By a guy who now knows twenty-seven dogs by name but still has no idea what their owners are called
There is, tucked neatly into the suburban machinery of Short Pump Dog Park, a surprisingly civilized little kingdom for dogs and the exhausted humans attached to them. Unlike most dog parks — which resemble the Somme after heavy shelling — this one has artificial turf. Proper turf. Green. Clean. Dry. No ankle-deep mud swallowing trainers whole. No mysterious puddles carrying diseases previously unknown to science. Just neat enclosures, one for the little dogs and one for the big ones, which is humanity’s greatest achievement after indoor plumbing and the V8 engine.
And it’s actually rather lovely. Trees everywhere. Shade in the summer. A children’s playground attached nearby so the soundtrack becomes a combination of barking, laughter and occasional parental panic. It has the strange atmosphere of a village square where everyone arrived accidentally carrying poop bags.
Naturally, the characters remain.
The Woman Who Knows Everything About Dogs is still there, moving through the park like a canine professor emeritus. She examines your mutt with the seriousness of someone reviewing MRI scans and announces, “He’s showing signs of overstimulation.” No, Susan. He’s licking a bench because he’s an idiot. She carries treats in enough quantity to survive a Himalayan expedition and every dog follows her around like medieval peasants chasing a bread cart.
Then there’s the Treat Person. You hear them before you see them. A faint rustling noise and suddenly every dog in the park snaps to attention like Soviet soldiers hearing the national anthem. Somewhere, a Dachshund abandons its owner entirely. A Border Collie begins calculating angles of approach. Tiny dogs appear from nowhere as if teleported.
And of course, there’s always the owner who says, “Oh, he’s not really socialized,” while unclipping the leash of an animal that looks capable of bringing down elk. Brilliant. Excellent strategy. Bring the canine equivalent of a nightclub riot into a public enclosure filled with Pomeranians named Teddy.
The humping dog remains a permanent fixture too. There’s one in every park. A creature driven not by aggression or joy, but by dark ancient forces beyond human understanding. One minute your dog is minding his business. The next, he’s starring in an unsolicited romantic drama with a Labradoodle named Cooper whose owner is pretending not to notice while staring very hard at their phone.
And then comes the fellow who ignores the “small dog” and “large dog” concept entirely. He strolls casually into the little dog enclosure with what appears to be an escaped polar bear and says, “He’s friendly.” Wonderful. So was the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs right up until the final moments.
Peak hour at the park is where the true theatre begins. Conversations drift through the air:
“What food is she on?”
“Raw.”
“Ohhh.”
“He’s gluten-free.”
“He’s anxious around Huskies.”
“Mine only drinks filtered water.”
Meanwhile, in the background, two French Bulldogs are screaming at each other over absolutely nothing.
And then you notice the permanent residents. The people who never seem to leave. Morning, noon, evening — there they are, planted on the same bench with coffee cups and encyclopedic knowledge of everyone’s dog. They know birthdays. Dietary restrictions. Emotional triggers. One woman appears to have developed diplomatic relations with every Golden Retriever in Henrico County.
But the finest species of all is the Tech Bro of Short Pump. Laptop open at the picnic table. AirPods in. Quarter-zip sweater despite it being ninety degrees. He’s conducting meetings about “leveraging scalable solutions” while his doodle commits war crimes against tennis balls behind him. Every few minutes he mutes himself to yell, “Pixel! DROP IT!” before returning calmly to discuss market analytics.
And yet, despite all this madness, the place works. Children laugh in the playground. Dogs sprint across immaculate turf like caffeinated gazelles. Strangers talk. People remember each other’s names. For an hour or two, phones disappear into pockets and life becomes wonderfully simple.
Throw ball.
Pick up poop.
Discuss dog allergies.
Repeat.
Honestly, compared to the rest of modern civilization, it’s remarkably healthy.
Most books today arrive like a fireworks display strapped to a leaf blower. Loud, frantic and desperate for attention.
Hidden Alignment is rather different. Quiet English countryside, forgotten places, old railway whispers and the sort of atmosphere best enjoyed with a cup of tea while the rain taps the windows.
Still available in paperback and Kindle for those interested. Link and QR code below.
A Kings 
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