God, Grandpa, I think to myself. Why’d you have to marry such a stereotype?

Turk is a local celebrity. Every block, he runs into someone he knows and stops to hug. He introduces me to some people as his new grandson, and to others as “Russ’s grandson.” The first garners puzzled looks; the second gets me hugged tight the few times it comes up.

As we get back to Market Street, I say, “So you believe in heaven and hell?”

Turk pulls on Gomer’s leash to stop him from sniffing a big pile of poop. “To me, hell is on earth. We’ve all been to hell. Heaven too. Living well takes us there.”

I snort. It sounds like a slogan you’d see on some late-night infomercial by some quack with a bad toupee selling CDs for $59.99, money-back guarantee if not completely sent to heaven for eternity, some restrictions apply.

Turk gives me an admonishing look. “Look. I get that there are assholes out there. They were out in full force when my friends were dying. I just refuse to let them rule me. I think Christianity is mostly good. I think religion is mostly good, even if it’s been the cause of most of our wars. That comes from a lack of flexibility, from not allowing others to disagree. Rigidity is dangerous. When someone tells you they know exactly what God is, run from that person.”

“For you,” I say, thinking of what Laurelei said.

“Huh?” Turk says, as Gomer does a little lamb leap toward a dog that’s obviously familiar to him, since the other dog makes a similar leap in Gomer’s direction. That owner waves and the two dogs sniff each other’s snouts and begin to circle each other.

“Laurelei in Wyoming said that to me. She said whatever people believe about God is undeniably true, so long as it’s followed by the words, for me.”

“I like that,” Turk says. “And I’ll add a resounding ‘fuck you’ for anytime someone else tries to put their ‘for me’ on me.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Aisha says.

“The Porcupine of Truth,” I say.

Aisha rolls her eyes. “Inside joke,” she says to Turk. “Carson has no joke filter. When he’s uncomfortable, he goes for the laugh.”

“Oh, I’m familiar,” Turk says, as we turn onto a side street. “If I had a nickel for every time Russ would say some nonsense when things got real. It was utterly adorable and truly obnoxious.”

Aisha puts her finger on her nose and points at Turk, who laughs.

“I’m standing right here,” I say. “Am I invisible?”

Turk ruffles my hair. “What’s the Porcupine of Truth?” he asks.

Aisha explains it to him. He takes it all in and slowly nods. “That’s definitely something Russ would have invented,” he says, his eyes a little sad.

We walk together in silence, our steps in a comfortable rhythm. When we get back to his street, Aisha says, “And you really believe in heaven?”

“Oh, most definitely,” Turk says. “You want to see what heaven is like? To my way of thinking?”

We nod.

He hands me Gomer’s leash and then waves us off. “Take Gomer to the dog park. I’ll tell you where it is. That, my young friends, is heaven on earth.”

There are two gates to the dog park. We open up a huge wrought-iron doorway and enter what I guess is a vestibule before we reach the second gate. As we do so, a bunch of dogs run up to the second gate to see who is coming in. Gomer eagerly looks out at the expectant pack of dogs, his black tail wagging back and forth like a metronome.

We remove his leash as Turk told us to do and open the second gate, and Gomer rockets into a world unlike any I’ve seen before.

It’s a beautiful morning and the sun is coming up over the bright green, grassy field. Dozens of dogs of all types congregate in small groups or jump and run and play in pairs and packs. There are huge dogs with pointy snouts, low-to-the-ground dogs waddling around with big bellies, miniature dogs yipping and chasing the tails of larger dogs that look like they could eat the mini ones for breakfast. A diverse cluster of dogs tromps around the perimeter of the park in pack formation. Two dogs, one black and small, the other reddish and slightly bigger, wrestle, the smaller one standing on his hind legs trying to gain an advantage.

Dozens of people of all types stand around, some talking and laughing. Others lounge on benches, watching the scene in solitude. Fat white men in sweat suits chat with skinny black ladies in skirts who look like they must be on their way to the office after this. Hipster chicks wearing librarian glasses cavort with dudes in skullcaps.

I watch Gomer saunter up to a big German shepherd. They sniff each other’s snouts for a moment, and then the German shepherd walks around to the back of Gomer and sniffs his butt.

“Oh my,” I say.

“That’s how they check each other out,” Aisha says. “We used to have a mini schnauzer.”

“I did not know that,” I say. “Either of those pieces of information, actually.”

Gomer allows the bigger dog to sniff him. And then, just as quickly, the German shepherd gallops off, and Gomer, his tail waving like a fan, takes off after him. The bigger dog runs in a wide circle, and Gomer, lower and more compact, has to move his legs twice as fast to keep up. Then the bigger dog turns and starts chasing Gomer, and a medium-sized white dog with a funny-looking snout joins in.

A bulldog, wheezing like he’s out of shape, scampers by my feet. A tiny, fluffy white dog follows him. I look around. No dogs are left out. They’re all playing with each other.

Gomer runs past a poodle sitting expectantly, looking at its owner. He’s a wiry-looking guy in a trucker hat. Gomer barks at the poodle, and both dogs’ tails start wagging. The poodle takes off, chasing Gomer. “Hazel! Girl, get back here,” he yells, and the dogs stop running. Hazel the poodle trots back over to her owner, who turns his attention to Gomer. “Get away from her, you stupid mutt,” he says.

I run over. “Sorry,” I say.

He ignores me, and I feel my shoulders droop. This trip has allowed me to forget how it feels to be invisible. Now I remember: I don’t like it.

“C’mon, Gomer,” I say, monotone, and he trots away from the poodles. He doesn’t seem to care that he was just yelled at; he has the same smile on his adorable face that he almost always has. He races off to join a group of smaller dogs who are running in circles. He puts his nose right up against a large, furry white dog’s behind. He goes up to all the dogs and does it. Doesn’t matter if they’re bigger or smaller. Gomer sniffs the boys, the girls, the white-furred ones, the red-furred ones, the black-furred ones. The nearly shaved, the puffy.

“What do you think the sniffing is all about?” I ask.

“They’re curious. Like why they come running to the door when another dog comes in. They want to know about him or her.”

“Wouldn’t that be cool if we could be like that?”

“Sniffing butts?” she asks, sniffing my shoulder.

“Not afraid of what other people think. Not embarrassed to be interested in someone else. That kind of thing. Do you think that’s why Turk thinks it’s heaven? Why can’t humans be like that? What are we afraid of?”

She doesn’t have time to answer my litany of questions, because suddenly there is a commotion. Hazel the poodle is on her back and a large gray dog stands over her, growling.

“Hey!” the nasty guy says, kicking at the gray dog.

The dog eludes his kick and saunters away. The owner of the gray dog, a large, nondescript man whose belly spills over his brown jeans, hurries over.

“You control your dog or next time I’ll punt it,” the wiry guy spits at him.

The man in the brown jeans says, “He was just playing. I’m sorry.”

“You bet you’re sorry,” the wiry guy says. “Control him, or next time I’ll punt you.”