Scenes from a Fourth of July Parade

On the recent holiday, I agreed to accompany my sister and her two dogs to the parade in a nearby town. (It is essential to the proper socialization of pets, she explained, that they be trained to handle such potentially alarming things as crowds, loud noises, candy-throwers with dangerous aim, and candidates for local political office.) She also persuaded one of her dog-training friends to come along with her own dogs. So we set out along the streets of Watertown in a procession: three women, two bulldogs (one tugging on the leash in excitement, the other looking ready for a nap), a hyper-friendly golden retriever, and a comparatively tiny, frenetic terrier puppy. As we walked along the streets where the parade was lining up, the clowns, costumed float-riders, and marching band flag-twirlers all stopped to look at us. The leotarded little girls from the gymnastics school wanted to pet the puppy, and had to be herded back into line by their instructors.

We reached the corner where the parade was to begin and, seeing that the crowds were already two or three people deep along the route, decided to watch from there. So many other people had the same idea, however, that our view was soon blocked and we decided to plunge ahead. Negotiating between the rows of people with the dogs, we made about the same pace as the parade itself, and thus got to hear the stilt-walking Lady Liberty quizzing parade-goers about the history of the Statue of Liberty for four blocks, until at last we found an unoccupied shop doorway to huddle in. An air conditioner on the second floor of the shop dripped at regular intervals, making a small pool beside the doorway and always managing to land on my arm or foot, no matter where I stood.

One old gentleman walked back and forth along the sidewalk, and petted all of the dogs each time he passed us. "You are so bossy," he scolded Sarah, who was trying to make Honey sit calmly to be petted. "How would you like it if she told you to sit?"

An Elvis impersonator's float was stuck in front of us when the parade momentarily stopped. He gyrated his hips and sang "I'm caught in a trap . . . I can't walk out . . ." for five minutes straight. Doesn't that song have verses?, I wondered as I desperately waited for the parade to get moving again.

A physical therapist, dressed as a leprechaun, walked behind a banner advertising his business. What physical therapy and Irish magic have in common, I'm sure I don't want to know.

"God Bless the U.S.A." got applause, blaring from a float advertising a BBQ place (at least, I hope that's what it was), decorated like a Wild West saloon.

Nearly every act, in fact, was advertising something, whether a local business or a political candidate, many for obscure offices. (Who would have thought that County Coroner was an elected position?) The largest political contingent were the green-shirted multitudes supporting the Republican gubernatorial challenger whose name, cleverly, was Green. "Would you like a sticker?" one of them asked the little boy next to us. "Yes, please," he replied. "Oh, you are so polite!" she exclaimed. "You deserve some candy too." She gave him a handful. This little boy, I noticed, was making out quite well in the candy department; his pockets were full already. He never went running after the candy that landed in the street, or ran clamoring to the candy-givers, as the other kids did. He just stood, looking eager, behind the lawn chairs in front of us when people went by with candy, so that all of them thought that he, being in the second row, had been overlooked, and made sure to hand him some. A very smart child.