Commuters Bring a Dogged Determination to Trek Home

Driving 35 miles just to get to work each day is maddening. Take your eyes off the road for a second and you’re stuck behind some diesel-belching bus for the next hour. Sit in traffic long enough and you learn to hate radio traffic reports from Bill Keene.

Do this for a few years and you become a hardened commuter.

But recently I’ve tried a calmer approach. Instead of cursing the silly slogan on the Ford in front, I pause just long enough to glance at the sights along the way.

No, I have not run down any pedestrians while aimlessly gazing at jacaranda blossoms. I have discovered a dog.

My daily journey begins on the Pasadena Freeway which, for all its torment, actually provides a pleasant backdrop for the creep to my law office in Marina del Rey. Towering sycamores and vast stretches of grass line the road, as they probably did in the days when the freeway was aptly called a parkway.

One morning after coming to a screeching halt, I looked over to a small patch of parkland along the freeway. Past the rusting chain-link fence, beyond the graffiti-adorned pilings, right under the tallest sycamore was a dog, absently observing the passing parade.

It looked like a typical dog: light tan, floppy ears, black nose. Standard issue.

By the time traffic moved again, I had made a quick survey of the park and had seen no chaperons attending the wayward canine. Just as quickly, a fancy new sports sedan sneaked between me and the car I was tailgating, and my thoughts of the dog evaporated into the sour steam that surrounds the typical fist-waving, blood vessel popping L.A. driver.

The next morning, I again caught a glimpse of the pooch in the park. He was in the same spot, lazily watching the humans make their way downtown.

By the smug look on his face, you could tell he had figured out that his routine beat the hell out of whatever the people in the cars were up to.

Over the next several months, I made a habit of checking up on the dog my wife had named Parker. Each day, I hoped to find some clue as to why he was there or to whom he belonged.

As time passed, I marveled at how this cunning carnivore could survive in the wilderness that is Highland Park.

Sure, the days were warm, but what did he do at night? I imagined a shivering mutt, curled up in a pile of leaves longing for the break of day. I was even more impressed when the rains came.

In the middle of a downpour, Parker was sitting at his post, completely drenched but still maintaining that self-satisfied smirk on his chops.

Almost every morning, Parker was contentedly perched on the small mound of grass overlooking the freeway. It got to the point that when Parker was not at his usual location, I had visions of his doom.

Could he have been run over? Could he have been kidnaped by hooligans looking for a mascot? Worst of all, had the animal control commandos captured him?

Without a registered human license-holder, Parker would go unclaimed and then be discarded with the rest of the unwanted.

Luckily, Parker would reappear by the next morning’s commute, none the worse for wear.

Soon, I discovered that others had noticed Parker too. One day I saw a woman dressed in a fancy business suit carrying a bag of dog chow toward Parker’s spot.

I felt relieved that someone kept Parker from starving. Then I felt guilty that I had never found the time to do the same. Kind of like the feeling you get when a panhandler wishes you well even though you didn’t make a contribution.

On another day, someone left Parker a large cardboard box for shelter during the rains. I never saw him in it, but the thought that Parker had a place to go to keep dry was reassuring.

When spring rolled around, I decided that the time had come to meet Parker myself. How, I wondered, should I go about meeting the mystery mutt? I refused to interrupt my morning commute to pull off the freeway. (Any veteran of rush hour knows it is folly to give up your hard-earned place in the fast lane. Think of all the people you cut off to keep that position.)

Finally, one Saturday, my wife and I happened by Parker’s domain. He was stationed under the sycamore tree as usual. I parked the car and cautiously got out. As I looked around, I saw that Parker had a cache of dog biscuits, chew toys and heaps of dog chow. He had a collar around his neck but no tag identifying him or his owner.

Now that we were face-to-face, Parker looked bigger and more menacing. Until then, it had never occurred to me that the dog might be a vicious, rabies-infested mongrel who lured hapless motorists into his park, only to devour them.

Dogs, after all, are wild beasts, and if this one had survived alone in the wilderness for so long, he demanded respect.

Happily, I was not attacked. In fact, the reverse occurred. As I timidly approached him, he stood and warily moved backward. He was not frightened, just careful. How else could he keep out of the dog pound?

I never got close enough to Parker to touch him. After a few minutes, it was clear that he stayed out of the pokey by making humans earn his trust. I also realized that it would be best if I never got to know him personally, anyway.

Like most people, I am a sucker for a hound. If Parker had come to trust me, I would have been overcome with the urge to take him home and domesticate him. Of course, that would have been wrong. The last thing Parker needs is human captivity, no matter how well-meaning.

So I continue my daily commute, rushing past the trees and the beasts, slowing down only to honk at the numskull driving the car in front who is oblivious to the 10 other cars he is holding up.

I still see Parker along the freeway, where he passes the days knowing that he has the human race just where he wants it.

Oh, and if any of you hard-noses from Animal Control should outsmart Parker some day and throw him in the slammer, hey, he knows a lawyer.