Let Me Tell You about Jasper . . .

by Dana Perino

  I’d get my coat and say, “Your daddy is here, Jasper.” Then I’d sneak out the door, making sure it made little noise when it shut, and head down to the lobby. Peter would wait a couple of minutes, then get his coat. He’d settle Jasper in his dog bed and give him a treat before joining me downstairs to hail a taxi.

  “Is he okay?” I’d ask.

  “Of course he’s okay, my darling. Don’t worry,” Peter said. He never said he thought I was crazy. He didn’t have to.

  When we’d get to the restaurant, friends would ask us how Jasper was doing. I’d say that he was great except that he had terrible separation anxiety.

  “It isn’t Jasper,” Peter said, slyly pointing a finger in my direction.

  The nice thing is that Peter didn’t hold my anxiety against me or get irritated, though he would have been justified. Peter saw the love I felt, knew that I couldn’t rationalize my emotions, and he adjusted so that I could be the kind of dog mom I wanted to be.

  “And you make fun of helicopter parents on The Five?” he joked.

  Eventually, we got to a point where we can leave Jasper in the apartment (no crate) and there’s no wailing. And I no longer get teary about him being on his own. Though I still sometimes hire Kyra—I call her Jasper’s girlfriend so that he doesn’t think he needs a babysitter.

  But I’m not crazy… right?

  Dog Park Rules

  IN THE LAST EIGHTEEN YEARS, one of my favorite places to go is the dog park. When I was growing up, there was no such thing, but dog ownership has changed and now in cities all across America you can find off-leash dog parks. This is a good thing. You see all kinds of dogs (and people!) at the dog park, from the breed standards to the rescue animals, and no matter where I go, the dog park always makes me happy.

  My first dog park was in Lytham-St. Anne’s in the UK. I started going there when Henry was a puppy and had received all of his shots. The park ran along the beach in the sand dunes, and we nicknamed it “The Dog Poop Park.” It wasn’t an official dog park, but all the dog owners gathered there in the mornings and late afternoons. No one hassled us.

  At the beach, we’d walk along the dunes and the dogs would run around us. I used to pray that the Whippet would be there because it would run so fast and tire Henry out.

  During the summer, we’d stay out there for hours because it was light until 11 p.m. Then, in the winter, the sun rose around 9 a.m. and went down around 3:30 p.m. It was quite a contrast (and I lasted only one winter!).

  I made friends with a woman that had a year-old Great Dane, and Henry and Boo-Boo (short for Bublich) became great pals. Henry used to clamp onto Boo-Boo’s jowls and hold on while he loped along. Sometimes after the morning walks, Henry and I would go over to their house and sit in front of the fire. I would drink tea while Henry would get so close to the fire and sleep so soundly, I was afraid he would cook.

  In San Diego, we had one of the best dog parks—Del Mar dog beach. What joy!

  Henry learned to surf the waves, we walked barefoot in the sand, and we watched the sun set over the ocean all year round. Later we moved closer to downtown, and on the weekends we’d go over to Coronado Island where there’s a dog beach just south of the navy base. Henry would swim so far out he’d surprise some of the surfers—“Hey, look at that dog!”

  We’d watch dogs run around together, and some were sneaky enough to put their snouts into the coolers next to the beach towels and pull out any food they could find. Others would “mark” someone’s chair while the humans weren’t looking. It was great fun.

  After we moved closer to downtown, we started taking Henry to Grape Street Dog Park, which was designated as a leash-free area. But as dog owners know, our rights to have places where we can run our dogs around without a leash are constantly under threat.

  Nothing can unite a group of dog owners more than the worry that their dog park will be closed down. And that’s what happened at Grape Street.

  Jasper as a puppy, in Central Park in the fall.

  A couple of neighbors had complained to the city council about the dog park, and a local council member proposed a large reduction in the area for dogs, and she also proposed fencing them in.

