Chrissy and I didn't realize how much our dogs needed a vacation, the same as we did, until we brought them back home and they were back to just having our yard to poop in. When we were in Ellison Bay with ten acres for them to roam around in, they were visibly happy and energized. They loved to go exploring, and made sure to mark off the perimeter in their usual ways. They'd extend the boundaries when we went with them, but they were great about staying close to us and returning when we called them. They were tired at night and happy during the day. I was reminded of the "Dog Whisperer's" writings about dogs needing a working day to feel good, and that exploring and guarding is their job. (Although we did keep them under closer supervision after I saw a coyote cross a quarter mile down the road).
They seemed subdued when we got home, and now they just go out and do their business without much enthusiasm, or else get frustrated trying to get through the fence to the beagle next door. Oh well, back to the old suburban grind.
But when I was on the train today, enduring the usual five-minute pointless delay west of Halsted, I witnessed an even worse example of urban constraint when I watched a resident of one of those warehouses-turned-condos take her dog out into the postage stamp-sized "dog yard" behind the building. She stood with her coffee while the tiny dog did its business, looking somewhat abashed and self-conscious, waiting for the owner to use one of the obligatory plastic bags from the holder on the fence to promptly undo the dog's minor territorial accomplishment. It's a yuppie's life.
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