Leash Cramps Style on Sunday Walk

Our streak of dynamite Molly on a leash on a Sunday stroll? Perish the thought and all who would vote for a dog leash by-law in Rockport. That was our first reaction of a glorious Sunday in March, to a proposed edict by the selectmen.

But even if we do say it ourselves, the wife and I, long of old Rockport, have down through the years been sticklers for keeping in step with old Johnny Law, even to driving on the right side of the road. So we chose to see how a Sunday stroll could be with the boxer at the end of a leather strap in a thickly settled part of the town. We chose King Street, Granite Street end, and on this reverent day of Palms.

To be perfectly frank, the old man looked like Billy-be-damned holding onto the leather with Molly panting, gasping, and straining at the other end. We could hear Molly growling in dog lingo, "S'help me, I'll chew this rawhide to bits unless that potbellied jackanapes releases me. I've got a lot of yards to nose around, a lot of bushy-tails to tree. Wot happened to honest old Abe?"

Near the town pump, from which a Rockport native will say you must drink to become a full fledged townie, we saw a neighbor who made a remark, "As long as you live on King Street, you'll never die, " said he.

The three of us hay-footed straw-footed down Holbrook Court, that horseshoe way. We halted at the house of Rapp, Bob and Delores. Inasmuch as no spit-spit feline lolled by their fireside, we offed the leash and let Molly loose. Through the windows we saw pussywillows intertwined in gnarled trees, terraced steps of railroad ties and gravel down to the old Mill Pond. In the windows were bottles of all sizes and descriptions from many artisans.

Out again in the Springish air, we tried our 5-pound boxer on the leash and all of a sudden we awoke to the realization that in this, civilized folk expect to bottle up an intelligent animal who breathes fire. We pictured ourselves tethered on the wrong end of that leash, led like an unthinking idiot through the byways of the town. We could see her friends nosing up to us to say hello and how are you.

And all of a sudden, we caught the other end of the picture. We, stuffed and plus-sixtieth, grounded on the leash, bobtail furiously wagging, puffing away as we caught at myriads of smells, trapped in a canine's world that condemned us to leashed servitude. Our answer! As good old Patrick Henry once said in Rebel land. Give me liberty or give me death. Before us Clarks will leash our Molly, we'll leash ourselves and let our four-footer lead us through Rockport's streets. To that, say we Amen.

J.P.C., Jr.

NOTE: Today's Clark, however, does leash her feisty mini dachshund, not just to keep in step with old Johnny Law, but to keep the dashing dachsie safe!