“Can I tell you about the biggest hemorrhoid I’ve ever seen?” 

It was Terry, a friendly welcoming member of what I came to call ‘The 10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’, a gathering of dog owners who met most mornings at a dog park in West Kelowna where my wife Mac and I had recently moved. It was the spring of 2021. Now it takes a lot to throw me off balance but I do remember thinking I needed to be measured with my answer. To say ‘No’ might seem unfriendly, even uninterested although I did calculate that to appear interested at all in ‘the biggest hemorrhoid ever’ might seem wrong on some level, particularly for the newest member of the group. And ‘No’ would avoid the obvious risks of the other available answer. Besides my inner claxon was going all Defcon 5 on me trying to get me to say ’No’!  On the other hand, to say ‘Yes’ might appear too eager by half. And what by the way is the general ‘Small Dog Dog Park’ etiquette in such matters? Anyone?  All that aside, one does not have an abundance of time to calibrate a precise answer. I had to make my decision. 

I heard my disembodied answer, 

“Sure Terry, haven’t heard many hemorrhoid stories recently.” It was a failed attempt to sound glib, you know not rude but not too interested.

“My wife has had troubles with hemorrhoids for years, ever since childbirth I figure.” Terry assumed a casual conversational tone which could have had you thinking you’d misheard him, that it was asteroids he wanted to tell you about, not hemorrhoids. I would have been okay with that actually, I’ve always had a passing interest in the night sky.  But alas it was not Uranus he wanted to talk about. It was hers.

“Damn things were huge. So there we were in the emergency room one night back east where we were living.”  Terry and his wife were living in Ontario at the time. 

“We were always going in there. Those ‘roids popped out all the time. ” 

Now you need to understand there was no place to have a private conversation at the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’. Everyone stood or sat around in a circle which ensured that if someone said, oh I don’t know ‘hemorrhoid’ for example, everyone immediately looked up. Even the dogs, ever interested in butts, turned to listen.

“So this doc is holding a piece of ice against this thing and all of a sudden he gets called away.  So he turns to me and says, ‘Hey Terry, you need to learn how to do this anyway.  Just put the ice against your wife’s hemorrhoid, just like this and push it back up’. And he leaves.”

“Oh my God!” I said, more out of not knowing what a more appropriate response would be in the context of this particular conversation, “What did you do?”

“I pushed hard on the ice and the doc was right, that hemorrhoid disappeared up my wife. Who knew?” The image of a piece of ice disappearing into the inner corridors of Terry’s wife was more than I could absorb in the moment, although I suspect the ice melted away soon enough, as did the image in my mind’s eye.

And just then, as I was thinking ‘okay, well that’s the end of that slightly uncomfortable story’, the gate to the Small Dog Dog Park swung open. It was Terry’s wife Marion, yes that wife, the owner of the ‘biggest hemorrhoid Terry had ever seen’. 

“Oh hi honey, I was just telling Tony here about your hemorrhoid.” I braced for the inevitable explosion.

“That mother was huge!” Marion replied and laughed her hearty laugh. My welcome into the 10am Small Dog Dog Park Group was complete.

Actually to be welcomed into a group takes time. It needs to be earned for the most part, often as not confirmed with a nickname. Now somehow and well before I had earned my membership in this group I had a nickname bestowed up on me.  This was lightning in a bottle. Not only that, it was The Best nickname I have ever been given and I’ve had a few. I’ll start at the beginning. 

“Hi there you Fucking Homeless Bastard!”.

I knew right then and there that I was being officially welcomed as a new member of the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’. They had given me a nickname. Let me fill in the blanks.

For as long as I can remember I had wanted a nickname. I had no idea why, they just seemed fun, it was though a nickname bestowed some sense of belonging, of being part of a group. But I was a kid, I didn’t search for reason or understanding, at least not beyond squeezing the juice out of the moment I was living in, right now. That approach to life, so much a part of being a young boy, didn’t much allow for thinking about stuff like that but that aside I was relentless; I wanted a nickname and I wasn’t going to stop until I had one.

My search began in earnest in the summer of 1963. I was thirteen and heading into Grade 9 at KSS in Kelowna. Now that was young for Grade 9 because I had skipped two grades so to say I was precocious and way, way out of my social depth is to craft an understatement of biblical proportions. I was pubescent and acutely aware of girls and even more so that the girls in my class were changing. I mean they were really changing and whatever was going on, those changes were fantastic! And of course therein lay my dilemma; a thirteen year old boy who liked girls, a lot, had to find some way to get their attention when we went back to school in September.  I was keenly aware that in the primal fight for female attention I would be badly outgunned by the fifteen, sixteen and seventeen year old guys I would be competing against. But I was undaunted and always up for the competition. 

