Detective Dawgleash: Leave No Bone Unturned

Safiya (Saffy) Jefferson Bullough-Stone
(With apologies to P.D. James)

Prolog: White Dogs Can't Jump

I come from a medical family and was expected from puppyhood to go to veterinary school. My dream was otherwise, it was to play pro ball.

I wanted to shoot hoops but the school coach, a black lab, insisted : "…white dogs can't jump." I could too jump, I'm a Jack Russell! But the coach had political connections (word in the schoolyard was that he was doing the Assistant Dean, a "standard" and exceedingly boring black poodle) and managed to keep me off the team. I also excelled at soccer and practiced for hours each day, 7 days a week. On the weekends I played kids from Ecole Françoise and Steiner in Central Park and won more games than I lost. All the hard work paid off and in 1998 I was All Dog Soccer Champion.

My parents weren't supportive. They kept harping on college and graduate school. I finally capitulated and did what they wanted.

But I wasn't a happy dog.

I knew in my heart that white dogs can too jump -and kick, and dodge, and smack a ball right into the net. But the pressure was too strong and off to college and veterinary school I went, whining and barking the whole way.

Jacks are a pretty intelligent breed and I was expected to become a successful academic. Teach perhaps. Practice, probably not. When it came to the actual physical doing of veterinary medicine I was all paws. No matter, my dad managed a career in academia with far less ability than I had.

But then, in my last year of canine college, tragedy struck. My dad who heretofore been idiosyncratic to a fault, but not totally out of his mind, slide down the basement stairs to his death. He was alone in the Virginia house when it happened and the stairs had been thickly coated with bacon grease. Experts called his death an "unintentional" suicide. Apparently dad suffered from multiple personalities and when one of his selfs decided to kill another of his selfs with bacon grease all the selfs died in the process.* To make matters even worse, within the year his only sister, my aunt Glynda, died a horrible death after inadvertently licking some Botox-laced envelopes she'd found in dad's New York City apartment. Apparently, the envelopes were left over from an earlier, failed "murder" attempt.

So mom and I were alone. Veterinary college would have to wait. I applied to the New York's prestigious Police Dog Academy, which was free, and got in. A course in forensic pathology was offered at the Animal Medical Center a few blocks from home. I took it. Dad had been friends with the Chief Pathologist there and she put in a good word for me. Things seemed to be working out very well. In less than two years I was a full fledged member of New York's Finest and assigned to the Murder Investigation Unit.

Life takes some strange twists and turns, but I was happy in my new career and one promotion followed another. All was going well. In no time at all in seemed, I'd become the respected Detective Dawgleash.

Book One
The Dogs, Their People and Park
Thursday 25 November Wednesday 1 December

1.1

Dawgleash still lived with her mom in a modest apartment in midtown Manhattan. Neither was there very much and the arrangement suited them both. As Dawgleash left home that morning, her morning off in fact, she was alone; that too was fortuitous. She cut through the driveway of the building next door to avoid First Avenue. Dawgleash hated First Avenue, it was too busy for a small Jack Russell to navigate safely without a human companion.

As she turned the corner, Dawgleash saw Barkley Stanhope glancing right to left with that air of mingled anxiety and hope typical of a dog anxious to get somewhere. Barkley spotted Dawgleash almost immediately and pulled toward her, nearly knocking his diminutive human into the curb.

Barkley, another Jack Russell, but one with far more fur and shorter legs than Dawgleash, was perpetually good humored. And he never seemed to age. Indeed, Barkley looked exactly the same now as when Dawgleash met him at least seven years earlier -no gray around the snout at all. It was difficult to think that Barkley would ever die or even become seriously ill. That would reverse the natural order of things. He gave humans and dogs alike the comforting illusion that fate was kind. As always Barkley was dressed with endearing eccentricity, his stout little body encased in a colorful cashmere sweater and leash in a contrasting plaid. Barkley was the only dog Dawgleash knew who actually enjoyed dressing up.

"Windsor, how wonderful to see you. I've been out with my mistress for almost an hour brunching at the Paris Restaurant, the outdoor garden of course. Now we're going to spend some time in the 51st Street Dog Park catching up on the neighborhood gossip. Why not join us? You know the Dog Park of course?"

"I've heard about it but never visited. My human and I always go to Central Park on our days off."

"But you should, it's a fascinating place. Small but comprehensive. They have lots of tennis balls and a small dog pool which is just lovely and refreshing in the summer."

