Hump

No one tells you about the dog park. Oh, they’ll say, “There’s this great park at Laguna Lake. You should take your puppy.” That’s true, but it only scratches the surface. There’s so much more to learn.

On your inaugural visit, you’ll discover an ad hoc society of fellow owners, one with its own mores, customs, and etiquette. The first thing you’ll find is that the park is divided into two: a large dog area and a small dog area. Don’t be fooled into thinking the distinction is merely the weight of the dogs. The large dog people tend to be younger. They stand and gaze proudly as their pit-bull/german-shepherd/husky/chow mix runs with the other dogs in a loose pack, stopping every few minutes to wrestle. The small dog owners are mostly retired and take advantage of the benches provided. They sit, but they do not relax. Instead, they maintain an eagle eye on their shih tzus, Scotties, and Teacup Poodles, praying that their little Coco does nothing to bring dishonor on them.

You may not have the best social radar in the world, but as you step inside and close the gate behind you, some instinct tells you that you’re expected to congregate with the other owners.

“Who’s this?” they say as you walk over.

“Brutus,” you say, being quick to add, “We didn’t name him. He’s a rescue. I think it’s meant to be ironic. The name I mean.”

You unhook the leash and let the little Chihuahua down. He cowers by your feet, shivering. You bend down and do your best to comfort him as the other dogs come over to sniff.

He relaxes just a little and sniffs back. Everything seems to be going well until the largest Scottie snaps at him, barking furiously.

“Mac, no!” calls a gray-haired woman. “Bad dog!”

Brutus cowers between your legs as the other dog lunges.

“Bad dog! Come here!” The woman scrambles to her feet and hurries over, grabbing the Scottie’s collar. “We’ve talked about this,” she says to the dog as if she’s talking to a human child. “No biting. Do you want to go home? Or will you be a good dog?”

You stroke the quivering puppy at your feet, but a part of you wants to yell at it, tell it to stand up for itself. Instead, you keep petting until the puppy stops shaking. Meanwhile, the gate clanks as another dog and owner make their way into the small dog area. You look up to find a natty gentleman unleashing a small cocker.

“Bill,” says one of the crowd on the benches.

“Hi, Gary,” says the gentleman, coming over to take his own seat while you stand awkwardly with the puppy still shaking at your feet.

The cocker looks around, sniffs the air and then heads your way. To your surprise, Brutus leaves your side, moving toward the newcomer. They meet and circle one another slowly, tails wagging. You let out your breath. Before you can take a new one, the cocker has positioned itself behind Brutus and mounts him, pumping its hips. Almost worse, Brutus doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s relaxed and giving off a big doggy smile.

The sight is a gut punch, a nauseating fist in your abdomen, almost doubling you over.

“Molly, no!” The gentleman is back on his feet, hustling over to scoop up the cocker.

“Leave Brutus alone.” He turns to you. “It’s not sexual. It’s a dominance thing. Even females can do it.”

With his words, you feel your head spinning, and the next thing you know, you’re sprawled on the ground. The old people swarm around you, helping you to sit upright.

“Don’t try to stand,” says a woman. “Take your time.”

“Listen to Milly. She was a nurse.”

You sit, eyes closed, your head gradually clearing. Someone puts something in your hand.

“You’re probably dehydrated. Drink.”

You open up to see a water bottle in your hand. As you lift it to your mouth, something tickles your chin, and you look down to see Brutus standing on your lap, licking your face.

“Do you have a history of low blood pressure?” says Milly.

You shake your head at this and the other questions she asks. You know what made you pass out; you just don’t know why seeing the cocker spaniel humping Brutus affected you so strongly. In fact, it isn’t until you’re in the car, backing out of the parking lot, that you realize the question you should have asked. You slam on your brakes, pull back into the spot, hop out, and trot along the path to the small dog area.

You don’t wait to get inside before you’re calling to the man with the cocker spaniel. He stands and turns, his mouth falling open in surprise.

“How did you know my dog’s name?” you yell.

“Excuse me?”

“You called him ‘Brutus.’ How did you know?”

“Cathy brings him here. We saw them only last week, isn’t that right, Millie?”

