Who Gives a Shit: Separating Pooches in the dog run?

Big goes with big. Small goes with small. It’s an organizational principle we apply throughout life, whether we’re toddlers sorting wooden blocks or adults organizing our gun closets. It’s not just a spatial mandate, but a social one as well. Little leaguers don’t play against high school teams because no parent wants to see their five year-old get beamed by a teenager’s fastball. Oversized luggage goes to a separate area so your fellow travelers aren’t inconvenienced by your (most likely stupid) Burning Man project clogging the carousel.

Yet despite their rep as a law-abiding and mixed paper and plastic-recycling bunch, this “Rule of Size” is something a good number of Park Slopes ignore. Take the dog run near 4^th Avenue and 3^rd Street, for example. Like any given Project Runway finale, it is divided into two parts: a large dog run for large dogs and a small dog run (pay attention, this is where it gets murky) for their more diminutive brethren.

They’re not pretty, these gravel-filled rectangles outlined in chain-link. My husband and I frequently make Lockup: Park Slope jokes and refer to them collectively as “The Yard.” Separating the two is a sturdy metal gate that is, more often than not, left open. Why? Because Park Slopers like their dogs like their eggs: free range, y’all. No boundaries. No restrictions. Just packs of waist-high retrievers chasing equally mammoth Shepherd-blends with twee pedigrees like Norwegian Etsypoo and Ira Glasshound [Editor's Note: I love the name of the latter breed. Ira is my Justin Bieber]. They race around in frenzied circles, kicking up rocks and fecal dust as they barrel between the two yards.

Until a killjoy like me arrives and politely asks if she can close the gate so her 10 pound Chihuahua mix can get his dodder on while surrounded by peers closer to his stature. If it’s a good day, I’m ignored or treated to a facial expression akin to someone smelling a deviled egg fart. If it’s a bad day, I’m subject to the turned backs and muffled shit-talking of the Big Dog Owners. To them I’m either an aging Paris Hilton (yes, I know Paris Hilton already is aging, but let’s not split bleached blonde hairs) who deems her fur baby too good to hang out with the general population or a cruel ignoramus making character judgments about their Rottweiler.

“Oh, that’s how it’s going to be, then?” their sideways looks seem to say. Yeah, actually, it is. Not because of your dog. I’m sure he’s lovely and well behaved. It’s just that my dog gets freaked out when he’s among giants, even if they’re nice giants. He doesn’t like to roughhouse or chase after tennis balls. He’d rather hang out on the sidelines, nosing around for pee smells and dinosaur fossils. When he gets overwhelmed he gets bitchy. He may even snap at your dog. Granted, he’s never bitten anyone, but why should we take that chance? Let him work that out with our trainer’s dog. He gets paid what I’m sure is a very handsome salary and is used to psychological warfare.

Do I wish my dog wasn’t such a pussy? Of course. Are we working towards that? Ditto. But I got him from a shelter. I’ve only had him for one of his 10 years and his background is still a big question mark. I’m doing what I can to teach him to be a good, well-adjusted dog citizen – one that treats everyone equally, regardless of size. But until he’s perfect and fearless and self-actualized like a tiny furry Oprah, I shouldn’t be made to feel bad about using a public space for one of its intended purposes.

Besides, the big dog run is three times the size of the small dog run. I assure you, your pet is not being subject to the horrors of a veal crate if the small run is made off limits for less than a half hour. Indulge me, and I’ll be sure to thank you profusely, compliment your mastiff, and reopen the gate when I exit. It’d be great if you, in turn, could refrain from shooting me dirty looks or openly hurl insults, like the woman who snarled, “I thought this was Park Slope, not Chelsea!” at my husband the other night. She also called him a yuppie, always hilarious coming from someone in a $300 Eileen Fisher cardigan.

Of course there are big dog owners who are awesome, understand why I’m putting my tiny shitbox in quarantine and may even prefer to cordon off their big shitbox themselves. And of course there are shitty small dog owners who think it’s harmless and adorable when their 5-lb Yorkie bites everything in sight. Clearly, they’re wrong.

Maybe one day all dogs – big and small - will gather in the Park Slope dog run to play beach volleyball, with cats in Baywatch-style swimsuits acting as lifeguards. Until then, let’s respect each other. We’re all in the same gang, and some of us are even in a gang. We all love our dogs, spend way too much time and energy and money on them and are just trying to do our best in this crazy world. Namaste and friendly butt sniffs to all creatures, big and small.

[Erin Bradley lives in Park Slope and wrote a book, which has nothing to do with dogs.]