New York break: Joe Junior

At times I feel that Central Park, before 8 a.m., belongs to the dogs. If there are leash laws, no one obeys them (are there leash laws?).

On my second day out jogging, I once again encountered an incident of the Dog That Has Tasted Freedom. This dog, by the name of Joe Junior, had an owner of Russian heritage.* He flew the coop and a distressed woman anxiously ran the paths of the park shouting “Joe! Joe Joo-nioh-r! You comb bah-ck heerrrr, n-ohv! Joe Joo-nioh-rrrrr!”

You had to wonder about her life, there, in New York with Joe Junior. Or, is it not her dog? Is it the dog of the fellow she met and partnered up with? Joe Junior doesn’t seem all that fond of her (“I’ve got to split and run from this woman who has usurped my sacred spot in the household”). Did she have a dog in Moscow? Does she miss Moscow? Her girlfriend, Katya, her grandmother, Ludmila? Is the guy worth it? Does he come with a Fifth Avenue apartment?

In the meantime, all the dogs are running crazily around, chasing balls and sticks, while she’s there anxiously searching for Joe Junior, and I am jogging, rain splattering all of us so that we huddle in our private spaces, concentrating on keeping the mud off our clothes and the dogs close to us, or, in my case, far, so that they don’t shake their wet hides anywhere near me.

* The accent is a dead giveaway. Being in NY reminds me how many people in the city speak with strong accents. No wonder no one here ever asked me where mine came from – it is imperceptible when measured against the accents of others, whereas in the Midwest, any variation stands out and so I am asked repeatedly about the origins of mine.