The Dogs of Littlefield by Suzanne Berne

into the microphone and then described being knocked down by a Weimaraner. “They are out of control when off their leashes. They’re frightening. I’m sorry about those poor dogs being killed, but I think it’s their owners’ fault.”
    More booing from the hall. The chief alderman banged his coffee mug against the table for order. Mrs. Beale watched the woman stumble back to her seat, a crimson spot high on each cheekbone.
    Next came a burly, bearded young man wearing an old green MIT sweatshirt that appeared to be covered with dog hair. What he thought was at fault were the mean-spirited signs posted in the park. “Put a muzzle on whoever’s behind those signs,” he mumbled, scratching his beard. Several people shouted, “Hear, hear.” Mrs. Beale stiffened.
    A spiky-haired woman in a potato-colored jacket approached the microphone. “Do children always come when they’re called?” Her silver nose ring glinted under the fluorescent lights. “If you want dogs leashed, why not leash children, too?”
    Stepping back from the microphone, she plunged a hand into the satchel slung over her shoulder and brought up a handful of yellow buttons, which she passed around; they read, KIDS ARE FOR PEOPLE WHO CAN’T HAVE DOGS.
    Absurd, Mrs. Beale muttered to herself, shocked to see how many people reached for the buttons. It was getting very warm in the meeting hall; she loosened the knot of her Liberty scarf.
    She had begun to lose track of the speakers when a small, knobby-faced man with a dark goatee introduced himself as Mr. Eric Dibler. He was wearing a teal-blue suit and had a strange look to him, both seedy and superior; he reminded her of a hillbilly preacher. In a mechanical voice, Mr. Dibler explained that he had a master’s degree in environmental science and had conducted a study of dog waste in the park. After exhaustive calculations, he estimated that three tons of canine “sewage” was being deposited there every year based on the number of dogs per capita in Littlefield, at the moment roughly point six. He spoke of “contaminants.” He referred to dogs as “producers.” He frequently wet his lips with his tongue, his mechanical voice becoming strangely mesmerizing, so that Mrs. Beale found herself both embarrassed and enthralled, waiting to hear what he would say next.
    At last he stopped speaking and gave a motoric twitch that shook his entire body before moving aside for the next speaker. Then he changed his mind and pitched back toward the microphone.
    â€œAnd for your information,” he shrieked, almost knocking the microphone out of its stand, “KRAP is PARK spelled backwards.”
    â€œAll right, all right.” The chief alderman waggled his black eyebrows. “Thank you very much. Next.”
    Mrs. Beale was really beginning to feel hot standing in the aisle under the fluorescent lights of the hall. Her feet hurt. She should never have worn her black shoes with the Cuban heels, but she had wanted to dress respectably for this evening. A shame that no one in line was well mannered enough to recognize that an elderly person should be allowed to move up to the front.
    A woman testified that she would like to see a leash law for cats, to keep them from killing birds in her yard. Then it was George’s turn. Like humans, he said, dogs needed a chance once in a while to be free. The pursuit of happiness should be a dog’s right, too. George described how he had raised his dog, Feldman, from a puppy and how Feldman used to greet him whenever he came home, his whole body wriggling with joy. Happy to wait for him in the car, sitting behind the steering wheel. Happy to sit on the couch to watch TV. Happy just to be alive. That was what it was like to have a dog. They reminded you of the basic joy of being alive, which, God knows, was easy to forget.
    â€œDogs are dying out there,” he said. “For no