Mistaken for the Mob

“It means,” he went on, “that I can’t walk so good anymore. How’m I gonna stay on my feet when a mutt jumps all over me?”

“Obedience classes,” suggested a woman who didn’t look old enough to meet the community’s fifty-five-year minimum-age requirement. “Those are fun. My late husband and I had a wonderful time training our dogs.”

Charlie snorted. “More work. I retired for a reason—I’m tired and old.”

The young-looking senior arched a brow. “No one says you have to own or train a dog, Charlie.”

An uncomfortable silence descended. Then Mitzi gave a smart crack of the gavel against the lectern. “I think we’ve reached an agreement. Cats will be allowed, but dogs won’t. Sorry, Connie.”

The woman who’d suggested the obedience classes stood. “I don’t think anyone’s agreed to anything about the dogs—at least not yet. We need to discuss it some more.”

“Okay,” Charlie ventured. “Let’s talk. I don’t want to step on any when I go for my walks every morning.”

A portly blonde in the front row turned to glare at Charlie. “Everyone must clean up for him or herself,” she said. “It’s only reasonable that those who want dogs take care of it.”

“What’s your plan?” Charlie asked. “Have management hand out official pooper-scoopers with our lease agreements?”

Maryanne swallowed a laugh. She could just envision the scene…a battalion of geriatrics armed with long-handled double shovels and baggies, all leashed to members of a motley crew of canines.

“That would work,” the blonde said.

“Baloney,” Charlie countered.

Mitzi banged again. Her compatriots ignored her and clamored over each other’s comments.

“They shed all over, and then there’s the drool.”

“Petting one’s been proven to reduce blood pressure….”

“They can be rambunctious. That’s dangerous—”

“Seizure dogs are true lifesavers.”

“Leashes can cause accidents….”

“They’d have puppies—”

“They bite!”

“Fleas—”

“When are we going to get to the liver?” Charlie demanded.

Eloise smashed her walker against the metal chair in front of her. The residents turned toward the source of the din, and when they spotted her, fell into a stunned stupor.

“I didn’t think when I moved here my address would be the Tower of Babel,” the slight woman said, her voice distinct and determined. “But this bickering certainly sounds like it.”

Maryanne noticed more than one red face in the group.

“It also strikes me,” Eloise went on, “that a fair amount of selfishness has taken root among us. I want no part of that. The Lord created animals and left them in our trust. He also urged us to do unto others as we would others do unto us. So I’d like to see us show some forbearance in our small community.”

A chair squealed in the back of the room. Clothes rustled to Maryanne’s left. Someone cleared his throat to her far right.

No one ventured a remark.

Eloise stepped her walker forward. “We can determine a safe size for dogs—say about twenty pounds and under. Of course, we’ll enact leash laws. And Connie’s right. The owner must be responsible for the pet’s…ah…production.”

A nervous chuckle began near the side door and soon gathered strength. Before long, everyone was laughing, even Roger and Charlie. Everyone but Mitzi.

Her elevenses deepened and furrows lined her lily-white forehead. She pursed her bright lips and looked ready to stomp and cry at her loss of control—and her lost battle against dogs.

“Silence!” the diminutive chairwoman yelled.

No one listened.

She banged her gavel to no avail, so she banged some more, and banged yet again, this time, however, with a bit too much force. The gavel broke.

“Oooh!” she cried. “Just look what you made me do!”

Her wail penetrated the good-natured chatter. Everyone faced forward, and more than one chuckle had to be smothered.

“Come on, Mitzi,” Maryanne’s father called out. “We’re done. The place has gone to the dogs, and I want to go home.”

“But…but we haven’t discussed the liver,” she said with a shuffle of paper. “Or the steamed spinach. I can’t abide them.”

“Hear, hear,” Charlie cheered.

Roger stood. “Aw, give it up. It’s nap time.”

Mitzi ran her fingers through her bright hair, spiking it into a ridge of exclamation marks. “Oh, and we haven’t even touched on the fountain outside. It’s an absolute disgrace. Who ever’s heard of pink flamingos in Pennsylvania?”

“That’s it!” Stan Wellborn said as he spun his wheelchair toward the rear of the room. “I’m gone. Those flamingos are just about the funniest thing around here. Go rent a sense of humor, Mitzi.”

Maryanne hurried to open the door for him.

“They stay,” he said. “They stay, and they stay pink.”

As they waited for the elevator, Maryanne kept quiet. Behind them, other residents poured out of the common area. Each voiced an opinion. At her side, her dad tapped his fingers on the wheelchair’s control panel, a sure sign of annoyance.

The elevator doors opened. Father and daughter stepped inside. No one else joined them, and the conveyance soon glided upward. Just before they reached the sixth floor, Stan chuckled.

“What did I tell you, Cookie?” he said. “Fireworks, right?”

She gave him a wary look. “Were you just fanning the flames?”

“Nah. Mitzi’s gone too far with her chairwoman thing. Those who want cats should have their cats, and those who want dogs should have them, too. Just don’t mess with my liver and onions, and leave my pink flamingos alone.”

When the elevator stopped, he flashed her a grin and winked. “Welcome to the loony bin, Cookie. And thanks for listening to me. I’m right where I belong.”