On a typical Friday morning, Tim Dowling joins his wife for the dog walk—a routine usually reserved for her. As they head to the park, his wife greets someone in the car park with a cheerful “Morning!” The person waves back, shouting something unintelligible, and she laughs.
“I have a lot of friends in this park,” she says. “And also some enemies, but mostly friends.” Over the next half hour, she stops to chat with a dozen people: couples, singles, professional dog walkers, and park employees. Dowling, unaccustomed to this social whirl, notes that when he does the afternoon walk, he sticks to a perimeter route where he almost never meets anyone he knows—though people still recognize his dog.
“It’s Jean!” they shout. The dog runs up to strangers, tail wagging, exchanging greetings or sharing in-jokes. Then the person looks Dowling up and down suspiciously, gives his dog a treat, and walks on. “Bye, Jean!” they call over their shoulders. When Dowling asks the dog who that was, she sneezes and dashes off. From behind trees, he hears distant cries: “Look, it’s Jean!”
Humbling Comparisons
It’s humiliating when your dog has a larger social network and better name recognition than you. But that pales next to the total effacement of walking with his wife. She doesn’t introduce him to anyone, because park etiquette forbids introductions. Reputation is built on a thousand daily encounters, one walk at a time.
The chief topic that Friday is a perennial complaint: festival season in the park, when temporary walls enclose paying customers for food, drink, and music festivals. The walls stay up most of the summer, bisecting fields and blocking paths. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it,” his wife says. “It’s like being in a prison exercise yard,” another woman adds. “Actually this is the way I usually go,” Dowling says, but no one hears.
Festival Season Frustrations
They continue along the temporary wall, which stretches into the distance. “Not that many people here today,” his wife says. “I guess everyone’s away.” Dowling asks, “Do you even tell people you’re married?” She replies, “It doesn’t matter. You don’t do mornings.” He protests that he sometimes does, at a different park where they have their own friends. “Uh-huh,” she says.
He mentions one friend who tells him about artefacts found on the muddy Thames foreshore. “What’s his name?” she asks. “I only know his dog’s name,” he admits, “and I forget his dog’s name.”
They reach the festival entrance’s security checkpoint, being assembled by workers in hi-vis vests. The dog runs into the festival grounds, ignoring barriers. “She’s got a wristband,” his wife jokes, and everyone laughs.
They peel away from the wall, cross a cricket pitch, and cut toward the playground. The dog shoots ahead. Someone by the tennis courts shouts: “It’s Jean!” “We should get going,” his wife says. “Otherwise traffic will be a nightmare.” She waves to a distant figure holding a ball on a stick. “Max,” Dowling says. “His dog is called Max.”
