A woman in a coat and hat holding a Boston terrier, a small black-and-white dog with pointy ears, in front of a sign reading "Swift Run Dog Park." It's a gray snowy day.

I love the off-leash dog park, that utopian reality where, for as long as their humans can spare the time, dogs can be dogs. | Photo by Doug Black

After we got a puppy—Bug, a cockeyed Boston terrier—priority one was finding a dog park so he could practice socialization. (No dog of mine was going to snarl at other dogs on walks!)

This proved more challenging than we initially anticipated. 

The first dog park we visited was attached to an apartment complex near where we were living in Belleville. We took our bikes there, Bug gamely riding along in his doggie bike seat. Upon our arrival, we discovered a rectangle of blighted grass circumscribed by a sagging chain-link fence. The only evidence of other dogs were the heaps of excrement lurking in the unmown grass.

The next place we tried was an oppressive patch of sun-scorched earth guarded by a towering metal fence. A few dogs plodded listlessly within its borders, panting in the unforgiving heat. At the entrance, we discovered that a key code was required to enter. 

Then we visited Swift Run, and the search was over. 

Swift Run—I love the image the name conjures. I love the dusty parking lot, never empty, and the crabapple tree along the fence line of the little-dog park. I once saw an old woman gathering the sour fruit; I wondered what she was going to do with them but was too shy to ask.

Bug loves Swift Run too. He pops up and props his little paws on the window as we get close, his nub of a tail wagging furiously. He strains at his leash until we get to the double-gated entranceway—a liminal space, not dissimilar from an airlock, where owners remove leashes before entering either the small-dog or the big-dog park. We live in a society where All Dogs Must Be Leashed (which every dog person knows is antithetical to the spirit of dogs). I love the off-leash dog park, that utopian reality where, for as long as their humans can spare the time, dogs can be dogs. And I love that no matter what time of day, no matter what time of year, in sun and rain and even snow, there are always other dogs at Swift Run.

Bug is a twenty-five-pound cannonball of destruction, which means that even though he’s technically small enough for the small-dog park, he can hang with the big dogs. When the canine welcoming committee meets him at the gate, they sniff each other, ears pricked, eyes bright and alert. And then there’s the dance: a crouch, a twist, a juke, a sideways dart, alacritous as wide receivers. Bug may bristle when they pay him too much attention, or there may be some invisible signal, detectable only by dogs, and then the chase is on, and Bug is hurtling across the field at full speed, his jowls trailing behind him like banners in the field of battle. I smile; he’ll be tired when we get back home, and I might be able to get some work done. 

Sometimes, though, he’s indifferent to the welcoming committee, intent only on snuffling out ragged tennis balls like a truffle pig. He might give a warning snarl when a big dog pays him too much attention, investigate the perimeter, dart under benches, leap up and attempt to ingratiate himself to the other humans by covering their faces with slobbery kisses. And if, god forbid, it’s summertime and it’s rained recently, he might make a beeline for the gigantic puddle that forms in the middle of the big-dog park and indulge in refreshing wallow. 

I envy the easy way dogs relate to each other. As a writer, I’m an introvert … who’s simultaneously overwhelmed with curiosity about people. (Especially people at the dog park. What job do you have that you can be at the dog park at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday when all the real adults are at work?) Add that to the fact that I’m new in town and don’t know a single person here, and I can’t help but wonder if everyone at the dog park can tell that I’m secretly wondering, “Will you (please) be my friend?”

Meanwhile, the dogs sniff and chase each other, or maybe bond over a tennis ball. They haven’t evolved enough to develop social anxiety.

I once had a conversation with a gal around my age who was a dog trainer. Chatted twice with a guy—I don’t remember his name, don’t remember a thing we talked about, but I remember his dog, a ridiculous little schnauzer with long eyebrows who looked like an indignant old man. 

I’ve had a lot of scripted conversations on the theme of “we are both at a dog park.” They may not have been lifelong friendships, but I’ve learned that there’s also value in the sharing of a simple, pleasant moment. 

two black and white dogs playing in a snowy field. the dog in front is small and black-and-white and has a tennis ball in his mouth. The other dog, a black-and-white pitbull with a wagging tail, is in hot pursuit.

I love that no matter what time of day, no matter what time of year, in sun and rain and even snow, there are always other dogs at Swift Run. | Photo by Brooke Black

Training a dog means bridging the communication gap between species. It requires time, patience, consistency, forgiveness, a sense of humor, and loads of treats. I used to bring Bug into our apartment complex’s office and give him treats if he didn’t jump on our landlord. We’d practice leaving him alone—for one minute, fifteen, an hour—and give him treats when he didn’t destroy our possessions. We’d take him on off-leash hikes and give him treats for coming when called. 

Which is why it’s so humbling to see the effortless, instinctual way that dogs train each other. Bug gets along well with other dogs, and he didn’t need treats to get that way. We have only Swift Run to thank.