Doggie heaven.

Bernal Hill Park.

You were just fired.

On the way home, the wife called to say she had left you.

It was polling day and a one percenter, smashed out of his gourd, broadsided your new car on the way home, explaining he was celebrating the new world order.

Exiting through the passenger door a smell of charred lumber announced that your home had burned down while Human Resources was busy rendering you resourceless.

You found that little silver box from the mantlepiece in the ruins but the spouse had made off with both the contents and the gym instructor. So much for the grocery money.

But your dog was there, waiting. His nose was cold. His tail was wagging. His body electric with excitement. And he just did not care because you are everything to him. As he jumped up and gave you a wet one on the cheek, you realized that nothing much else really mattered.

One near infallible test of a man is a dog. If a man does not like dogs there’s a pretty solid chance you do not want to know him. Now the obverse is not necessarily true, but at least this test will allow you to weed out half the stinkers. And if the dog is a pit bull, anything with a German name (Rottweiler, Weimaraner, Doberman, German Shepherd, Schnauzer, Dachshund, and so on – in other words anything which relishes killing), the owner is best avoided. There’s a reason people own homicidal dogs and it’s the same one that suggests you avoid both dog and owner.

On the other hand, French dogs, Spanish dogs, English dogs, Scottish dogs, American dogs and even Irish dogs when sober, are the bees’ knees, but I would avoid the Welsh. Corgis, for example, are clearly a genetic experiment gone seriously wrong and their owners’ sanity must be questioned. I mean, how can you love a dog whose feet have been amputated at the elbow, so to speak, has a jonesing for leeks and who gives waddling a bad name?

For SF Bay area dogs, the closest you get to heaven on this earth is likely Bernal Hill Park in Bernal Heights, south-west of the city’s center. Not only does the park allow free roaming dogs, the views are to die for and the only odd thing is that you will be looked at askance should you come here dogless. From a couple of locations you can gaze over the city and enjoy the Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate, all in one panorama.

It’s a steep climb up to the park, some 350 feet, and the area is not well served by public transport, so it’s best to drive to get there. Ugh! But the visit does not disappoint. A warm pullover is recommended as the wind can whip around something chronic, but it’s well worth the trip. Seemingly uniquely for San Francisco, parking is almost abundant, though navigating the Rolls up and down the tight streets was no fun. Ah!, the scent of Connolly hide.

Romping about. 50mm.

On guard. 50mm.

Retrieving. This pup had an uncanny ability to clamber up the rocks and find the ball. 135mm.

Shaggy pup. This chap had a personality as warm as a summer’s day. 135mm.

Alert pup. This pointer-retriever had the charm of Claudette Colbert, with looks to match. 135mm at f/3.5.

A bit of love; an old family friend gets a snack. 135mm.

So if any or all of the misfortunes mentioned in the opening to this piece should befall you, or if you just want a longer life, make your way to Bernal Hill Park with your dog, and you will find life is OK after all. And if you do not have a dog, you will find the urge to fix that oversight quite insurmountable after your visit.

All on the Nikon D700 using ‘all metal era’ Nikkor 24, 50 and 135mm MF lenses, aged 35 years or more.