One of the hardest things for me to find in DC is a place to let Chico run. Dog parks are, for him, a form of torture. So many other dogs that all want to get to know him at one time in a new setting, lots of them larger than he, and then I am tense and vigilant; neither of us has any fun.

Through some good fortune, I learned about a spot not far from where we’re staying, an informal dog park on the grounds of the headquarters of a national religious organization. There must be an acre, maybe more, bounded on three sides by chain link fence. And, so far, it’s not been filled with other dogs.

You can just make out the back end of Chico, headed for a tree.

Maybe not the most scenic, rustic spot, but open space where a dog can get a case of the zoomies and not get hurt.

Half an hour here, me walking from one end to the other and back a couple times, does wonders for Chico. And if I’ve learned anything in the last three years (has it already been that long?!), it’s that what’s good for Chico, is good for me.