“That’s right. She was with that nice young man. What’s his name again? Gerald? James?”

“Jerome?” you say, your heart in your throat.

“That’s right. Jerome.”

Without a word, not even a thank you, you turn and head back to the car. As you reach for the door handle, your phone buzzes in your pocket. Even before you look, you somehow know it’s Cathy calling. You stare at her picture as the phone vibrates in your hand and think back to the early days. You didn’t need your friends saying, “You’re punching above your weight.” You knew she was out of your league—at least in the looks department. But women aren’t like men that way; brains and personality count for at least as much as appearance. And of course a substantial six-figure income doesn’t hurt.

“Hello,” you say flatly.

“What happened to you? Are you okay? Do I need to come and drive you to the emergency room?”

“Are you still seeing Jerome?”

“What are you talking about? You know I broke up with him months ago.”

“Okay, but are you still seeing him? Like last week at the dog park?”

“Oh that. We just ran into each other. It was a friendly chat. Nothing more.”

“And that’s the only time? If I asked the other dog owners how often they’ve seen you two together—?”

Silence. You can almost hear the frantic working of her mind as she tries to determine how much you know and how she should handle you.

“Did you know that it’s not only males who hump other dogs? Females can do it, too. It’s not sex. It’s dominance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The funny thing is, I didn’t even know I was being humped. Not consciously. But my body did.”

“You’re worrying me.”

“Then let me ease your mind. Answer one simple question and I’ll hang up and come straight home. Are you cheating on me with your ex?”

“How can you ask me that?”

“Are you?”

“I’m hurt that you don’t trust me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“This is beginning to sound like projection. How do I know it’s not you screwing someone else? Are you?”

“No, absolutely not. See how easy that was? Now, your turn. Yes or no? Are you screwing your ex and flaunting it in public while you wear the clothes I bought you and share the house I pay for and drive the car I leased for you?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“You just did.”

You let your arm fall to your side so that Cathy’s voice sounds faint and far away. Your head feels light again, and you lean against the car to keep from falling. Your world is falling apart, and instead of the past, it’s your future that flashes before your eyes. Everything that’s not going to happen: the big, fancy wedding, the luxury honeymoon, the life together, the children…

You lift the phone to your ear. Cathy is in full-on tears mode, babbling how sorry she is and how it’s over and…

“Shut up,” you say.

Amazingly, she does.

“Just tell me one thing.”

“What’s that?” Her voice is half hoarse and half hopeful.

“Did you get Brutus from the animal shelter like you said?”

“What?”

“Is Brutus really a rescue? Or did he actually belong to Jerome?”

“What does that matter?”

“Is he mine or am I raising another man’s dog?!”

She goes back into crying mode as you end the call. You stare through the car window as rage wells up in you like hot lava. You reach for the door handle, yanking the door open to grab the little bastard looking back out at you. He yelps, cowering against the opposite door. The terror in his eyes stops you dead as all the rage drains out of you. You know that terror. Deep in your bones, you remember the horror. The shame. The desperation. The utter helplessness in the face of a stepfather’s fury.

You kneel in the car doorway, holding out your hand and talking in your most soothing voice. The dog’s tail thumps against the seat, but he doesn’t move, still frozen in fear. You keep talking, the words spilling out as you tell him about your childhood, moments you’ve never spoken out loud before. Slowly, still trembling, he stretches his body in your direction. You keep talking, telling him how desperately you wanted to grow up so no one could ever hurt you again.

How you worked so hard to make yourself a success in the eyes of the world. And how you’ve been so desperate for love and acceptance that you’ve been living a lie—even though your gut knew the truth.

Eventually, his nose meets your outstretched hand, and some time after that, you find yourself inside the car, door shut, puppy cradled against your chest, tears spilling down your cheeks. Your phone alternates between ringtones and message notifications as Cathy desperately tries to salvage her future. You barely notice as darkness falls and people pass by, leading their dogs to their cars, one after the other, until you’re the last one remaining. Only then do you pick up the phone and type out a message:

Don’t be home when I get there. Leave your key on the table. Take what you can carry.

I’ll have the rest of your clothes and jewelry and any other gifts sent to you.

P.S. I’m keeping the dog