Poop Police

On mornings I don’t go to the YMCA, we (or I) take our dog to the so-called elitist country-club for a long hike around the park.
Which means yesterday (Thursday, April 16, 2009) I took the dog to the park alone, since Linda was working all day at the post-office.
We hiked all around the park, up the long East Pond Trail along the eastern shore of the East Pond, atop the two dam dikes that comprise the East and West Pond dams, and then back down the long West Pond Trail along the western shore of the West Pond.
It’s about four miles, maybe five, and is somewhat challenging. The ravines are bridged, but the footing is horrible; all roots and muddy sloughs and steep embankments. —I’ve yet to do it without rubbers.
Years ago we (or I) went around twice, but that was with Tracy and Sassy, both of whom could run loose.
Killian reduced me to one lap, since he had to be leashed, and was always pulling.
Scarlett also has to be leashed, and pulls fairly hard.
I keep getting older, so now I am worn out at two-thirds the distance; but can do it.
The footing is so treacherous I’m left with sore calves.
We approach the Boughton Road parking-lot; almost done.
A helicopter cruises loudly overhead. It appears to be the State Police, not the medevac chopper.
We navigate the trail to the parking-lot, and a giant traffic-jam is taking place at the east entrance (there are two).
Rubber burns, and an Ontario County Crown Vic roars west on Boughton Road, full throttle, moaning loudly with induction noise.
I tread gingerly into the parking-lot, and see an Ontario County dippity’s Crown Vic parked randomly.
89 bazilyun cars are zooming in, including a State Police SUV and a Crown Vic, blue lights flashing on its light-bar.
“Uh-ohhhhh,” I think.
My dog is on a leash, and my car has a parking sticker.
“Just a drill,” smiling officer-friendly* says.
And here I thought it might be the official response to my dog defecating atop the West Pond dam.
The state Police helicopter is circling the West Pond.

*Officer-friendly was a surprise. Not the usual scowling thug or converted school bully I usually see. Were it not for his dark uniform and holstered side-arm, I woulda never known he was a cop.

I work out in the exercise gym at the Canandaigua YMCA.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. “Tracy and Sassy” are dogs number two and three; “Killian” was number five, our first rescue dog.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin” as in “ow”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. We are residents of one of those towns, and to use it you have to have a parking-sticker.

“Linda” is my wife of 41+ years. Like me she’s retired, but she works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office. (We live in the rural town of West Bloomfield [in Ontario County] in Western New York. —West Bloomfield is one of the three towns that own Boughton Park.)