Central Park Paws

Now I have nothing against dogs. As a child I cohabited with several and they all proved to be loyal, steadfast companions whose entire mission in life was to make me happy (that’s besides eating, sleeping and inappropriate behavior with, well, pretty much anything they could jump on or rub up against, all of which taking up about 95% of their time.) I also have nothing against small dogs, my brother’s family once owned a poodle which, without the embarrassing hairdo, looked like a tiny Phil Donahue and was even more ingratiating. The problem I have is with large men walking tiny dogs on long leashes around the reservoir track. During one recent endorphin fueled confrontation I stopped mid-chug and asked an oblivious lump in an trenchcoat if his dogs (two miniscule longhairs that would have, together, lost a fight to a good sized dust bunny.) could read. He looked at me with brow knitted intensity and replied huh? I then pointed to the lettering on the base of the fence which says “no dogs” and said “Could you help them out?” Of course my scathing sarcasm was utterly wasted, not to mention the fact that the next runner bumped into me and scowled in my direction. After a few more grunts all around I decided to resist the urge to kick the dog, or its owner, and resumed trudging along.