T.

In the afternoon's glorious sun, I decided to go explore
Marymoor Park, which is about a mile from my house.
Other than the sports fields and the velodrome, it seemed
relatively deserted, so I parked and took off away from all
the people -- or so I thought. A map showed a trail
skirting the Sammamish Slough, so I headed in that
direction, anticipating a nice stroll beside the flood-swollen
river. As I wound my way past windfallen fir branches
from recent storms and and the winter-abandoned
grounds of Clise Mansion (where the expanse of lawn
in front of the building was pocked with hundreds of
mole hills), I began to see rooftops of cars in the distance.
Ah. Another parking lot. The closer I got, the more people
I could see -- and -- dogs -- hundreds and hundreds of dogs.
A veritable Go Dog Go of breeds and mutts!
A United Nations of Dog. A fur frenzy!
I do like dogs, but I was so unprepared for this canine circus:
dogs running and dogs jumping and dogs chasing and
dogs swimming and dogs sniffing and dogs humping and
dogs fighting and dogs rolling and dogs panting and
a dog in a handbag and a dog in a wagon with a pink blanket
and dogs with bow ties and dogs with ribbons
and dogs that looked like their owners
and people without dogs who looked like dogs
and yelping and barking and splashing and mud,
everywhere mud.
A dog named Barkley, a dog named Gus,
a dog named Tucker, a dog named George.
Holy shit!