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Saturday, August 23, 2003 The Picnic As soon as I arrived at the edge of the pond which immediately sloped down into a clearing surrounded by lush trees, I felt a stinging sensation on my arm. When I finally brushed the mosquito off, it was too late--an angry red bump was already forming on my skin. At least I was wearing jeans instead of shorts. The pond was an opaque set of ripples, refusing to mirror the bright sky above. Looking down from the edge, one could discern a few murky green wisps of underwater vegetation. Some intrepid picnickers set off on a small waterlogged raft with only a long wood pole to guide them. In the middle of the pond, the raft bobbed dangerously in the currents tipping from one side to another. The riders shouted and screamed and ultimately, someone was lobbed over the side in a loud kersplash! into the cold waters. Many pet owners brought their dogs--all of them, curiously, yellow labs. These canines ran willy-nilly across the clearing, under tables, and around people. "All these dogs look the same!" was such the lament, but if one looked closely, they were slightly different physique-wise and temperament-wise. One dog was so hyperactive, he nearly plowed into the pond with his owner in tow. And am I the only one who finds it rather puzzling yet amusing that dog owners reserve a tone of voice for their pets that sounds patronizing even though these owners would argue it's for encouragement? Why is it that some people naturally turn their voices loud and simple when it comes to animals, young children, the mentally ill, and others that appear to have no capacity for "greater" thought? But at any rate, I watched with much laughter as someone threw a tennis ball and the dog owners immediately pointed to the ball and told their dogs, "Go get the ball!", and instead of listening to them, the dogs started eating the grass. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 4:40 PM : ]
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