"Another time, perhaps."

"You'll never manage another time. But now I've caught you, it's fate."

And with a nod to his human, Barkley got Dawgleash under leash and on her way to the 51st Street Dog Park.

Barkley's relationship with his human was so well established that that few now bothered to wonder at its incongruity. Physically they were quite different. Barkley was plump and short with inquisitive bright eyes and moved as quickly as a dancer. Millicent, was thin and small, pale-skinned and flat-chested. She wore her faded, graying blonde hair in a severe bun and rarely ever dressed in anything other than black or gray. Barkley was the brightest thing in her possession. In fact, some thought of him as her flamboyant alter ego.

Millicent was a fiction editor at a big publishing firm and Barkley often accompanied her to the office where he behaved with grace and dignity. She was a superb cook and, from the looks of him, Barkley enjoyed her cooking immensely. Many of their friends whose overburdened lives precluded all but the necessary pleasures somehow found the time to take afternoon tea in the comfortable back garden of Millicent's Beekman Place brownstone. There they feasted on bite-size cucumber sandwiches and homemade fruit tarts brought in by an elderly maid who could have stepped straight out of an Edwardian drama. Barkley sat all the time with his pointy little nose up in the air delicately accepting the tidbits guests would drop in his mouth. It was an idyllic life for a little dog.

Dawgleash thought that spending a lazy afternoon with the Stanhopes would be unduly self-indulgent. But she couldn't find a good excuse for refusing to go to the Dog Park. However, she would not be able to stay long. "Don't worry dear dog. We'll be just fine on our own and it's our pleasure to have you for as long as we can." And off they went.

Barkley paused and looked at Dawgleash intensely. "you're looking a bit under the fur dear girl. Is everything all right?"

"Millicent said only yesterday that we never see you. You're too busy solving murders." "It must be absolutely fascinating sniffing around hideous crimes for obscure clues."

"Real-life murders are not like detective fiction. They're much more commonplace and, forgive me Barkley, a little vulgar," said Dawgleash, wondering if Millicent was editing a murder mystery under Barkley's watchful eye.

Barkley prattled on happily while Dawgleash gave his attention to the street. The 51st Street park was clearly marked and down a steep flight of stairs almost at the East River. It was dedicated to Peter Detmold, a neighborhood activist who was killed years ago, allegedly by the landlords he was fighting. The neighborhood was ultimately saved but the villains never caught.

Down the stairs they went. "Here we are," barked Barkley happily. "Welcome to the 51st Street Dog Park."

1.2

Fat Phoebe looked at Dawgleash. Dawgleash saw a sallow, rather heavy drink bloated face. Phoebe's mouth was small and her lips thin above a chin which belied her apparent age. Surely Phoebe could not be much above forty, but her chin and neck had the sagging fleshiness of old age. Although she smiled at Dawgleash, it was slightly more than a relaxing of her mouth, giving a look that was both wary and sinister. She was the queen, no one had better challenge that authority.

They moved away. Barkley said, "She's an efficient woman who makes sure the plastic poop bag bin is always filled, but I wish she knew where to stop. And those Yorkies of hers, they have no breeding whatsoever. Right out of the pound."

Barkley went around the corner of the run and Dawgleash followed, aware that Fat Phoebe was watching as if uncertain whether they were safe to be left unescorted. Fortunately an Alsatian came in just then and Phoebe, horrified, turned her attention to berating the owner for having such an obscenely large dog. He, in turn, remarked on the size of her buttocks which were far larger than any dog he could ever own.

When Barkley and Dawgleash looked back Phoebe was slamming the poor fellow over the head with a plastic dog throw.

They reached the farthermost end of the dogs' park, a muddy puddle adjacent to, but very securely fenced off from, the Rockefeller's garden next door. The contrast was startling. On one side a typically grimy dog run; on the other, only inches away, manicured grounds dotted here and there with important sculpture. The garden was part of the neighborhood's most celebrated building, 450 East 52nd Street that had, in earlier years, housed the likes of Greta Garbo.

From behind they could hear the sound of raised voices, coming from Phoebe no doubt and her latest victim. The dialogue was suddenly cut off and a man came hurriedly towards them, hesitating briefly when he saw Dawgleash and Barkley. He gave them a nod of acknowledgement, turned around and made for the exit, grabbing the Alsatian as he went. In the Alsatian's mouth they could see the remains of a Yorkie, the rest of whom was scattered throughout the front of the Dog Park. Phoebe was in a state of course.