  Naturally, we were a bit upset about it. I had never before been part of an organized protest, but I was prepared to go boneless and to jail if that’s what it was going to take to keep the park open.

  A hearing was set by which both sides’ arguments would be heard, and of those who attended, the support in favor of maintaining the park status quo was something on the order of 100 to 2.

  At the hearing, one of the dissenters complained that the dogs urinated in the park—and a supporter pointed out that dogs urinate whether they’re on or off the leash.

  Peter made the point that more than a third of U.S. households have dogs.

  “Here in the United States, particularly in California, just about any minority that protests gets equal rights. But dog owners continue to be treated as second-class citizens,” he said, as only someone with a British accent can.

  The council member, seeing that she was outnumbered and that her constituents were clearly against the idea, changed her position at the meeting.

  Grape Street Dog Park was saved! And that’s how government by the people (and their dogs) should work!

  When we moved to Washington, D.C., we rented a small row house on Capitol Hill and our morning walks with Henry were in Lincoln Park—an unofficial dog park where most people didn’t mind. I say most (see Peter’s story about his encounter with Officer Smith of the Park Police).

  This was the most bipartisan dog run in Washington. No one cared who anyone worked for, and in fact, some alliances were made as people from different sides of the aisle figured out how to advance legislation or policy by teaming up. The dogs brought us together.

  There’s also the Congressional Cemetery in Southeast D.C. that we could walk to. For years the cemetery was neglected and it fell into disrepair and was an area for drug dealers. Christ Church and the K-9 Corps got together and helped clean up the area and drove away the drug dealers.

  From then on, people on Capitol Hill could become members of the historical society and pay to have the privilege of walking their dogs without leashes on the grounds. I was very uncomfortable at first—it seemed wrong to have dogs running around the gravesites. But one day, a regular visitor told me that I needed to get over it—she said that she believed the people buried there would have been glad to know that the dogs could have fun right there in the city.

  I decided to take her advice and it became one of my favorite places to walk in D.C.

  It was kind of funny when we’d ask Henry, “Do you want to go to the cemetery?” in a Scooby-Doo voice. Cemeteries never sounded so fun! And as Peter says, “People are dying to get in there.”

  On weekends we’d drive up to Annapolis and visit a park that had a dog beach. It was a tiny beach and there weren’t any waves, but it was a great escape from Washington and a place where I could sit and look at the water and not at my e-mails.

  When we turned into the park, Henry would be up and have his head out the window. We’d taught him to bark once for please and twice for thank you—which was charming and of course gave us some bragging rights as owners of a clever and polite dog—but Henry loved swimming so much that he would just start barking as loud as he could, sometimes right in our ears. “Please! Please! Please!”

  Henry in D.C.’s Congressional Cemetery—where the neighborhood dog owners joined the Historical Society to support the upkeep and to walk our dogs. Jasper stops there on his travels back and forth to South Carolina.

  Down at the beach, we’d try to get Henry, who was quite athletic, to jump off the dock into the water. He would not. Then one day, a collie came running down the dock and jumped off to get the toy his owner had thrown in the water. Everyone clapped and cheered. And you can imagine what happened next.

  Henry was like, “I can do that, too.” But his versio
n was more of a belly flop than a leap. It was adorable, though it seemed like it would hurt, especially when he did it over and over for an hour.

  Henry in Annapolis. Look at that happy face!

  Years later we made sure to teach Jasper to leap in, and some of his best photos are at our friends’ pools—Henry would be a little proud and a lot jealous.

  Never in my life would I have imagined that the best American dog park is in the middle of America’s most populated city—Manhattan. But Central Park is leash-free from 6 a.m. to 9 a.m., and it is one of the best things about New York City. Peter and Jasper go every morning from 7:30 to 9 a.m., and I join them when I can.

  The dogs are surprisingly well behaved, and for the most part the owners are very attentive and watch their dogs carefully. The commuters take it in stride, and everything goes pretty smoothly.

