15 June 2008
 
Queen of the Dogs 

Anastasia is the Queen of the dogs, and naturally, her subjects include all the dog people of Big Pink. She is a stately lady with silver hair and an erect regal carriage. I include myself as one of her subjects, since the former marital dog comes to visit when the ex needs the time off, and I have a partial induction into the mysteries.
 
She is a kind and gracious monarch, but there is trouble in her flock, and it is coming to a head this week. The long-standing issue of Daisy and her Mad Max must be resolved.
 
Ms Hamilton told me all about it down on the pool deck when the clouds cleared for a couple hours on Saturday. She was outraged, and you will understand why when I get to it.
 
Big Pink is a dog-friendly place, which is one of those decisions made a long time ago when the Ohio real estate people swept in to scoop up the Buckingham real estate empire.
 
Frances, the reigning queen, was confined in the nursing home, and times were passing the sprawling garden apartment complex by, just like the new wide concrete cut of Route 50 that drew the busy commuters out of the District to the new suburbs to the west, in development-friendly Fairfax County.
 
Big Pink and the Hyde Park stood on the diagonal corners of the blocks of 1800 rental units done in the vaguely colonial manner, two modern towers that were intended to change the way Arlington lived just as certainly as the garden apartments had done a quarter century before.
 
Hyde Park was closer to the bright lights of Ballston, and there were great hopes for the location. Big Pink had been a bold design from the hand of architect Vlastimil Koubek, a concrete and pink brick statement of the Continental style.
 
The location at the southwestern corner of the Buckingham property was oriented toward the new wide highway, and the Defense Intelligence Agency, which had set up shop in the Arlington Hall complex across the road.
 
Koubek was charged with fixing the issues that had become apparent with the occupancy of the eight stories of Big Pink. Hyde Park was going to be twelve soaring stories, and there would be improved amenities, and no common laundry areas.
 
Surveys indicated that residents preferred having their washers and dryers in the comfort and privacy of their own apartments, and who can blame them? It is as deploy personal as the choice of cat or dog.
 
Frances commissioned the first of what the visionaries thought would be mirror-image towers on the northern end of the property, ripping down a block of the garden apartments at the same time that the community pool was paved over to push North Henderson Street across Glebe Road, and pierce Buckingham’s self-imposed bubble.
 
That was during the discussion about the future of Parkington, the strip mall on the east side of Glebe road, and the coming of the Orange Line of the Metro. The County had a dream, and a master plan, and it all came together in 1980, after nearly two decades of slow decline, just in time for Frances to take ill, and for the real estate market to fall apart.
 
Big Pink was converted to condominium, as was the Hyde Park, in order to spin off the more desirable free-standing properties and pay down the debt incurred by the Ohioans. The Buckeyes then started to work east from Big Pink and flip the garden apartments into condos as well, but that process only got a couple blocks before panic set in.
 
That was the moment that the Dog People dug in and showed their fangs. The animals were part of the family, and they were here to stay as long as their owners had breath. This is a matter of family, and hence of passion.
 
The thing about Big Pink is that Frances had been generous in the allocation of the last vacant land in her parcel, and consequently, the lush landscape gives a around the parking lot conveys a sense of openness. It was quite appealing, regardless of the placement of the washing machines, due to the ability of the dogs to emerge from the tower and begin to sniff at the vegetation almost immediately.
 
Washington has always been a city of transients, since neither the Congress nor anyone in their right mind would stay here willingly in the summer. It was common for people to take rooms in hotels for years at a time, as the requirement for their presence in the city was needed. Frances herself lived at the Shoreham Hotel on the Rock Creek Park in the District for nearly forty years.
 
For renters and other transients, dog ownership was problematic, and always subject to the whim of management, which may, or may not, care for barking yipping creatures.
 
With the conversion to condo, people assumed ownership of their units, and a whole structure of local government was put in place to replace the edicts of Frances and her management company.
 