Millicent grabbed Barkley and Dawgleash and hurried to the gate. They got out just as the police arrived, a sergeant nodded at Dawgleash respectfully as he went in. The police considered the dog run's visitors as inadequately controlled barbarians and patrolled only when under order to do so. The sergeant couldn't help but wonder why Detective Dawgleash was there and with such a strangely dressed companion.

1.3

The mansion's former owners, the Korean Government, housed its UN consulate there for years. Without love, the once elegant mansion had fallen to pieces. There was considerable neighborhood speculation on whether or not Ruffean would have the money, taste; and, most of all, patience to restore the mansion to its former grandeur. But the entire neighborhood rallied behind him as he tried.

The Beekman Place Association, one of the most exclusive neighborhood groups in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in all of Manhattan, guard their small turf with savage vigilance. And they watched with horror as one of their most distinguished houses fell into disrepair, becoming increasingly decrepit with each passing year. So whatever his faults might be, Ruffean's neighbors on Beekman Place considered him a blessing.

A large dog in a large house in the middle of a large city is a very useful animal to have. Ruffean went to Germany to find just the right dog and found puppy Sarah. They took a boat home and by the time it docked Sarah and Ruffean were in perfect synchrony. Sarah quickly made herself at home in the mansion, taking her place on the back terrace and menacing anyone who looked as if they were up to no good. Sarah was so skilled at her job that the neighborhood association eventually fired the ineffectual security guard they'd been paying to sleep in his car, hopefully giving the illusion of safety. Sarah was the real thing and cost them absolutely nothing.

1.4

She'd already set out her ingredients: hazelnuts, blanched almonds, glacé cherries, mixed peel, a block of butter, sugar, cream and a large bar of the best dark chocolate she could buy (from Faucheon in fact). Ruffean washed his hands and began working next to her, she could see he was comfortable in the kitchen.

As they chopped, Millicent felt an agreeable tingling of the spirit that she supposed was happiness. By the time others in the Beekman Place Association arrived, the florentines were ready, tea made and the bond between Ruffean and Millicent secure.

The talk immediately turned to Ruffean's recent encounter with the dog walker Phoebe in the local Dog Park. The park was in their neighborhood but under the direction of the Turtle Bay Association whose members declined any responsibility for it whatsoever. It was anarchy they said. "Quite beyond them."

But the Beekman Place Association made a big donation for its upkeep which gave them some authority over the park and what went on there. And fat Phoebe had been a problem before, as had a few of the other dog walkers who brought pack after pack of dogs into the park, intimidating anyone else who wanted to enjoy it. But of all the dog walkers, Phoebe was the most disagreeable. Not only did she have the dogs she was paid to walk, but her own Yorkies often came along as well.

Ruffean told Association members that Phoebe had ordered him to take Sarah out. "Too big." He refused and she began hitting him with some sort of plastic stick. As the blows fell her Yorkies joined in, biting Ruffean about the ankles. Sarah, of course, would not stand for that at all and grabbed one of the little dogs hanging onto Ruffean's pant leg, shaking it into a coma. The little dog came apart in her mouth. Phoebe began a high-pitched scream and flecks of foam formed on her lips. She seemed to be having some sort of fit. Ruffean thought it best to take Sarah home before any more damage was done.

Fortunately, others had seen the entire incident and explained what happened to the police. Ruffean and Sarah were exonerated. "Simply self defense," said one of the officers.

Millicent, of course, had testified on Ruffean's behalf later that day. And she was certain Windsor Dawgleash had been questioned in private as well, adding her bark to the body of evidence.

"Was it possible to keep some of the more aggressive dog walkers out of the park and away from their neighborhood?" It might be best to discuss the most appropriate course of action with the local police. Retaliation was a possibility and they certainly didn't want any unpleasantness. And unpleasantness there could very well be.

1.5

The time of the meeting, four in the afternoon the very next day, was arranged to reflect the urgency of the situation as well as to suit Millicent and Rachael, both of whom worked during the week. They were to meet at Millicent's house in the library on the first floor, as they usually did on the rare occasions when the Beekman Place and Turtle Bay Associations had business in common. The room's rectangular central table and fixed lights under parchment shades made it the perfect place for such a meeting.

Tea and small sandwiches made of dill, hard boiled eggs, white onions and smoked salmon were served by Millicent's elderly maid. This was followed by a nice wine, fresh fruit and spiced biscuits made with butter, delicately crisp and baked to the palest brown.

