Kidy
The shortcut to the park goes past the green gate, little one, and behind the green gate lives the dog. Big paws, big bark, a nose that pokes through the bars. Every time, your hand finds a grown-up hand and your feet swing wide, out into the grass, as far from the gate as the path allows. Today the dog is OUTSIDE the gate, on a leash, right in the middle of the path.
'A DOG!' cries Growy with delight, and does what Growy always does with friends: launches into a giant flying hug, arms wide, full speed. The dog startles backwards and lets out a WOOF so big it flattens Growy's ears, and suddenly Growy is behind you, peeking out, all confidence gone. 'That,' says the dog's owner kindly, 'is exactly how not to do it.'
'Dogs speak slow,' the owner says. 'Want to learn?' You nod, from a safe step back. First: ask the owner, always, every dog. Second: stand still and quiet, like a tree. Third: a closed hand, held out low, and then the hardest part, which is nothing at all. You wait. The DOG decides. And as you stand tree-still, something new switches on: you can HEAR the tail. Each wag whooshes a little word. Hello? it whooshes. Friend? Play?
The dog reads you, slow and careful, exactly the way you are reading the dog. Then a warm nose touches your closed hand, once, gently, and the tail whooshes friend, friend, friend. 'Look at that,' whispers Growy from behind your leg. 'A dog does not need you to be brave. It only needs you to be slow.'
You walk on to the park the long way round anyway, because slow does not mean finished being careful, and that is fine too. But the green gate is a little less green-gate-shaped in your tummy now. 'So, little one,' Growy asks, 'did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Growy. 'Next dog behind a fence, stop at a safe distance and read one tail-word.' See you tomorrow, little one.