Being walked by my dog at Kershaw Park

All rocks checked! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“Any interest in doing Kershaw?” I ask my silly dog.
Boink! SLAM! Lurch! Bonk! “Sure Boss. LET’S BOOGIE!” Nuzzle-nuzzle.
Off we motor for Kershaw Park at the north end of Canandaigua Lake; Killian barking the whole time, about 15 miles.
“Every weekend I bring Killian to this park to be petted,” I said to someone. “It’s socialization with humans,” I said; “plus socialization for me,” I thought to myself.
Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor. “No one will talk to you!”
Together with my hyper-religious parents she convinced me at age-five I was SCUM.
Most days I take Killian to a park near my house, but we don’t meet many humans. I also walk rail-trails with Killian, but they lack water in summer.
My nearby park has ponds — it used to be a town water-supply. And at Kershaw people put out water-dishes. I don’t let Killian drink out of the lake.
Boink! SLAM! Lurch! Yanka-pull! Retractible-leash at full extension (15 feet). “Looks like he’s taking you for a walk,” some lady says.
Barking at all-and-sundry. “Here comes loudmouth again!”
I have his leash under his belly between his legs. “He’s all tangled up!” some girl says. “That’s intentional,” I say. “Attached above his neck I can barely control him.”
“You need to show your dog who’s boss,” someone says.
“Killian knows who the boss-dog is. ‘No treats unless you eat that supper!’”
“Oh what a pretty dog!” some girl gushes.
“Oh what a pretty girl,” I say to myself.
“Killian, you have no idea,” my hairdresser says.
That silly dog leads me into boy/girl situations I previously avoided. “No pretty girl will talk to you!” per Hilda.
I bet her husband was fooling around.
I walk Killian out onto a pier, and “Oh, I didn’t see you here.”
“Oh what a beautiful dog!” a pretty young girl says.
“Oh what a beautiful girl,” I think to myself. “And here I am talking to her,” thereby skonking Hilda and my parents.
Killian is dragging me into disproving Hilda.
We pass a small brewery where three pretty ladies are outside having beer after outdoors yoga.
“Oh what a pretty dog!” one says; and she’s the prettiest.
“Do I bring him over there?” I ask, 100 yards away.
I was enthusiastically invited, of course.
10 years ago I never woulda done that. Much has changed since my wife died, mainly Hilda and my holier-than-thou parents were WRONG.
RE: Socialization for me. Here comes some dude in tattered jeans. “I’m not wearing my jean-jacket, but your jeans are in the running. Almost as tattered as my jacket.”
That happened on three different occasions. 10 years ago I never woulda said anything. I’d-a kept to myself.
While walking at Kershaw I pass people. I can tell, as can Killian, if I should avoid or get friendly.
Obvious are the smilers. “Oh what a pretty dog!” Yanka-pull! Lurch! Boink!
I try to rein in Killian, but I get pulled toward the smilers.
“Pet me!”
“You know what’s gonna happen if you stop petting? You’re gonna get bonked.”
“Keep it up! I like it!”
“How old is he?”
“10; look at his muzzle. Wildest, craziest 10-year-old I ever had. He’s also a rescue.”
“What’s his name?”
“Killian, as in ‘Killian Irish-Red.’”
“He’s so soft.” Pet-pet.
“And you’re so pretty,” I think to myself. 10 years ago I woulda been scared.
Killian has Hilda and my parents spinning in their graves. 14,000 RPM. Enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• Kershaw Park has rocks between it and the lake to stop wave erosion. Often “bite-size bundles of protein” hide in the rocks.
• The photo has Killian with his Easy-Walk® harness, which I no longer use.
• My hairdresser is a dog-person. He wants to see Killian. I always take Killian along for haircuts.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there).