  It is wonderful in all seasons—even in winter. The ice skating rink opens early, so on our walks we stop to watch the young students twirl around with the Central Park South skyline behind them.

  There’s a gentle man who appears to be homeless on the other side of that pond who brings bread to feed the ducks and other birds, and he and Jasper have become friends. Jasper stops every day and the man gives him a bit of bread. “Just two, please. Thank you so much.” And he never gives Jasper more than two, even though I can tell he wants to. Jasper makes him smile, and the man makes us more mindful and compassionate.

  Some days we put Jasper on his leash to walk through the Central Park Zoo, then we go back up to the Mall, lined with mature American elms, where he makes a beeline for the Bethesda Fountain.

  Jasper watching the ice skaters in Central Park.

  Recently when Peter’s grandkids were visiting we watched Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, and when a scene with that fountain came up they exclaimed, “That’s Jasper’s fountain!”

  Once we make that loop, we’re back by the baseball fields and the rest of the gang has gathered.

  Jasper is one of the fastest at the park (naturally!), and his game of tug-of-war is admirable.

  The dogs all recognize Peter—he’s the Pied Piper with the best treats. He knows all of their names and how many treats they’re allowed to have. It’s such a joy to watch. And like kids at the swimming pool, the dogs all start playing again as soon as you make a move to head home.

  We’re often late getting back, but we don’t mind. Central Park with the dogs is the very best way to begin every morning.

  DANA’S RULES FOR A GREAT DOG PARK EXPERIENCE:

  Rules for dogs:

  No sitting. If you lie down, we’re going home. You have to keep moving.

  No fighting—dog fights will ruin the experience for everyone and force the city government to get involved. So none of that.

  No jumping—especially on commuters! Ruining someone’s new suit is a sure way to get us all in trouble.

  No begging. It is so unbecoming.

  Rules for humans:

  No politics—why ruin a perfectly good morning walk with the dogs by talking about politics.

  No work complaints—keep the park a special place, limit the negativity.

  No worries—set aside the day for a bit, enjoy the dogs. Try to leave your phone at home or in your pocket. Your life will improve.

  All over the world, dog parks are the same. The people come to exercise their dogs, to get fresh air, and to be a little social. No one dresses up to go to the dog park. Hardly anyone knows each other’s names, certainly not their last names.

  I recently asked Peter, “What does Stefan do for a living?”

  “I have no idea. I never thought to ask him,” he said. Good answer!

  We have been going for enough years now that we know a lot of the owners. We have had to say good-bye to some folks who’ve moved away, and comforted a couple of owners whose dogs have died. We’ve welcomed new puppies and new babies. It’s like an extended family that only ever meets outdoors.

  About two years after we’d moved to New York City, I was struggling to enjoy the city itself. I was nervous as a cat in the traffic, and I hated all of the noise—not just from the cars, trucks, and buses, but from the yelling and the couple that plays the bongos outside my window, and all the guys that have saxophones and can barely play a tune.

  The weather was getting to me—too hot or too cold. I missed seeing the sky. I was in a rotten mood about New York, and I was thinking about leaving. But I loved my job on The Five at Fox News, and I couldn’t do that job anywhere else. I needed an attitude adjustment.

  On New Year’s Eve, I made a resolution to write down one thing a day I liked about New York. At first it was hard to come up with an answer. I would write them down on my Jasper calendar, and after several weeks, this exercise started to help me change my opinion about the city.

  When I flip back through it now, I realize that 80 percent of the time I had the same answer, “Central Park dog park.”

  The park—its beauty and the friends we’ve made there (including the dog friends)—has been the best thing about living in New York City. I feel most like my real self when I’m at the dog park in the middle of Manhattan.

  And that’s quite a statement coming from a girl who started out on a ranch in Wyoming!

