Follow the Signs

I have got to learn to follow my instincts.

I had to go into town on business yesterday and after picking up my daughter from school in the afternoon I decided to take Carl the Cattle Dog to the dog park to make up for his having to spend all day in the kitchen. Something told me that this was a bad idea, but I put that down to being tired and the sky being overcast, so I changed into my boots, bundled daughter and dog into the Cruiser and drove into Redmond.

Now, King County is a bit odd when it comes to parks and some bizarre subterranean logic told the bureaucrats that be that having paid parking in Marymoor Park was a jolly good idea-- especially when such parking is jammed solidly in the 20th century with parking machines that only take hard cash rather than debit cards. I only bring this up because I had to get out of the car in order to use the machine (another bit of mind-boggling design) and left the engine running.

No problem, I thought. I was only going to be out a second and it wasn't like carjackers were going to leap out of the turf. I got the ticket, turned back to the car and saw Carl sitting in the drivers seat with his nose on the door lock button. Yes, nothing like progress. In the old days, you had to lock each door individually. Now, a dog with no formal training is able to lock the car all by himself-- still running and with the keys in the ignition.

I suspected that Carl would be no help in this situation, so I then spent what seemed like an epoch explaining, very loudly, to my four-year old daughter through the window how to undo her belt, climb into the front seat, and unlock the door, which she eventually did.

Of course, I abandoned the outing as a bad idea. Did I? Did I, Hell. I'd spent an entire dollar on parking and I wasn't about to let that go to waste, so into the dog park we went.

Last time I'd been to the park it had been one expanse of ice and snow packed down by dogs of various sizes and breeds. Even the black, swampy bit was frozen solid, much to Carl's dismay, as he'd been looking forward to a good muddying. Now the thaw had taken firm hold in the lower altitudes and most of the snow and ice was gone. Most, but not all. We discovered this when my daughter walked through a puddle and slid on a camouflaged slab of ice. out went her feet from under her and she landed flat on her back in what was to her scale a fair-sized wading pond, albeit a very, very cold one.

So, five minutes after the start of our outing we were back in the car, Emma stripped down and under a blanket, daddy sweltering in his winter gear with car heater turned up full and Carl feeling confused and relieved that at least he'd had a chance to poop.

Next time I think I'll settle for throwing the Frisbee around the garden.