I’m at the dog park with Buster, my joint custody pooch, trying to explain what joint custody poochdom means to the cute brunette with the words “Juicy” stenciled across her ass, when a black Mercedes suddenly comes screeching into the parking lot.

A man in a hooded sweatshirt jumps out. He runs up to a parked white car, pulls out an automatic pistol, and fires several shots into it.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

The dogs in the park go wild. A German Shepherd jumps the fence and runs away. I can’t see any movement in the white car. It appears to be empty. The gunman lowers his pistol, turns around, and starts walking towards us.

“How annoying,” I say.

“God,” Juicy says. “That was like, so loud.”

“People hear gunshots they often think its fireworks,”I say. “That sounded like gunfire.”

“My ears hurt,” Juicy says.

“That’s the second time they’ve done it since I’ve been here.”

The assassin pulls back his hood revealing a shock of adolescent blonde hair. A middle aged man comes over and takes the gun out of his hand. The kid pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear and lights it up. A skateboardish looking type guy walks up to him and they exchange high fives. The German Shepherd that jumped the fence trots over to the catering truck looking for a handout.

“Well that dog didn’t go far,” Juicy says laughing.

I look down at my feet. Buster’s sitting next to me, tail wagging, looking completely unfazed by automatic weapon fire.

“Good dog,” I say. “You’re not afraid of a little gun battle, are you?”

Buster does not reply.

“He’s so calm,” Juicy says.

“He’s brave like his owner,” I reply.

“You know they’re making a movie,” Juicy scoffs. “He doesn’t.”

“You’d think Buster’s a hunting dog the way he was acting,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Hunting dogs are trained not to freak when they hear guns going off,” I explain. “If the dog’s afraid of the sound they say he’s gun shy.”

“He could never be a hunting dog,” Juicy says, looking at Buster. “He’s so little.”

“Don’t tell him that. He thinks he’s a pit bull.”

Juicy laughs. Her little dog, a Chihuahua, trembles nervously in her arms. I know Chihuahuas shake but this one looks like its stroking out.

“Do you know what kind of movie they’re filming?” Juicy asks.

“Looks like a teenage mafia movie,” I reply.

The girl and I watch as the cameraman and director anxiously review the footage on a monitor. The director, obviously displeased, signals for another take.

“Well,” Juicy says, “I better get Wiggles home. I don’t think he can take anymore shooting.”

“Nice meeting you,” I say, telling the girl my name. “Maybe next time we won’t be dodging bullets.”

The girl laughs, tells me her name and walks away. Buster and I watch her go. So do all the guys on the film crew.

“Buster,” I say, softly. “Somehow ‘Juicy’ isn’t the word.”

I look down at Buster. He’s transfixed by all the lights, camera, and action.

I guess there’s no business like show business.