Venerating the Sacred Labrador

Since my mobility has been excellent since my operations last week, I decided to try to take Beckett for a walk and see how far we got. Amusingly, his 12-year old arthritic Labrador's gait is the perfect step match for my own post-op ambulations, so we were in sync.

It was unseasonably cold all day after yesterday's terrible storm, but by 4:00 p.m. the light was gleaming, so out we went. The winds and rain yesterday had ravaged all but the hardiest foliage, but there were still traces of hardy lilacs and some apple blossoms on the tree, here or there. The air was damp and delicious and cool, almost autumnal, but floral instead of spicy.

On the way home, through Riverdale Park, we came upon a group of South Asian young people who were celebrating. Earlier, we had seen balloons in festive marigold colours of orange and yellow festooning their picnic table, and an arch they had constructed. The women were wearing beautiful long dresses, so it was obviously an important celebration. The table had been laid with a cloth, upon which were placed dishes of delcious looking Indian food.

One of the young women caught my eye and smiled, and asked if she could pet Beckett. Since Beckett loves to be petted by women—since he was a baby, he has loved the pitch of women's voices, and responds to it like it's a drug—I told her that of course she could pet him.

Her hand was painted with a beautiful, intricate lace of henna, and her nails were laquered pale pink, almost white, and were very long through Beckett's fur. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, and let her pet him. One of the young men took a picture.

Another young man told me that they were celebrating the baby shower of one of the couples there.

"I saw the decorations earlier," I said. "This was clearly the party to be at this afternoon." He laughed warmly, flashing beautiful white teeth. "Next time you must come one hour earlier, my friend!" he replied.

I told him I regretted not having done so, and was surprised to realize I actually meant it.

Six or seven more of the young people came over to meet Beckett, and he was in heaven, basking in the all the attention, and the rhythmic, gentle scrape of the young woman's nails in his fur.

A cloud moved away from the sun just then, and the entire park was bathed in glorious spring dusk sunlight, gold and orange like the marigold balloons. I caught a sudden whiff of exquisite jasmine perfume on the breeze from one of the women in the flowing dresses.

I remembered all the Victoria Day Sundays I'd spent with dogs in this park—Harper, Simba, and now Beckett— and for the life of me couldn't remember one as lovely as this one, or a scene as poignantly optimistic, full of life and possibility.