Reservoir Dogs

Found a marvelous place to walk the baby -- actually my husband introduced me to it last weekend, and I've been there three times since then. It's a hidden reservoir ringed by a paved path and tucked into a hillside, with eucalyptus and monterey pine trees on three sides and a small city park / children's playground on the fourth. The street in front of it does not see much foot traffic and the entrance gate is entirely unremarkable--I've driven by many times without noticing it. The only drawback to the place is the cement ditch running around it, about one and a half feet wide and three feet deep. Deep enough to injure a child or even an adult who falls into it. But the reservoir is almost a quarter mile around, I think. It's a great spot for joggers, dogs and dog-walkers, and stroller-pushing moms, and I see plenty of each group almost every time I'm there. Although compared to most other scenic spots in San Francisco, the place is deserted.

I receive an instant sensation of decompression--an actual lessening of pressure in my chest, I think--the moment I start walking around the reservoir. Mainly because it's so quiet. Sometimes it's the first quiet moment I've experienced since waking up. And today was one of those days--even more chaotic and survivalist than usual. I was painfully grateful for the tranquility that descended when I entered the reservoir area.

About halfway through the walk a man with four large and furry dogs walked by. He made a feeble attempt to reign them in as they approached me and the baby, who was fast asleep; I looked up with what must have been an expression of mild irritation in my eyes. The look in his own eyes was so sorrowful that I had to look away immediately.

I have no idea what was going through this person's head; but it was a haunted look if ever there was one. I got the feeling that his dogs were a major, perhaps THE major part of his life. For one thing, there were four of them; and they were beautiful--thick, shiny coats, and the calm, alert look of well-fed, well-rested creatures. And the man's expression seemed to say, "Here comes a human--two of them, rather; exercise extreme caution, all of you!"

The thought came to me--as it did during my reservoir walk in the Sunset--"Nothing will ever happen to you"--but modified this time. "Nothing will ever happen to you beyond this. And nothing is more important than this--walking your baby; taking care of your son, while dimly connecting with other humans and with reservoir dogs."