This is the first installment of Culs de Sac, a new column of hyperoccasional reportage by Mina Tavakoli. “You’re not going to like this, but this bitch is gonna blow, ” said the man, looking downward.  “You should stand back.” Man gave names to things he thought were worthy of a story. The bitch below me was Devon, a Nederlandse Kooikerhondje. Later came Surprise, a border collie. Names around here swung from the gladiatorial (“D’Artagnan,” “Phire”), to the canonical and folksy (“Sparkle,” “Fido”), to Christian (“Steven”). Some of these dogs looked like they could pull covered wagons with their teeth. Others seemed easy to ball up with one hand and pitch over a fence. Most were handsomely groomed, well-insured, attempting penetration. But all dogs here, in all their combinatory combinations of rank, file, breed, and name, vesseled someone else’s plot.  Devon’s master gazed at his dog’s act of lèse-majesté.…