The answer came to me in a flash. I needed a nickname and it had to be good.  It had a job to do.  This nickname of mine had to get the girls in my class to at least look at me and with any luck look at me in, you know, that ‘interested way’ girls do. So on the first day back, full of excitement and stories about the summer, chatting amicably with my classmates I was asked by Patricia Meikle (oh my, how she had grown),

“Tony, what did you do this summer?”

“George.” I replied.

“Pardon?”

I would like to be called ‘George’ from now on. ‘It’s my nickname and you Patricia Meikle of My Overreaching Fantasy World, you may call me George’ (that last part was just me talking to myself, it wouldn’t do to say that sort of thing out loud of course.). Now one doesn’t anoint oneself with a nickname, that is just clumsy and doomed to fail from the beginning. But hey! I was thirteen. Fact is, you don’t give yourself a nickname, a nickname is bestowed upon you and it has to be earned. It is a membership of sorts, a welcome, a declaration of friendship. Well the good ones are at least. I have no interest in the name calling of nicknames, goodness knows what they are but I was only interested in the nicknames of belonging. And it will be no surprise to learn that this first pubescent effort fell flat on its face, dashed on the rocks of What Were You Thinking!? But I was not disheartened. I would just have to redouble my efforts. And so my lifelong journey began. But the sorry truth is that my quest for a nickname essentially floundered, crashing up on the shores of old age. I had reached my 70th year without a nickname.

But let me skip ahead to 2021, my 71st year resigned to spend the rest of my years, those that are left to me, without a nickname. It was of course well down my list of Life’s Disappoinments, insignificant some of you might opine (those of you who can’t stop yourselves opining, that is) but I’ll leave that to you. I had left you at the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’. I had taken our young French Bulldog puppy Edith there to check it out. It was a great little park and a bunch of regulars seemed very welcoming. I learned there was a ‘2pm Small Dog Dog Park Group’ but they tended to stay clear of them for reasons that are beyond explaining because quite frankly I can’t remember. 

Of course, I knew no one so I was doing more listening than talking, not my happy place as you might well imagine. Sandy, one of the women in the group was furious, regaling her friends with a story of a sharp encounter she’d had with another dog owner, who had apparently called her a “fucking bitch!”. Sandy, obviously a founding member of the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ had a quick sense of humour, “Besides I am not a fucking bitch” she said with the emphasis one might not necessarily expect from an otherwise gentile seventy year old women dropping ‘F’ bombs at the dog park, “We have been told to leave our townhouse by the strata because my dog is now too big. So I am not a ‘fucking bitch’ I am a ‘homeless fucking bitch’. With a hearty laugh she then looked up at me and said, “Oh hi, who are you?”.

Now normally I would have replied, “Tony, and this is our dog Edith. My wife Mac and I are living down at The Cove because we’ve leased out our home for a couple of years.” or some such thing, but out of nowhere and without calculating the obvious risk, I heard myself say, “Well if you’re a Homeless Fucking Bitch I suppose I am a Homeless Fucking Bastard.” And I was in. With one simple declaration I was welcomed in as the newest member of the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ AND I had a nickname. On the rare occasion someone would call me Tony, that person would be quickly corrected, “No, he’s Homeless Fucking Bastard.” always accompanied by much laughter. 

So there it was. Finally, at seventy – one my lifelong search for a nickname was over. It obviously presents certain challenges, it is after all somewhat vulgar and begs explanation for the uninitiated. But for those of you who can’t bring yourselves to call me Homeless Fucking Bastard, you may call me George. 

Now that’s not to say there isn’t a measure of self sorting that doesn’t go on at the ’10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’. On one rare occasion I took Edith up to the park in the afternoon. A couple I had not seen before were in the park with their small dog and Edith immediately had a new friend, one that was alive and able to run being her only two requirements to form a fast friendship, at the time.

“We don’t believe in this vaccination propaganda we’re being told. It’s all a lie!” announced the husband. It was for a man such as myself, a tantalizing offer and one that I would typically accept, eager to let them know just how much I disagreed with them and not the least of which, this was 2021 when the whole world was trying to navigate through a global pandemic. It was hard not to engage, delivered as it was with the righteous conviction that is so often a part of those announcements. 

“You know Sir” I heard myself saying, looking at him directly, “I don’t want to talk to you about that save as to say I couldn’t disagree with you more. But I don’t want to talk to you here in this dog park. Not here. This is a happy place for all of us, and it’s a place where divisive acrimonious announcements like yours, are just not welcome.” And with that I turned away. We spoke no more and I have not seen them since.

