runs off. From behind a stand of trees, I hear: “Look, it’s Jean!”
It can be humiliating to negotiate a landscape where your dog has a larger social network and better name recognition than you do. But that’s nothing compared with the total effacement brought about by a turn round the park with my wife. She doesn’t introduce me to anyone, because that’s not how things work in the park: nobody introduces anybody. Your reputation is built on a thousand daily encounters, one walk at a time.
Festival season complaints
The chief topic on this particular Friday is a perennial complaint: the start of festival season in the park, when temporary walls are erected to enclose paying customers inside food, drink, and music festivals. The walls stay up most of the summer, bisecting fields and blocking paths, forcing everyone to walk the long way round. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it,” my wife says. “It’s like being in a prison exercise yard,” says the woman she’s talking to. “Actually this is the way I usually go,” I say. No one looks at me. No one hears.
We continue along the temporary wall, which stretches into the distance. “Not that many people here today,” she says. “I guess everyone’s away.” “Do you even tell people you’re married?” I say. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “You don’t do mornings.” “I do sometimes do the mornings,” I say. “Almost never,” she says. “But when I do the mornings I go to a different park, where we have our own friends,” I say. “Uh-huh,” my wife says.
A different park's friends
“It’s true,” I say. “One of our friends, for example, tells me about the latest artefacts he has found while combing the muddy Thames foreshore.” “What’s his name?” she says. “I only know his dog’s name,” I say, “and I forget his dog’s name.” We reach the security checkpoint at the festival entrance, being assembled by young people in hi-vis vests. The dog, ignoring barriers, runs into the festival grounds. “She’s got a wristband,” my wife says. Everyone laughs.
We peel away from the wall and join the path along the playground, then turn right to cross a cricket pitch. The dog shoots off ahead. Someone up by the tennis courts shouts: “It’s Jean!” “We should get going,” my wife says. “Otherwise traffic will be a nightmare.” She waves to a far off figure, a mere silhouette in the morning light, holding a ball on a stick. “Max,” I say. “His dog is called Max.”
