The Tibetans — terriers not people — Mani and Hopper needed a vigorous walk today. The humans’ leash schedules intersected once: me and morning.
I aimed my Prius, Kar-L, toward Wilson Park. It’s empty, maybe not too odd going toward noon on a July Saturday, but to the west we saw an inline roller-skater and an older couple on a tandem bicycle on the Frisco Trail. So it’s the path for us.
The first surprise was the lively Hopper after 50 yards stopped still in the middle of the walkway. A problem? There it sat. He’s normally shy in public with toileting, and when the need arises he moves to the grass. Not this time.
I cleaned it up. We do that in Fayetteville.
We’re walking south toward Dickson Street, a favorite walk so all tails point skyward, Hopper with that jaunty bounce he carries even when tired and thirsty, and the older and smaller Mani trotting gamely, always the first to tire, but not yet.
Two northward bicyclists slow as we approach. Why, it’s local folk musician Susan Shore and her friend whose name I keep forgetting. No matter: We all keep walking and pedaling after quick waves and hi’s.
We three rarely see people we know; that happens more when My Beloved joins the pack.
Within moments, there’s a whistle. The Arkansas & Missouri is approaching from the south. The Frisco Trail runs parallel and just feet from the track. The noise bothers Mani terribly. We only rescued Hopper last Thanksgiving, and I don’t know how he’ll react.
The A&M runs a tourist excursion to Van Buren on weekends, but this train is a freight and pretty long. We’re approaching Maple Street so I move us off east from the trail and the diesel engine and squeaking steel wheels. Mani howls, like he does when the phone rings. Hopper, heck — he must’ve come across rails in his presumably nomadic Benton County puppyhood after he ran away from or was turned loose by the first owners — was not flustered.
Back to the trail, and passing the new Arsaga’s on Dickson. This one opened a month ago, reclaiming an old, secondary depot as a creperie. I fantasized that if it wasn’t lunchtime Saturday, I’d ask the manager, friend Daniel Estes, for a pair of custom canine crepes — buckwheat batter and some egg cooked on top. We’d all eat by the herb garden below the deck. Of course the cafe’s instant popularity continues so that will have to happen some other time.
Pups and I arrive at the destination, a bench on Dickson Street, by the old train station itself, now a Chipotle grill. I serve as much water as they’ll drink then exchange broken-up Bil-Jac biscuits for shake-hands and lie-downs.
Returning, I see a cute girl, maybe 3, and her parents, by the creperie. The dad is taking pictures, as a tourist would, of a loose but collared dog. Hopper sniffs the yellow Lab politely, not aggressively for a change, and Mani follows suit. The dog walks toward a young barefoot woman some distance away, obviously the owner.
The little girl is happily peeling papery bark off a newly planted birch tree near the cafe’s deck, the mother watching.
This angers me. This could maim this otherwise healthy sapling. As a Scout I was taught to take this ideal kindling of birch bark from fallen limbs. But this is not my place, and shouldn’t some nearby diner or an Arsaga’s server say something?
We walk on, but I change my mind and return.
“Excuse me,” I say to the mother, “but she might be hurting that young tree.”
The young momma smiles blankly at me. The family is Korean, maybe Japanese, and the woman doesn’t understand a word.
The girl giggles and points and Hopper and Mani. Then the mother mimes at me to ask if the child can pet them.
For the next couple of minutes, the tree is safe. The girl enjoys the dogs, Hopper eager for attention and the shy Mani a few wary inches back.
We turn to the trail, the girl instantly back to peeling the birch.
But there’s a surprising installation: a bike repair station with a hand air pump and basic tools like Allen wrenches and screwdrivers, tethered by cables to a sky blue metal stand, with rubber-covered stubs to hang a bike from. A sign says it’s sponsored by the Bicycle Coalition of the Ozarks.
Passing Maple again, Mani having slowed way down, a fit bicyclist a few years younger than me rolls toward us and waves. She sees my confusion and doffs her helmet and sunglasses, and still we stammer. “I don’t remember your name,” she says.
“And me, you. I’m Ben.”
“I’m Robin. I met you and your wife in tango class.”
So it was. My Beloved and I took a few weeks of lessons a few years ago, we’ll get back to it someday, and Robin had assisted the teacher, being a competing tango dancer herself.
Robin today had bicycled from Lake Fayetteville, she said. I’ve done pieces of that trek so I calculated it’d be at least 45-minutes’ ride from where we stood. Impressive. We talked pets and Arsaga’s for five minutes, then she hopped on, continuing south.
Nearing Kar-L, I watered the dogs under a shade tree, and we drove home.
This is why Fayetteville has been such a good fit for the Pollocks.
