Nonfiction by Pippa Storey
It’s a sunny midsummer’s day in New Rochelle, on the edge of Long Island Sound. A couple stroll into Hudson Park just ahead of me, their lanky white mutt prancing excitedly around them. They climb the flank of a promontory overlooking the bay, then separate and stand a ball’s throw apart.
Slowly, teasingly, the man draws back his arm, watching the dog quiver with anticipation. He pitches toward the woman, and the dog catapults in her direction. She catches his shot neatly with both hands, barely a pawbeat before the dog reaches her. Then, grinning down fondly, she returns an underarm lob, and the dog bolts off again.
Back and forth they throw, the dog racing eagerly between them. But there’s no ball! It’s all a charade. Nevertheless, the dog is completely enthralled, ears flapping in the wind as he gallops across the grass.
Just a conditioned response, my mother will later surmise. But I can see—from the adoration in the dog’s upturned face, the frenzied wagging of his tail, his rapturous joy in their laughter—that he understands: the game was never about the ball.
Pippa Storey grew up in New Zealand, studied in France, and now lives near Hudson Park in New Rochelle, New York, where this interaction occurred. For more of her writing, digital artwork and videos, please visit pippastorey.com.
