Forsooth, ’twas an immensely sad day for the girls and me, for upon this wet and blustery day, surely a mirror of our sorrow, it has become more than apparent that our knight in plush fleece and khakis, Sir-Walks-A-Lot, and his
band of merry men wooly pack of merry woofers have been banished from the serpentine trails high atop Round Hill and exiled to some far off uncharted marinian land.
The witch hunt, for that is indeed what it is best likened to, began some eleven moons ago when, on a chill, wind-swept, star-studded winter’s night, a group of crotchety concerned towns people presented their case before the stodgy stately town councilmen of our fair hamlet known to many as Tibroningham.
The complaint addressed the walking of great packs of hounds, their attending piles of excrement, and the effect both have on the sensitive local habitat (as happenstance had located a rare and threatened species of orchid adorning one of the many hillsides of Tibroningham, namely, one called ‘Ring’). It was also suggested that public and pooch safety be ensured by the inclusion of several additional insurances.
The gavel sounded. Accusations were made. Some founded. Some fantasized. The great escapegoats were cruelly charged with having recklessly trampled and defecated upon the rare and endangered grasses and blooms that our Mother Nature manages to push up from the scorched brown territorium atop the wild and tousled pate of Gill’s Martin at the crossroad of Round Hill. When I could no longer bear hearing these unfounded allegations, I abruptly rose from my seat and stalked to the podium to attest to what I had witnessed when in the company of at least three of these brave young knights of the Hound-Table.
I spoke of their vast canine knowledge, the fine, upstanding morals they displayed when encountering other travelers upon the dusty trails. I underscored their diligence at scooping up not only their own, but the turds left behind by my fellow citizens’ unattended pups. Indeed, in addition to his requisite tasks, my own exemplary knight oftentimes scoured the land, ridding it of rogue plastics and cans…
Forging forward, I hailed everyone’s exceptional abilities at keeping their canine constituents nearby and under control. To a great many nods of approval, I returned to my seat, satisfied at having said my piece and confident that my words would be taken to heart.
June’s full moon waxed quickly upon us, bringing with it great changes to the land. It shone upon a bold proclamation, penned not by the scribe’s, but by the king’s very own hand:
“Permits are required, specific walking times are set,
“Signs have been posted, so our botanists need not fret.
“Vests must be worn, turds placed in sacks
“Additional insurance? Now, mandatory!
“Lest your neck craves meeting the ax!”
Alas alack, as you may well have deduced from the onset of my sad tail tale, the recounting of how law-abiding these young noblemen are had fallen upon deaf ears. Nonetheless, being the honorable knight that he is, Sir-Walks-A-Lot abided by the new rules for a time, at least until the high cost of additional insurance forced him from our wee kingdom by the sea to the netherlands of this expansive land called Marin.
In closing, it is with great love and affection that I say:
Fare-thee-well Sir Winston, Maid Maggie, Sir Teddy.
Take especially care my fair Lola, Elouise, and Tiger Lily,
You too magnanimous Max, Lord Leo, and of course, Lady Bella…
But most of all Sir Robert,
The most handsomest and friendliest fella.