Four years ago, when I moved to San Francisco, I stopped frequenting city dog parks on a regular basis. There are a bunch of reasons behind my decision ranging from boredom to obnoxious dog walkers who don’t have control over their zillions of dogs, but the main reasons are/were as follows:

1) My dog, River, is now eight years old and I’ve spent a good part of my adult life at dog parks in Boulder, Los Angeles and New York.  It’s a tired scene.

2) Since I’ve had River, I’ve met all but two of my boyfriends at the dog park and I’m trying to break the pattern.

3)  I don’t want to end up like this woman: www.dogparkmom.com

Lately though, since I’ve been on *vacation*, I’ve been spending more time at Delores Park than I probably should be.  It started as convenience, and now it’s a ritual. I wake up in the morning, I throw on whatever I can find to wear, I go get some coffee and then River and I stroll down Valencia, turn left on 21st (pass by the house of one of the guys I dated from the dog park) and kick it at Delores Park for a while.

River has made some new friends too  – which is an added bonus. I’m happy, when he’s happy. (I know,  I know … but  it’s the truth.)

Anyway, one of River’s friends  is this smaller dog – white with light brown markings on his face and ears, a few distinct freckles on his nose. He is long, like a Basset or a Beagle, but likely mixed with a sassier breed, perhaps a Jack Russell. It’s hard to tell. He’s pretty damned cute, though.

Then the other day, I was standing under the palm trees, sipping my coffee, watching as  River and his new friend played. They chased each other and wrestled, just being goofy and having fun. Before I knew it, though, River was taking a stance I hadn’t seen him take in a long time. He was about to mount that small dog. Not good.

(For those dog park novices: when dogs mount or hump each other, it is almost never sexual. It’s a show of dominance to establish pack order. Sometimes it’s not a big deal. Sometimes it is – it can cause doggy squabbles. Either way it’s bad form amongst dog owners to let the gesture go unpunished.)

“Jesus!” I shouted at River. “Come on, you know better than that.” And I shoed him away.

This is something that all dog owners do when their dogs do something “bad.” They talk to them as if they understand people-talk, in a loud voice, mostly so all the other dog owners will hear them – it’s totally ridiculous, but it usually makes everyone feel better.

I walked over to the small dog and knelt down. He seemed totally unaware of what  just happened. No ego bruising, no trauma. Still, I felt compelled to apologize on River’s behalf.

“He’s just a punk sometimes,” I explained. I gave him a little pat and took a look at his tags.

The tag read: Walter, The Dog, Esq. - as in attorney.

Whoa.

A minute or so later the guy I presumed to be Walter’s owner came walking my way and I stood to greet him. This kid was no older than 30, no younger than 25 with shaggy hair and thick framed black glasses. He was a Mission hipster for sure, but not the kind that hung out on the hill all day. He probably had a job. I smiled to say hello. We made small talk for a bit, introducing our dogs but not ourselves, and then watched as the dogs played.

“Sorry about earlier,” I said, referencing River’s dominance. “I don’t know where that came from. He hasn’t done that since he was a puppy.”

Walter’s dad nodded like he’d heard it before.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “ Everybody humps Walter. There’s just something about him.” He sounded disappointed, almost ashamed.

“Oh, that’s not uncommon,” I said. “How old is he?”

“He’s two.”

“He’s still young,” I said. “And it seems like Walter has a submissive personality. You’re lucky. You don’t have to worry about dog park squabbles.”

Walter, The Dog, Esq. leaned against his dad’s leg, while a few other dogs gathered to get in on the fun – a Yorkie, a Standard Poodle and a 14-year-old German Shepard who could barely walk, let alone romp. Walter looked a little uneasy as the pack continued to form.

“I guess,” Walter’s dad said. “But I think he needs to stick up for himself. My wife spoils him.”

He looked down and stepped away. “Go on, Walter! You can’t hide behind me. You can do it!”

My discomfort level was rising as I watched Walter’s dad encourage him to, as they say, man-up. When I worked as a teacher, I witnessed this type of gender stereotyping between parent and child, but at a dog park? In San Francisco?  Really?

I thought of things I could say to reassure Walter’s dad that his dog was just fine the way he was, but I decided against it. It would have been like telling a stranger how to raise their kid.

Instead I took another sip of coffee and sighed. River and Walter continued to play hard and  the others joined the mix. It was a funny scene as they tumbled about. Henry stopped every so often to let out a little bark. Even the Shepard, whose back legs gave out every few steps seems inspirited, determined to keep up.