I had surprised myself. I have spent a lifetime enjoying brisk exchanges with thousands of people, in equal parts those with whom I disagree as agree. So it was not for an unwillingness to engage in what might have become a fractious conversation. I had done so on many occasions. No, this was something different. I have come to understand that I was protecting what the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ had become for me, what I wanted it to be; a safe place of friendship and sharing, a simple place free of the dark energies that consume us all from time to time. A place where small dogs and puppies play and where their owners gather. A simple place where you can simply belong.

‘Simon’, a wiry Jack Russel terrier mix, is the old man of the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’. He makes sure all of the new puppies learn very quickly that he is the reigning Grumpy Old Bastard, making it abundantly clear they are only in the park with his permission, which he can withdraw for no particular reason, without notice. Simon was confusing to young Edith until I told her that he was just old and tired and sore and that he could be miserable from time to time.  She looked up at me when I explained that and seemed to understand. 

And Simon’s owner Melanie is delightful. Delightfully English. She is always turned out impeccably, quick witted and gracious in her response. And I’ll tell you this, somehow when an English lady says ‘hemorrhoid’ it sounds so much better, almost as though it’s a small bone in the foot, not you know, the thing it actually is.  Melanie is what the English would call ‘a good sort’, every bit the lady but not one to take herself too seriously, an easy target for leg pulling. So we did. Clayton, a daily regular, would giggle like a school boy when one of his mischievous claims would stick. 

“I do not watch porno!” was a denial Melanie never needed to assert but to hear her say ‘porno’ in her gentile English way was the payoff in itself. Of course when we have our legs pulled it is most often a compliment, a backhanded version of ‘hey, you’re good stuff, you belong here.’  And Melanie definitely belonged. So between ‘Homeless Fucking Bastard’ and ‘I do not watch porno!’ I very quickly came to embrace this ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ as my kind of people.

Clayton’s mischief popped up regularly. One story circulating had it that Melanie kept condoms in her refrigerator which I must say begged a number of questions, not the least of which would be ‘Why are a bunch of seventy year olds talking about the best place to store condoms in the first place?’. But the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ was not a place for the easily offended. One might try the ‘2pm Small Dog Dog Park Group’ were that the case. Melanie denied the suggestion of course with that wry spirited grin of hers although I do think there must have been something to the story. Personally I always found condoms to be the devil; one can only imagine a cold condom must have been somewhat deflating. But I digress. Again.

I could go on for hours talking about many members of the group and recalling countless stories but that is not my purpose in this story; I simply want to give you a telescope through which you can see into this special place I have been so lucky to find. This group of men and women are fantastic. Each of them comes through the gate of the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ with two things; a small dog and a lifetime of stories and all of them love coming to the park. Some share more than others, “Hemorrhoid” Terry holding the current honours, but soon no doubt to be knocked off his perch. Some are loud and ribald, others quiet, not needing to be heard, there simply to enjoy the camaraderie. Others are opinionated seeing the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ more as an audience gathered conveniently in one place to listen to their firmly expressed opinions. Fact is there are too many seventy year old men with prostate problems for their not to be an abundance of firmly expressed opinions on any given day.  Most everybody has a good sense of humour and all of them seek out what the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ can give them, everyday. Free of charge. Friendship, companionship, a place to tell and hear stories, a place to share, a place where each and every one of us is welcome in equal measure. It is a disarmingly candid group and that is refreshing in its own way. There are no walls, just a gate we all pass through. I have come to think of that gate as the entryway into a safe happy place for us all, a place where we could relax and feel unconstrained by all the do’s and don’ts of the outside world; a surprisingly uninhibited and welcoming place.

I have just reread this story and I feel the need to explain. Our group it is not just a geriatric of elderly dog owners gathering around in circles to hear one another out, our backs to the world. No, not at all, in fact it is quite the contrary. There are many young dog owners, single and couples who find their way to the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ and quickly come to understand that it is a special place. We welcome them all. It’s just that as with all things, at least all things Darwin might have commented on, there is a social order, a pecking order, a barking order if you will. The inner circle of seats is taken by the older members of the group, not by design nor announcement, more by the way these things work out. I assume that the younger ‘associate members’ of the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ recognize it for what it is. The natural order of things. Their time will come, as it has for us. Quite frankly given a choice I’d rather be on their side of the time continuum, awaiting full status in the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’. If you know what I’m saying.

When I retired I told Mac that if she ever caught me heading down to Tim Horton’s for a 9am coffee group with the guys each morning, she had my permission to take me out back and shoot me. That represented everything I did not want retirement to be. I was wrong. And I have learned that at the ‘10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’. It is about a sense of belonging about sharing time and space with people who kinda get ya, who may differ in opinion but not much in core values. Who may differ in lived experience but not much in a generation’s path. Who all have stories to tell because that is what binds us in our human experience. 

To belong is to have found a place where we can be different but where we are all the same. We can’t help ourselves. It is simply part of being human.