Rachael was accompanied by the Turtle Bay Association's Secretary and three members who expressed an interest in the Dog Park's fate. Millicent's group included the President of the Board of 455 East 51st Street, the building abutting the North End of the park; the President of One Beekman Place, which overlooked the South End of the park as well as a walkway that many of the dogs and their walkers used to enter and exit the park. A few other interested members of the association also attended.

The committee members took their places at the table, those from Beekman Place on one side and Turtle Bay on the other. They waited while Millicent opened her briefcase, took out some papers and adjusted her spectacles. She said, "Thank you for coming. I've collected and photocopied some documents about the dog run and provided each of you a small pad and pen for note taking."

"As most of you undoubtedly know, the section of Peter Detmold park now cordoned off as a dog run was set up as an experiment in the 1980s. It was never intended to be a permanent part of the park unless it met all the standards of acceptability imposed by the neighborhoods responsible for its care. It now appears that the dog run does not meet those standards."

Rachael fixed her eyes on the classics resting side by side in the fitted bookcase which ran floor to ceiling opposite. Has Millicent, she wondered, read all those books? Her guess was that she had. Millicent grew up in this house after all, as had her father and grandfather before her. The Stanhopes were an old and respected family.

"What we have to decide, " said Rachael, "… is how we deal with the closure. It's time for the dog run to close. No one wants to manage it and managing it needs. It's a blight on the neighborhood, attracting all the wrong sorts. Our own people and dogs are afraid to go in."

There was a short silence. Then the Board President of 455 East 51st Street, Peter Jacob Hartig III, a mild mannered small man with impeccable manners, said the noise had become intolerable. "The walkers bring in four to five dogs apiece every hour or so and then sit on the benches and gossip. The dogs are not controlled in any way, there's constant barking. And it's dirty, these people don't live here and they don't clean up. Sometimes in the heat of summer we can't even open the windows for the smell."

"What's more," said a Turtle Bay member with two small children, "…dogs that are too aggressive to be allowed in the dog run itself are let off leash in the rest of the park, a danger to passersby."'

Millicent's voice was calm. "I think that a decision to close, although ultimately likely, is premature. We should see if there's any remedy to the park's problems and get backing from the neighborhood in general before we just close the run. Let's schedule a public hearing at the 17th Precinct Council Meeting. There's one next week. I'll call the Community Affairs Officer, Detective John Botuky and see if we can get on the agenda."

1.6

The cancer had returned. This time, he knew it was the end of him. Although this was only Hartig's personal prognosis, it was one he accepted with surprisingly little fear. Hartig did have one regret; he needed more time to finish his book on the history of the Beekman area in New York City from its beginnings to the present. It was a history in which the Hartig family held a prominent place.

Hartig wasn't a professional historian and expected that those who were would take issue with his effort. But the book would certainly be noticed. Over the years he'd known and interviewed an interesting variety of Beekman Place residents. These personal testimonies were skillfully interspersed with the history of the place and his views, although not altogether original, did sometimes verge on the maverick. Hartig considered this book the only justification for his life.

But he needed more time to finish it and that was completely out of Hartig's control. The tumor would kill him in its own time, it didn't care a fig about his book. With luck he could live a little longer. In the end though, the tumor would win. Nothing he could do, nothing the doctors could do: not a good mental attitude; courage; faith; chemotherapy; immunotherapy; or even a sudden epiphanous belief in some almighty deity could alter its inevitable victory. There would be no posthumous reference to "a brave battle" for Hartig. He hadn't the will for it and the tumor was already too entrenched.

That very morning his very able oncologist had broken the news that the cancer had metastasized. Its rogue daughter cells were migrating throughout his body. The doctor had devised a list of other treatment options and Hartig pretended to listen to them. But he didn't want to waste any of the precious time that was left, he'd rather use it something useful. However, to give his own prognosis with its complete conviction of failure would be bad manners. He felt a certain amount of pity for a doctor who lost most if not all of his patients. His oncologist had spent so much time coming up with alternative treatments that Hartig thought he should give a little illusion of hope, just to be polite.

He left Memorial Hospital through its York Avenue doors and crossed the street to admire the Rockefeller University gardens. Hartig continued South on York Avenue and under the 59th Street bridge where an "any street" New York grayness was transformed into the rosy elegance of Sutton Place. It was as if one went through the rabbit hole and came out the other end into wonderland. But Hartig wasn't concentrating on the scenery, he was mentally summing up his life with detached wonder. By the time Hartig came to 53rd Street and the end of Sutton Place, it became clear that his little less than sixty years, which until recently seemed so monumentally important, had left no legacy.

