Imagine, dear human, that you emerge from your car, walk across the gravel parking lot and enter a field bursting with roses, gardenia, and phlox. As the morning sun warms the blooms, they spill their sweet perfume into the air, taking aim at your quivering, cold, wet nose.
Okay, okay, I realize that your nose generally isn’t quivering, cold or wet. But you get my drift, right? That’s how swell it is at the beginning of my favorite walk through that patch of paradise known as the Northampton Dog Park.
My human tells me that some of his fellow two-legged troublemakers are objecting to calling the Smith Voke-managed land a dog park, even wondering whether my canine pals and I should continue to be allowed to roam here. I’ll leave politics to the pit bulls, but if you want to understand the importance of this place, trot along with me — and follow my nose:
First stop is that field I described earlier. Full disclosure: It’s not really covered with flowers. I was just trying to frame it in terms you could understand. The truth is that it’s much sweeter, a place covered with long, green grass that provides the perfect spot for that important first evacuation of a dog’s morning walk.
Trust me, many of us take advantage.
The result is a feast for the nostrils, an opportunity to sample the calling cards of beagles, spaniels, labs, and all manner of butts, er, mutts. I’m sorry to report that the rich aromas have faded some since all the debate broke out this year. Humans seem to be following their dogs into the weeds and scooping up their droppings in plastic bags. Such selfishness! I can only appeal to their public spiritedness and ask them to leave at least some of the goodness behind. (Behind … Get it? I’m such a howl!)
From there, we enter a tunnel of green, as the path winds through a canopy of maples, oaks, and pines. It’s cooler here, and the perfume of rain-soaked earth rises up to greet me. I veer off the path to munch a little on the understory and sniff a few of the more popular trunks. As the tunnel opens up and invites the sun, I glance up at the sumacs and enjoy the sight of their bright red fruit.
We enter the high meadow, where the hillside drifts down and eastward toward the trails leading to Smith College. My human lets me explore freely in the rest of the park, but here he keeps me from romping through the grass. He explains that the bodies of anonymous patients from the old state hospital are buried here. “This is sacred ground, pal.”
No problem. Often, when we’re making our way down the trail, other pups and their humans amble up for a visit. There are a surplus of other black labs, which crushes my sense of exceptionality, but they are a friendly bunch. My favorite, though, is my precise opposite, a leggy blond who pauses only briefly, but carries an undeniable air of mystery. In my chest, I feel something vaguely wistful stir.
But then I smell the Mill River and a clamor comes along to wash regret away. My ears perk up at the sound of my splashing and yipping pals as they bound across the sandy bank and into the burbling water. My nose and ears take me to the river. Dog Beach, here I come!•
Ollie Good is a Northampton-based retriever. He provided this account to his human, Advocate staffer Jeff Good.
