The Invisible Leash

I don’t know why my human always gets upset and angry when he takes me to this park. There’s fresh air and lots of fresh-cut grass to run across.

At first, he’s buzzing—a bouncy kind of energy he gets when I proudly drop his shoes at his feet. He walks a little faster, nose to the wind like he’s catching a scent that I can’t. He smiles at me and pats my head.

But somewhere between a shady tree and the tickly sand of a tiny beach, his steps get heavy. It’s like an invisible leash wraps around his shoulders and yanks too tightly. His skin gets wet and sour-smelling, not warm and papery like when he sits in his comfy chair.

I stay close, just in case he needs me.

At this park, my human always carries around long, funny sticks. Sometimes he grabs one like he’s going to throw it for me—but he never does. Instead, he waves it around, shuffles his feet, wiggles his butt, and points at the sky. He’s like a twitchy squirrel on a branch, scared he’s going to drop his nut.

Often, other humans will join my human. They take turns stomping and pounding their sticks at the same patch of grass until there’s a huge whump—like a giant bird flapping its wings. Then the humans either bark with excitement or shout a strange, angry word that sounds like “sit,” even though no one is sitting.

Then it’s my turn to join the fun. “Go find ‘em, boy,” my human calls.

That means it’s time to hunt the eggs he’s hidden around the park. Some are white, some are yellow or orange—they come in all sorts of strange colours here. They almost never sit on the short, easy grass either. I have to sniff around trees, leap through bushes, or trot across a beach until I catch their scent.

I try my best to find them quickly, which puts a smile on his face. When I get one, I bark loudly. That’s how he knows I’ve done a good job, and he comes running.

I’m not allowed to eat the eggs or even give them a little lick. He gets upset if I make it roll even the tiniest bit forward—the same way I get upset when someone nudges my bone. I left it there on purpose.

But sometimes my human does silly things like kick the egg away from a tree. Maybe he thinks they’re shy and will only crack open in the sunshine. I haven’t figured that part out yet.

We always end up at a big patch of soft green grass with a tall stick planted in the middle. A little triangle-shaped tail flaps in the wind, like it’s waving me over for a belly scratch. But when I sniff around, there's no trace of any friends—not even a faint hello. I’d leave a message for any other park traveller, but my human gets all jittery the second I raise a leg here.

On this soft patch of grass, the humans always act like something is hiding in the stick hole. They crouch down really low, stare into the burrow, and whisper like they’re afraid to scare whatever’s inside. Then, when everything goes quiet, my human taps an egg toward the hole. But the egg never goes inside. It always wobbles away or stops short, like it’s being stubborn. It usually takes two or three taps before it finally disappears.

I’m always on guard, waiting for a bird to fly out afterward, but none ever do—even though my human keeps saying, “That should have been a birdie.”

He’s always talking about different kinds of birds, like he’s always wanted an eagle, but we never see one. Maybe they’re too high up for me to spot. One day, I’ll be lucky enough to catch an eagle for him. I don’t know where they hide, but I’ll keep looking.

We do the same thing over and over—stomp and wiggle on the grass, hunt down the egg, and bury it in the burrow. It’s just like fetch, and I could do it forever. But the more my human plays with his sticks, the tighter that leash around his shoulders pulls, and his sighs sound like he’s out of breath.

“Time for some Swinging Juice,” he’ll say to me before tilting his head back and lapping away at his weird metal water dish. “And don’t you go telling the missus.”

I never do. I don’t even know who the missus is, but if it’s a secret, then it’s my job to guard it.

Another reason I love this park is the water. The little creeks are fun to splash through, but I’m not allowed to paddle into the big lakes.

Sometimes my human stops at the edge of the sparkly blue and… stands there. I sit beside him, waiting, but he doesn’t say anything. A tiny bit of water will slip from his eye, the same way mine do when I’m so happy I can’t hold it in. He stands so still it makes my tail twitch. I only stand like that when I’m thinking hard about my lost bone.

He must really love those lakes. He even has a stick with a small cup at the end that he dips into the water, like he’s trying to scoop some up and take it home with us.

I know our day at the park is over when there are no more eggs left to find. My human has me sniff around for any I can track down, while he digs through his stick bag like one might appear there.

After one more big slurp from his water bowl, he’ll sigh and say, “Everything looked good today, except for the distance and the direction. Come on, boy, let’s go home.”

I don’t take it personally. I ran fast, and I ran straight. Maybe he’s talking about those rolling boxes that rumble and weave through the grass.

On our way to the car, people sometimes ask why we didn’t visit the last few holes. My human yells, “Shut up and go to hell,” which I think is human language for I’m tired and need a nap.

On the way home, he rests his hand on my head. I’ll lean in, and his breathing finally slows down. That invisible leash around his shoulders loosens.

I still don’t know why the park upsets him. I don’t know why the eggs make him angry or why the lake makes his eyes water.

But I know this: when he pats me on the head, the weight on his shoulders lifts, and everything feels light.

He’s an eagle.

He just needs me to remind him how to soar.