Illegal Motion

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“Page!”

I look up at a black man who has appeared from behind his house which is halfway between mine and Pinewood Elementary on the corner. He shakes his head as if he has had about all of me he can tolerate. I think I know why.

“Woogie! Come on, damn it!” I yell. Like a marble statue, my dog is frozen in the classic posture of an animal doing his business in a neighbor’s yard. Emerging at the east end of this castrated mixture of beagle and melting pot is a soft quarter pounder that would make a St.

Bernard bark with pride.

“We were trying to make the schoolyard,” I explain. As persistent violators of the leash law at all times, Woogie and I escape detection at this time of day only in the dead of winter. On this gloriously mild mid-October afternoon at six o’clock in the evening there is still plenty of light.

“Over the years your dog has dumped enough fertilizer in my yard,” my neighbor says mildly, “to start a nursery.

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