Emergency Inmates Committee (IC) meeting. Called by Gonzo the Treasurer. Unnecessarily, according to Mr. OCD's suffering expression.
Gonzo is just back from the neighbourhood association meeting with inflammatory news. A new community group wants to install dog runs in our little park on the next block. FEC is but one community component of the whole association ball of wax. What?! The neighbourdamhood association is ambivalent about supporting this proposal?
Gonzo is not ambivalent. "We must fight, stand up and be counted; the incursive boomer bourgeois have fired shots over our bow; we must convince the association to shoot down this farcical idea," he froths.
Who knew Gonzo had it in him?
The tirade continues. We have a dog park at the far other end of the street. We all know the little park in question is so little it can accommodate about one family at a time—ever since families invaded—or maybe three office workers munching on take-away lunches. How dare such newcomers disrupt the placid status quo? Dog runs?! Mr. OCD is testing major and minor keys for an upcoming hum.
The overwhelming arrogance of the idea (and trying to explain it) has exhausted Gonzo's energy. He sinks into his chair, depleted. Bella and Ophelia spontaneously clap at the delivery. Other twitchings and murmurs indicate the whole IC crew is awake at the same time. Even George who has an inbred, nasty miniature schnauzer, stamps his boots in approval.
Oops. Then Ophelia remembers she herself has a ridiculous lap dog. "But .. but .. wouldn't that be good? I wouldn't have to walk Trixie so far to the dog park." Luther's lip curls at this. He's known to try surreptitiously squashing Trixie when closing the elevator door. Luanna pipes up that smart people have cats that don't need walking and runs. Performance Subcommittee Assistant says, "Dogs rule!" "Well, your dog is the mangiest example," smirks Thomas the Brave.
Quivering lines are being drawn between our very own dog people and very own cat people. Not to exclude an element of the ALL-pet-averse. "Parks are for PEOPLE, throw all the yappy, pooping creatures under a bus!" shouts Luther. Luanna and Thomas pump their fists in the air. Bella whimpers; but she has wised up and brought her
medicine in a plastic water bottle. Ms Etoile stares at it hungrily.
"Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves" is humming from the Chair.
The secretary looks close to tears.
Reviving under noisy cross-examination, Gonzo reveals the vexatious plan was hatched by the newly-inhabited glass Tower down the street. Aha. The perspective begins to shift with accompanied rumblings: Why should they get special privilege? We were here first. They say dogs are stakeholders in the park ... "WTF?!" croaks Ms Etoile. Gonzo goes to town painting vivid pictures of dinks* with galloping Irish wolfhounds and ferocious snarling Bouviers; crazy ladies pushing over-dressed dogs in doll carriages; frail victims skidding on piles of un-bagged excrement—every threatening image he can think of.
Thus is the potential explosion over FEC pet preferences diverted in face of the common enemy; no question, the IC and FEC can unite against the thin edge of the wedge from the Tower. Mr. OCD gratefully subsides to mere fingernail tapping — calling for
volunteers to address the next association meeting. Several people
dive under the table looking for lost pencils (Thomas, George,
Performance Subcommittee Assistant). Sighs of resignation (Ophelia).
Sounds of a sleeping relapse (Luther).
Gonzo's our man by default. We think he'll nail it.
Another feckless day in the life ...