Hartig was the only son of a prosperous New York lawyer. His mother, who adored him, was fussy and very conventional. As was expected, Hartig went to his father's old schools, Choate and Yale. He finished up at Columbia law and even had a short career in the State Department. But Hartig never rose above the unexceptional and eventually started his own law practice, specializing in international patents. The field was boring enough to suit him well.

Hartig had as little ambition in love as he did in his career. He did have a brief marriage to a desperate debutante who'd panicked when she realized that her chances of finding a socially acceptable husband were diminishing with age. She soon realized her mistake and decided spinsterhood was preferable to a lifetime with Hartig.

Since his cancer was first diagnosed a year or so ago, Hartig dissociated himself even more than before from the expectations of life. He'd always paid for the relief of sex. He wanted sex, as everything else, with a minimal expenditure of time and emotion. Hartig never seemed to find enjoyment in any of life's carnal pleasures, just relief.

He was left with just one unfinished business, the completion of his book. But for that, Hartig needed quiet which he couldn't have unless the Dog Park closed.

He stood by his window lazily looking down on the Dog Park thinking about its closure and how to get that accomplished as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. Hartig was suddenly startled by someone staring straight up at his window; it was Fat Phoebe and her thin lips were turned down in a malevolent sneer. As he watched, quite unseen it appeared, a short stocky man walked over and stood beside her. She pointed up at Hartig's window and whispered something into the man's ear. They nodded as if in agreement and walked out together, conspiratorially, through the double doors of the dog run and into the main body of the park.

1.7

Sarah was all ears, literally as well as figuratively; she hadn't as yet reached her full growth. Sarah and Barkley told an abbreviated version of what happened at the neighborhood meeting to Diesel Relton, a Yorkie from the right side of the tracks. Diesel said he knew Phoebe's dogs would come to a bad end. Hopefully it wouldn't be a poor reflection on all of his breed. "Certainly not," said Barkley, who was very fond of Diesel.

Bentley Marino, a wise old Sheepdog, was shocked by the news. He was getting too long in the tooth to go down to the park but he and his human had just gone through a long and bitter fight to get three ill mannered Pit Bulls leashed and under control. Their human had unwisely let them roam the neighborhood terrorizing smaller dogs. Now there was this. He wished for the good old days which he remembered as well ordered and peaceful, even though they weren't.

Henry Kissenger's Black Lab found out about the impending closure from a Golden Retriever named Penny. "It is so unfair," he told the Golden. My own human has been personally responsible for thousands of deaths and we're just fine. A dog goes and does something bad and the whole world falls apart. "I'll never understand humans."

Lucy Wilson was doing Pas de Bourées in the far corner of the run when she heard her Dog Park might close. Lucy, a Beagle whose human was a retired ballet star, had been coming to the park since she was a puppy. Lucy was shocked. All her friends were here. Where would they meet now? The dog run was the only place she could sing and dance without being told to quiet down.

1.8

Once every month or so there's a meeting of the 17th Precinct Community Council where grievances are aired under the watchful eye of law enforcement. The meetings are conducted by Jay Earwig and this one, held on the first day of December, was packed. Notices of a possible Dog Park closure had been hastily posted throughout the neighborhood and interested parties urged to attend.

Both Turtle Bay and the Beekman Place Association were well represented. The subject was a controversial one in a city where the dogs out number people by at least two to one. The press was there in force.

Jay Earwig said, "The request for this meeting, an emergency request, was brought to us less than a week ago. But it is of such importance to the community that we've decided to move the agenda originally scheduled for tonight to next month so that we can discuss the problems surrounding the 51st Street Dog Park. We deem it a matter of some urgency. Thus, I'd like to introduce Millicent Stanhope, Chair of the Detmold Park Committee for the Beekman Place Association, without further ado."

