Turkeys, Chow Chows and a Great Neighborhood Thaw

In the scheme of Park City neighborhood hierarchies, I’m situated squarely on the low end.

In the scheme of Park City neighborhood hierarchies, I’m situated squarely on the low end. Lower Park Ave, that is. Or, as I like to call it, LoPa. Right by a 7-11 and a condo called The Struggler. Don’t let any of those high-falutin-upper-King-Road types tell you any different. It’s definitely Old Town down here.

Modest miner’s shacks hold their ground amidst 80s and 90s condos like The Alpenhof, Snow Blaze and Edelweiss Haus. And my favorite 60s-era hotel The Chateau Apres—where you can check out any time you want, but you can never leave. Seriously, I’ve never seen anyone actually go in or come out of that place.

Behold the Chateau Apres, where you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.

LoPa reflects a bygone era when the men wore Norwegian sweaters with pleated Sans-a-belts. When the ladies skied in Jackie Os and black stirrup pants. When protective headgear consisted of an AquaNet-lacquered bouffant. When a real estate developer’s vision was part Santa Claus, part Sound of Music. And real skiers had names like Björn and Toralf and Torbjörn and Björntoralftorbjörn.

Jackie Os, cat-eyes and bouffants. My mom and her best friend Stefanie, circa 1968.

Driving home from the gym the other morning, I turned down Woodside Avenue toward my parking garage. There, in the middle of the road was a wild turkey. He was in no rush. Just out for a little stroll along the avenue. It was one of those moments that makes you question everything and nothing all at once.

Clearly, it was a sign.

Because the next morning, turning down the same street, I saw a bear. Or what I thought was a bear. Remember that meme from a couple of years ago? The one where a bear emerges from hibernation looking like he just rolled out of a bar fight at No Name after losing custody of his weed pen? Well, here he was, alone on the sidewalk, tied to a street sign and waiting to take on his next victim.

Except it wasn’t a bear. It was a Chow Chow. A huge, hulking ball of black fur struggling to get out of his harness. I stepped out of my car into the middle of the street just as he broke free.

“Hello?” I called out. “Is this anyone’s dog?” The street was empty and now the dog was wandering toward the traffic on Park Ave. I tried to grab him and he snapped at me. Time for Plan B—call 911. Just as I was explaining the situation, a lady came running out of one of the old miner’s shacks, the ones that go for a mill and a half.

She was wearing a yellow knit cap, moon boots and black pajamas covered with white stars like she just stepped out of a VIP yurt at Coachella. “Chiluly! Chiluly!” she cried in the direction of the Chow Chow. A proper California space cadet. Who else would name their purebred dog after a tortured glass sculptor with an eye patch?

“Is that your dog?” I called out, “I tried to grab him, but he got away.”

She was too distracted to answer so I got back in my car and drove down the block to my place. About 30 minutes later, as I was getting ready for work, I heard someone yelling outside my place. “Chiluly! Chiluly!”

Apparently, the tempermental artist was still at large.

This was getting ridiculous—like a livestream of my Nextdoor app. I grabbed a dog biscuit and a leash and ran outside. “Hey, do you need a hand?” I called out to the woman. “Is there someone I can call?”

“No, I live alone,” she said, nervously watching Chiluly the Chow Chow, who had now meandered over to a neighbor’s yard to sniff the grass. “I just got him on Monday.” She explained that his original owner had died and she’d rescued Chiluly to come live with her and her five other dogs. She said he was so freaked out, he bit her the day before. She pulled up a leg of her star pajamas to reveal a nasty bitemark.

“Jesus,” I said, regretting my snap judgement.

She wasn’t an entitled West Coast wacko after all—just a woman with a kind heart trying to do her best with a traumatized pup. And she wasn’t even from California; she’d moved here from New England.

“I’m Karen,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

I handed her the leash and held out the biscuit as a peace offering. “Oh, he won’t come for that,” she said matter-of-factly as Chiluly continued to explore the perimeter of my neighbor’s yard. “He does like whipped cream, though.” She looked at me, dressed half in my work clothes and half in what I threw on as I dashed out the door. Now who looked like an unhinged wacko?

Remembering a pint of vanilla Oatly I had in my freezer, I said “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” I grabbed the pint and ran back outside. The dog had now wandered across the street, heading toward Park Avenue. I handed Karen the pint and within seconds, she managed to slip the leash around Chiluly’s neck. I told her I’d move her car which was still idling in the middle of Woodside Avenue and she took off to walk him to Park City Animal Clinic.

As I turned back home, I saw a woman with long, gray hair standing in her yard, the one Chiluly was just wandering around. For some reason, I’d never introduced myself until now. I told her I lived across the street. “Oh, I know,” she said, “I read your column in The Park Record every week.” I told her I’d noticed her and her husband many times before, sitting on their porch. “My husband died a couple of weeks ago,” she said, staring off toward her house, the two metal patio chairs both empty.

I thought I was dealing with a dog drama, but in that moment, I was emerging from my own cave, shaking off layers of detachment and anonymity and finally seeing a community that’s been here all along. Like me, it was just hibernating, waiting for the world to soften.

I found this outside my door the other day.

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