It’s hard to describe what it’s like to love an animal. It’s a complex mixture of feelings that exists far beyond the rational and tangible. The things I’d do from a mere tap of my dog’s paw would disturb most. It’s challenging to describe the hold this fluff ball has on me in concrete terms.

Then I remember, there’s no need for words because every day, twice a day, I am at the dog park. This act is undeniable proof of my feelings because who on earth would go there if not for love?

The Australian dog park. A place where humans can go to watch their dogs have more fun being alive than them. I first became part of this awkward community in 2021, when, as with the rest of Australia, I got my compulsory lockdown pooch. We named this sweet thing Cowboy and every day since, Cowboy and I rise before dawn and head to our local dog park because I apparently hate myself now.

I suit up in durable clothes along with SPF50+, a hat, dark glasses and trail boots. Catching myself in a reflection of a shopfront window, I seem more appropriately dressed to scale Kosciuszko than hang around oodles of poodles. Yet, here I am, adorned with hardware. Leashes, carabiners, utility bags full of stupid things that squeak, and tiny plastic bags I use to keep my dog’s excrement in. I already feel weird about my life, and it’s not even 6am.

Before the brilliance of Cowboy came barrelling into my heart, I was truly free. The dog park was just another strange place to witness on your way to brunch or the beach. The people there looked so stuck, so eerie. Hovering together in an open field away from everything and everyone else. Around their legs, dogs rolled and barked and played. It seemed utterly unorganised, and yet, all in a divine arrangement. There was something undeniable drawing me in.“Those people don’t seem to want to speak to each other,” I’d think, “And yet, there they all are.”

You won’t realise until it’s too late but in this liminal space, there’s no work to be done, no relaxing to be had. For one thing, it’s a mistake to do anything sitting on the grass for too long lest a French Bulldog mistakes you for a pissing pole, or in my case, an Irish Wolfhound named Baby could sit down on top of you, and then you’re like, “okay, this is where I die.”

It’s equally impossible to do any sort of exercise among a mass of animals. As interesting as that sounds, it just never works. Now, I merely dress in activewear, hovering semi-stationary as Cowboy dives into yet another pram to lick the face off whatever sleeps inside. I’m no better than a hostage audience during an independent performance-art showcase, with nothing to do but yield to time.

This one man at my dog park is still processing the transition from being a “human” into being a “dog’s human”. I watch him across the field, contorting his body, trying desperately to fit in reps of blah-blah exercise while his Afghan Hound puppy shits somewhere nearby. “He is deluded,” I think to myself, now knowing better than to fight against the tide. “You’ll never keep that up,” I guffaw, “Take it from me. I used to do stuff too, you know!”