  The Protest Pee

  Jasper trained us well. His separation anxiety became ours, or at least mine, and we adjusted our lives to deal with it.

  Peter and I would stagger our workouts and evenings out in a way that made sure Jasper wasn’t ever on his own. It was the wrong way to handle the problem, but it actually made things easier. And it meant that I didn’t have to worry, either. Who really had the anxiety? Wait. Don’t answer that.

  One night, for fun and out of desperation, I asked my Twitter and Facebook followers for suggestions on dealing with a pet’s separation anxiety. I got tons of advice.

  I tried a few of the suggestions, such as putting him in a ThunderShirt, which is not a heavy metal band but rather a tight-fitting garment used for dogs afraid of thunderstorms. Dogs are supposed to feel more secure in a snug shirt. That didn’t work for Jasper, but he looked pretty cute in it.

  Most of the suggestions involved crating him whenever we left the apartment. But it was too late for that. Just you try to get Jasper to go in a crate as a grown dog. He’s more stubborn than a mule. It’s not happening.

  Suitcases were the worst. If we had to travel and brought out a suitcase, Jasper would mope and was, as Peter said, “all boot-faced.” I tried getting him to ignore the suitcase by making a fuss of him or giving him a toy or a treat. I was not rewarded with even a wag of his tail. I tried not looking at him at all and just packing as if it was situation normal. I’d also try reasoning with him. “It’s only two days,” I said. But two days and two minutes is the same to Jasper. He has no sense of how long we’re gone—just that we’re away.

  Only one thing works when we’re packing. If Jasper is going on a trip with us, we set out his bag, a fancy red, white, and blue tote made from sailcloth in Annapolis, by the front door. He learned that meant he’s going, too, and that perks him right up.

  Of course, then he follows us from room to room as we get ready, and dashes out the door before we do so that he’s not left behind. As if he’s some sort of furry Macaulay Culkin (actually, Mr. Culkin is looking a little furry himself these days…). I’ve been tempted to put his bag out even if he’s not going with us, but I can’t lie, even to my dog.

  We also found ourselves accepting any invitation to visit friends, especially outside of the city, if Jasper could come along, too. We are blessed to know a lot of people who love dogs, and some whose kids want a dog but they’re not able to have one, and so we became frequent if perhaps shameless weekend houseguests all around the area. You don’t have to ask me twice.

  When I wrote And the Good News Is… I received a lot of gifts for Jasper, including an embroidered quilt with the Great Seal of the United States. It is beautiful and functional. We take it with us t
o our friends’ homes if we are invited to stay the night, because, well, you try telling Jasper he can’t sleep on the bed. With the quilt, we’re covered. Literally and figuratively.

  When we’re at our place in South Carolina, leaving him in the house is even more stressful. For a while, whenever we’d go out, we’d come home and find that he’d peed on the floor. As soon as we’d walk in, we’d know something happened, because Jasper would grab a toy as he always does, but instead of frantic joy and butt wagging, his tail would be down and he’d look guilty. It was hard to discipline him because you’re supposed to catch them in the act. Peter would get pretty mad at Jasper, and I’d feel terrible.

  “He’s so scared to be left alone,” I’d say.

  “No, he’s being a brat,” Peter responded.

  We compromised and called it a protest pee (maybe he learned it from Occupy Wall Street). He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. At one point I found a wet spot on a new light blue rattan rug. I was mad and I told him to “Come here. Now.”

  I didn’t know Peter was filming the scene on his phone, but he caught everything. Jasper wouldn’t run away from me, but he wouldn’t come either. I tried pulling him by the collar, but he wouldn’t budge. I tried pulling him by his front legs, but he dug his back paws into the ground and wouldn’t move. I got behind him and was finally able to drag him over to the spot where I scolded him. I really let him have it. And then I felt awful. At least he never peed on that rug again!

  The video was so funny that we posted it for everyone to have a good laugh at my expense.

  I laughed, too. Eventually.