In the park today, after a sweaty session of Strollercize (more about that to come) I took the long route home, curving along the east side, up to the Oval and across.

As I lumbered along, limbs-a-tingling from the workout, a little brown and white dog went running past me, his leash flying out behind him. Gallop, gallop, gallop. His owner ran a few paces behind, calling the dog by name. Gallop, gallop, gallop.

A dog has escaped! There was merriment. Onlookers laughed. The owner laughed.

“Stop dog!”

But the little dog sped up. His sleek hair whipped back in the breeze. He listened not.

The dog zipped along, turned a sharp right. The path led straight to the park gate and the gate spilled out onto Fifth Avenue.

The dog’s owner cried out. His cries became more shrill.

All of a sudden, it wasn’t funny. The merriment of a naughty dog sunk into horror as the unthinkable began to unfold…

“Stop that dog! Stop that dog!” The owner became frantic, panicked. He picked up his pace. And the dog picked up his pace. The owner ran; the dog ran.

People tried to block the dog, but the dog was sleek and small and quick. He darted through legs, evaded hands and — wham! — he was gone, out that gate, right out onto Fifth Avenue.

As I turned to the left and headed up the hill toward home, I thought about what it means to be a parent. There will be times when August ignores my cries. He will do as he chooses. He will dart out of gates and put himself in danger. And my palms will get slippery, my breath will get shallow, the terror will freeze my heart to the very core. And when he returns to my arms the relief will be so very vast that I forget, even, to get cross with him.

I looked back over my shoulder. I hadn’t heard the screeching of brakes and traffic continued as normal down Fifth. Hope tells me the dog was captured just in time.