Wendy and Lucy, Kelly Reichardt's desolate and tender film about a transient young woman's relationship with her dog, gives the impression that dog ownership is a solitary affair. Wendy Carroll, a peculiar drifter played by Michelle Williams, is driving to Alaska with Lucy, her boisterous yellow Lab, fuelled by dreams of work at a fish cannery.

In the opening scenes, the harmonious pair play fetch solo in the woods. Wendy throws the stick; Lucy retrieves it. It's the picture of contentment, an unadorned, subdued sort of contentment emblematic of Wendy's ability to press mute on the world, to snub the society that, over and over, snubs her.

Pre-dog, I imagined long, contemplative walks similar to those of Wendy and Lucy. I imagined birdsong, the odd whistle or bark, the smell of soil, but mainly, I imagined solitude.

This is not the case. Not at all.

Being a dog owner, at least in the city, requires social skills. I had no clue there existed a convivial canine-loving club, and that getting the necessary accessory would make me a member too -- whether I liked it or not.

"What kind of dog is that?" they began asking as soon as I'd trained Poppy to walk on a leash. "A whippet, you say? Boy or girl? How old is she? How big will she get? How much does she weigh? Does she swim? Run? Bite? Bark?"

They descended on me like a flock of pigeons with their questions. It was oppressive and uncomfortable and unexpected. I didn't know how to behave around these hyper-

inquisitive dog enthusiasts. I stood there, tongue-tied, as they fussed over my puppy. "She's so cute," they would say.

Should I agree? No, that would sound big-headed. Should I say thank you, as if they've complimented me on my choice of earrings? Should I tell them their dog is cute, too, even if the sopping-wet stinkbomb slobbering on my sneaker is the furthest thing from it? No, that would be lying. I resorted to a gracious smile and a neutral "mmmm" that I seasoned with a hint of flattered surprise.

There are training schools for dogs, but I do not know of any educational programs in dog-owner etiquette. So I was forced to figure things out on my own. I practised, experimented. I made mistakes. Over time, I grew smoother, more daring. I shed my fear of the doggie small-talkers. I began to initiate dog conversations. I brazenly guessed at breeds.

Now, I chew the fat like a pro with these leash-toting folks.

I've no idea why none of them spoke with me before. I'm sure we've crossed paths in the river valley. Does being a dog owner make me seem less intimidating? Does my companion brand me as intriguing?

Apparently. Now, I talk to people every day on my river-valley strolls with Poppy. About the trail conditions. About Obama, the weather, the sewage from the water treatment plant. About doggie diarrhea, and the despicable varieties of litter that end up in the dog's mouths and cause said diarrhea. I firmly believe the used black condom Poppy munched on this week is the reason she has the runs.

Thanks to my dog, people in my neighbourhood greet me. They stop me on the sidewalk to have a natter. No longer am I just one of a million nameless irrelevant humans buzzing around Edmonton. I am a dog owner.

I do not know these people's names. Yet Poppy and I have a whole black book of canine pals. There's Keesha, the frisky shiba inu, and Arrow, the well-fed beagle. There's Cooper, the yapping wiener dog, Buddha, the bouncy mutt. There's huffing and puffing Otto, who according to his school-aged owner, is "a bit crazy because he thinks he's invisible." And Pebbles. And Oreo. And Spanky.

And let me say, it has been some time since a child has come running over to me. Until this week, when a little girl made a beeline my way.

"Hello," I said, squatting down to the child's height as she reached out and tentatively stroked Poppy.

"My dog died," the girl told me matter-of-factly. "He was 11."

Chatting with the child, who was perhaps four, I learned that Hercules, her mini schnauzer, went to doggie heaven last Friday.

"He was a legend in the neighbourhood," the child's mom relayed to me as her grieving daughter gently embraced my pet.

Adding Poppy to my life has, unlike the world of Wendy and Lucy, un-muted the world around me. Why did I wait so long to get a dog? I might have connected with this strange dog culture earlier. I might have gotten to know my neighbours sooner. I might even have met the legendary Hercules.

ewithey@thejournal.canwest.com