"It has become common knowledge throughout the community," said Millicent, "…that there have been numerous problems in the local dog park during the past year. Indeed, the number of problems seem to be escalating. The police have been involved in at least three incidents of aggression over the past few months, the most recent one was last week when one of our residents was beaten on the head by a dog walker with a plastic stick. Furthermore, the park has become dirty and malodorous, especially in the summer. It's noisy as well. These things are causing distress to people living in the buildings close by. Moreover, the park is supposed to be open to all; however, the area's residents have become too afraid to go in because some of the more aggressive dogs are allowed to run loose in pedestrian areas. We've had a joint meeting with the Turtle Bay Association and are seriously considering closure. But before doing that, we'd like to hear from other neighborhood residents. If there is any way to keep the park safe, clean and quiet we will certainly reconsider."

Jay Earwig said, "Now I'm going to open the meeting to those in the audience. Could you please come up to the microphones at the front of the hall and speak clearly. Thank you."

There was a rush to the front. The first speaker called was PJ Hartig. "I'm the President of the Board of 455 East 51st Street and represent the tenants in this matter. Many of our windows, including my own, look down onto the park. There are only supposed to be three dogs brought in by any one person at any one time. But many people who use the park bring packs of dogs, five and six an hour, all day long. They sit and gossip among themselves while the dogs run wild. Of course they don't clean up as they should nor do they keep the dogs quiet. We can't hear ourselves think for the barking and howling. And when it gets warm outside, we can't open our windows for the smell. We've put up signs and asked for cooperation, but we've been laughed at and even threatened. Furthermore, the park isn't supposed to open until 7AM in the morning and it should close at dusk. But many dogs and their walkers simply sneak through the adjacent garage whenever they wish, circumventing the locked park gates. We are often awakened by loudly barking dogs at five in the morning. It's too much. Even our tenants who have dogs think it's time to close the run. Not all, but too many of the people who use it are irresponsible. We don't want it at our doorstep any longer."

The next speaker was a notorious dog walker, a burly maladjusted man who had been banned from every dog park in the neighborhood by the police. He had two Alsatians and three pit bulls of his own and walked around the neighborhood surrounded by seven or eight large, ferocious-looking dogs at a time. "Dogs have a right in this neighborhood, as much right as any of you pompous rich people," he screamed. "Let me read a letter from a well known dog psychologist who works at the Animal Medical Center," and he pulled out a 10-page document lauding the therapeutic effect of dogs and began reading. After three pages of techno babble, Jay Earwig intervened gently and called on the next speaker. The man screamed, "I am Joseph Pinesky, I live on 52nd Street and I have a right to talk as long as I want!" The police thought otherwise and escorted Pinesky away from the podium as photographers gathered around taking his picture.

A heavily tattooed middle-aged man spoke next. He'd been taking his dogs to the park for years and never noticed any problem. "Could this be," he said, "…some sort of plot by people in Beekman Place to keep those of us who live in the adjacent neighborhood off their block and out of their park?"

"Absolutely not," retorted Millicent. "People from all over are welcome, as long as they behave in a responsible manner."

A young woman told the audience that her two year old daughter had been bitten by an unleashed dog a few months before. "My friends and I are afraid to bring our children into the park now."

An elderly man said he'd been knocked over and hospitalized by three large unleashed animals chasing one another in the main body of the park. One resident brought his dog and showed everyone a large ugly scar made, he said, by a vicious animal let loose in the run by an irresponsible dog walker. Then he turned and pointed to a woman sitting in the audience. "It was the dog walker sitting over there. She stood by doing absolutely nothing as the Elk Hound mix in her charge savaged my elderly Beagle." He was pointing at Fat Phoebe, the same woman who had attacked Ruffean with the plastic stick. Everyone turned and stared. Phoebe stood up and walked angrily out of the auditorium. People began to clap.

Jay Earwig brought the meeting to order. "The conclusion we must draw is that while most people in the neighborhood like dogs, there are too many irresponsible dog owners and walkers using what is, after all, a community park. The goings on in Peter Detmold Park have become a nuisance at best and a danger too much of the time. It is unreasonable to ask the police for an assigned guard, we simply haven't got the man -and woman, of course-power to spare. It seems likely, therefore, that the Peter Detmold Dog Park will have to close; at least until we can figure out a way to make it safe and pleasurable for all. People and their dogs will be welcome, but only if they are leashed to one another at all times. We will call upon the Parks Department Police to help us enforce this rule."

There was cheering and a little booing.

Detective Botuky rose and announced, "The gate to the dog run will be locked by police order next Monday, December 6th. It will be kept locked until the Parks Department dismantles the fence, removes the shed and cleans and replants the area for human use."

PJ Hartig smiled to himself. "The Dog Park would close at last. What a relief to be able to finish my book in peace."