Walter, a little tuckered, leaned against his dad’s pant leg again and snarled slightly, lifting his lip. It looked unnatural and kind of sad.

“There you go Walter!” he said. “Stand up for yourself!” And again moved his leg to leave Walter to fend for himself. Walter was panting hard. I fought every inclination to scoop him up and give him a reprieve.

Instead, I called River before Round Three took hold and prepared to head home.

“You’re taking off?” Walter’s dad said. “Well, bye River. Hope we see you again.”

I forced a smile and leaned down to rub Walter’s little head. The sparkle in his eyes was still there, a little dimmer though. I nodded in understanding. “You’re good the way you are,” I whispered. “A very good boy.”

Then I rose to my feet and River and I began our walk home.

“We’re not going back there for a while,” I whispered  to River. I felt like I should explain.

He was panting in a good way that meant he’d played hard and he’d sleep the rest of the day.

“I get it,” he said. “Agreed.”

I mean, he didn’t really say it, but he sort of did …

Despite the handy use of emotiocons, it’s pretty hard to tell when someone is glowing on the other side of g*chat. Happy? Sure. Glowing? Not really. But this morning my friend Liz is beaming right through the computer. Liz, by the way, is not a glowey kind of person. She doesn’t ‘beam’ on the regular. She’s sort of dark and twisty on the inside, very sarcastic – part of why I love her. She is also an activist, writer and directs an afterschool program for at-risk kids in Oakland.  But anyway, today Liz is glowey, and it’s endearing. It’s also easy to know why. Look out my window and you’ll know what I’m talking about – lesbians as far as the eye can see. Tall lesbians, short, dark, light, femme, butch, somewhere in between – there are lots and lots of lesbians. Most, I imagine, are making their way from 24^th Street or Bernal Heights to the other side of the Mission District to convene at Delores Park.  Today is Pride and more specifically Dyke March in San Francisco.

It’s a big day in The Bay.

Come meet us in the park, Liz says. We’re still on g*chat.

I’m not really up for it,” I say. And I’m not. It’s been a long week and I really need some Jessika-time. Happy Pink Saturday, though!

Yes it is! I love the Bay, she says. It’s okay to be gay. It’s still amazing to me.

See: glowey. And rightfully so.

For Liz, and many others for that matter, Pride is not only about the political; it’s about personal liberation as well. She comes from a family of devout Roman Catholics. Liz was adopted as a baby by parents who go to church every day. When she finally came out to them in her teenage years, well … I’m sure you can imagine. Mayhem. And to this day her parents tell her they love her, they just can’t accept her. But wait the story gets better. When Liz was a college student she sought out her biological parents only to find that they too were Jesus-freaks.

And I ask you, what are the chances?

But I guess a more important question is: how do people reconcile circumstances like these? How do they get through and heal?

I, for one, don’t know. I have a whole segment of my own family who once was Jewish and is now born-again (as in Christian) – like the real deal, praise Jesus and all that. They see me as a heretic because I am not a follower of convention and because I pay reverence to the natural world, to my friends and to my community instead of to one male god that I have never really connected with. In true right-wing fashion they are not above trying to scare others into believing what they believe, or saying things like: homosexuality is a disease, or even equating it to demonic possession. As a teenager and then as a 20-something (which is the last time I saw them) I was always told by the rest of my family to keep my opinions to myself and not stir up trouble. My father would sometimes kick me under the table. It was best just to tolerate their views. To ignore them. And I did do my best.

Now as an adult, I can tell you with certainty that it is NEVER best to tolerate ignorance. Not ever.

As I think back to all of this, I am amazed by Liz’s strength and patience. She has not cut off communications with her family, though sometimes she needs to take a break. She does, however, use the opportunity to try and educate her family and remains an advocate for queer rights through discussion, through humor, through honesty. She’s also not above sending her mother the occasional newspaper clipping about the possible links between soymilk and homosexuality.

Maybe that’s how I ended up gay? And she usually laughs. Though sometimes she cries.

But I digress.

Liz is back on g*chat now. She tells me she’s heading to Delores Park soon to join Dyke March. It’s a beautiful day in San Francisco – warm sunshine – rare.

Are you sure you don’t want to come, she says.

Nah, I’m really not up for it, I say.

She tells me about the pink bloomers she’s bought for the occasion and the matching nail polish, and I laugh.

There’s nothing like a park full of lesbians to cheer you up, she says.

I’ll be there in spirit, I say.

Okay, I’ll touch some boobs for you!

This is another reason why I love Liz.  She’s always thinking of her friends.