A fall from grace at the dog park

Thursday, 14 May 2026

Virginia Fallon is a staff writer and columnist based in Wellington.

OPINION: There are, broadly speaking, two types of people at the dog park.

The first type are calm and competent, and seen enjoying a pleasant stroll, throwing a stick, or simply leaning casually against the fence holding their poo bags.

These people have good dogs. Their dogs can be seen right there beside them or immediately returning when called.

These people are the epitome of control and composure, and make dog ownership look like a walk in the park.

I used to be one of these people.

My old dogs were as steady as anything, utterly non-reactive, and a dream to take anywhere. With them I could fairly feel the admiration from the other park people as we’d move, casually and without incident, around the paddocks.

But ever since The Puppy got his shots and was allowed into society proper, things have changed.

Now, in what can only be described as a spectacular fall from grace, instead of peaceful, orderly strolls, it’s all yapping, leaping, and racing through the muddy creek — and that’s just me chasing him.

All this is to say that I have joined the other type of people at the dog park.

We are the people who lunge, grab, and shout “leave it” into the void with absolutely no expectation of being obeyed.

We are the ones who pre-emptively apologise to strangers before anything has even happened.

“Sorry,” we call, the moment our puppies merely glance at someone. Sometimes – the worst times – those someones will smile politely, unaware that this is not a greeting but a warning.

And worst of all, we are the dog owners with the voices that start high-pitched and falsely cheerful before becoming increasingly unhinged.

These are the voices that all the good-dog owner shudders to hear, our vocal harbingers of doom; warning sirens sounding through the park and allowing an exact three seconds before all hell breaks loose.

“Come here! Come here? COME HERE!”

It is the sound of optimism slowly curdling into despair. It is the cry of my people.

The Puppy is five months old now, which is an age defined almost entirely by poor decision-making. He is a real sweetheart: adores children and all other animals, and does not have an aggressive bone in his silly little fluffy body.

But in the past two weeks we have been to the dog park exactly thrice and his list of transgressions is already long and shameful.

He has stolen two tennis balls, each from the mouths of other dogs. He has humped the legs of a Rhodesian Ridgeback, a Spoodle, and the lady I know from the bakery.

He has eaten untold horrors, and I have, each time, tried to wrestle them from his maw. He has plunged through slime and eels in an attempt to swallow a plastic bag from the creek, and I have followed, shouting and slipping, with all the dignity of a woman who has completely lost control of her life.

And he has been, quite literally, shat on by the sweet-natured Ollie, an ancient golden retriever that he is relentlessly and weirdly obsessed with and will. Not. Bloody. Leave. Alone.

But for all that, it’s good to be back at the dog park; back with my people, albeit on the other side this time.

Good dogs have to begin somewhere, and I’m grateful mine gets to start here.

So to the calm, composed people with your well-behaved dogs and your effortless dignity: thank you. Thank you for your patience, your smiles, and for saying, “we’ve all been there”.

One day, we’ll be you again.