It was a beautiful day for a dog walk in my third space.

The sun warmed my bones, the chubby bumblebees buzzed, and neither dog had yet sniffed out and scarfed up a desiccated, half-gnawed, insect-ridden chicken drumstick casually tossed in a gutter, or something laced with weed, which has happened. Don’t worry, the little dude was OK after a trip to the emergency clinic when I couldn’t figure out why his head kept lolling around, and his eyes wouldn’t focus. Nobody could ferret out a diagnosis until they caught a whiff of his potent urine and wondered if he’d just blown his whole paycheck at a dispensary.

But here we were, on our walkabout in my downtown neighborhood, and what I have come to see as a sort of third space, a term and idea coined by American sociologist Ray Oldenburg in his 1989 book, “The Great Good Place.” He defined a third place as a spot that’s not your work or your home, and argued that these places, like coffee shops, parks, libraries, community centers, or cafes, are essential for a healthy democracy and community. These are places where you run into the same people, make small or big talk, and feel more connected to your community in a relaxed, low-cost, or free setting.

Over the last couple of years, the idea of third places has popped up with more regularity in my online trawls, as though we’re all collectively revisiting our need for more social connection in this post-pandemic era.

Once upon a time, in a pre-pandemic world, the yoga studio where I taught and practiced most days of the week served as my third space, though I’d never heard of the idea back then. I’d see the same faces, exchange anecdotes, create enough pleasant interactions to make me feel like a human, and move along. But that all went by the wayside when COVID-19 crushed us, and I didn’t return to the studio.

Since then, I too, have sometimes wished for a spot where, like George on the old TV sitcom “Cheers,” everybody knew my name, beverage of choice, and was curious about my latest escapades. I didn’t realize I had my own third place of sorts, until recently, while strolling my hood.

I considered all the neighbors and their dogs I’ve met through the years, and reflected on the small talk and resulting relationships of varying intensities.

Without our daily walks, I would have never met Hawthorne, the scruffy Jack Russell and Westie mix, and his owner, whose name escapes me because I can always remember the dog’s name, but not their human’s name. But I remember that he works from home, attended a wedding at Bishop Castle, and planted a bunch of vegetables right before a recent freeze.

And I would never have been able to reach into his shopping cart at King Soopers, where Hawthorne was joyriding, and scratch his big old belly until he rolled over onto his side, providing me full access. Of course, I had to reintroduce myself to his owner and get consent before I did so, as he didn’t recognize me without my dogs.

And I would never have met my dog Gus’s best little friend, Frankie, and his English owner, an ordained Buddhist minister who volunteered at a women’s correctional facility and taught meditation. She lived four houses down and became a friend, and Frankie became the occasional houseguest. They’ve sadly relocated to Denver, and every time we walk by their former front door, Gus pulls up and stares, waiting for his tiny terrier friend to come bouncing out. It’s enough to break your heart.

And I would certainly have never met Joey, a few blocks over, and his large, exuberant doodle of some sort named Jazzy Boy, as well as the tiny, introverted Thor. Joey, a retired chef who helps care for his mom and has a Better Homes & Gardens-looking yard, is an extroverted, kind soul who always inquires after my life. Jazzy would surely do the same if he could talk. Thor, not so much.

We wouldn’t have met Wagner a few weeks ago, a remarkably polite young pup, or Brutus, the exuberant Bernese Mountain Dog, who used to stick his big paws and pink tongue under the fence to taste-test Gus. And then there was Nash, our goofy next-door neighbor dog, a Labrador who also loved to stick his tongue under the fence and lap up the dribbling urine Gus sprayed on our side of the wooden slats, which never failed to both gross me out and make me laugh.

I’ve found a nice community in the world right outside my front door, where many of the dog owners are familiar with each other and their dogs. We wave from our yards, ask how the four-leggeds are doing, and stop to let them do some booty sniffing while we do our own human sniffing. There’s always common ground for conversation: What are their names, how old, what breed? Do you know a good vet, good groomer, good pet sitter?

And from there, relationships can bloom, maybe even romantic ones. Like with the man several blocks away, whose house is on one of our regular walking routes, and who has a mini schnauzer, just like my Sam. He once suggested I meet him for pickleball on some Saturday. Maybe the five of us will live happily ever after. That’s a lot of booty sniffing.