One of the first big decisions was about the dogs. Big Pink was deemed to be “pet friendly,” and the bylaws stipulate that residents may have a dog.
 
Uncle Bill has scrutinized the by-laws with the same attention that constitutional scholars give to the Federalist Papers. He justifies his presentation to the Board framed in the context of Original Intent, and is a strict constructionalist.
 
There are those that say that the bylaws, like the Constitution, should be a living document, and flexible to however you feel on any particular morning. But it is a slippery slope. Two dogs, well, fine. But then what? Packs of them in the units? Monitor Lizards or horses next?
 
Uncle Bill says “One dog means one dog.”
 
Most of the dog people are gentle, and so are their animals, with whom they have a symbiotic relationship. It is a whole cultural milieu.
 
Anastasia holds court with her white Airedale in the common area at the back of the building, which actually is property belonging to the Arlington Oaks. There has been a long simmering war between the buildings. The little County has strict rules about animals, since there is little green space to let them run, and the pooping and occasional attack can be irritating to other citizens.
 
Like I said, the dog people, myself included, keep our furry buddies walked, pooped and happy without much trouble, and they are always something to talk about with the other canine owners.
 
I had barely taken off my shirt at the pool when Ms Hamilton told me the story.  There were going to be consequences. She was agitated, and eager to share. I slapped some SPF 15 on my shoulders as she sat up on the yellow couchette.
 
“Daisy’s dog Max did it again.”
 
I shook my head in disbelief. I had been to the Association meeting to make a testimonial in support of the candidacy of our pal Jiggs, the old sailor and pension fund manager. I had been forced, out of politeness, to sit through the rest of the formulaic democracy in which residents are permitted five minutes to address the Board on topics of their choosing.
 
Sometimes it is about the inadequacy of the windows, or the failing pipes, or space aliens. That is the nature of democracy.
 
I told the Board what a swell guy Jiggs was, and then had to listen to Daisy launch a vigorous and emotional account of her compliance with the wishes of the Board regarding the deplorable conduct of Max.
 
If we had been in the Pentagon, it would have been a PowerPoint presentation, including photos of the muzzle that Daisy insisted Max wears now. There was an update on the regrettable five weeks in which she had no carpet on her floors, and the clicking of Max’s claws on the parquet floors drove her downstairs neighbor nearly to distraction. And the fact that the unfortunate weekend her daughter had visited with the insane Spaniel would never be repeated under any circumstances.
 
It was a rambling defense of the indefensible, since everyone knew that what this was about was Max, and his propensity to get off the leash and attack other dogs. He had bushwhacked Ms. Hamilton’s fine friend Rocco from behind and bloodied him badly, and that was not the worst.
 
Max had lunged at Devon’s little daughter Deshah in the lobby. She is the cutest little kid in the whole world, all laughing dark eyes and just able to walk.
 
Max wanted her for breakfast.
 
The Board is slow to anger, and generally magnanimous unless forced to act. They will normally take the easy way out, if possible, just like the professional politicians downtown.
 
But Tuesday things had come unglued. Ms s Hamilton was walking Rocco on the leash around the back of the building, and there was Max, no muzzle, just beyond the driveway at the Culpepper Gardens end of the parking lot.
 
Ms Hamilton was outraged, and said so.
 
Daisy went high-order and screamed back that Max was off Big Pink property, as though the County enjoyed vicious dogs more than we do, and Ms Hamilton hurried Rocco on, rounding the corner to open up some distance.
 
“So you won’t believe what happened next,” said Ms Hamilton, adjusting her suit. “The next thing I know Max is off the leash altogether and charging us!”
 
Max is a big Golden, and unusual in his ferocity. It occurred to me that he has been driven insane by abuse, since the breed is normally pretty mellow.
 
“Rocco got behind me, and I kicked Max in the muzzle. I wish I could have connected better.” I thought about how my adrenalin would have shot up with a snarling canine circling and lunging at me. “All I could do was keep a foot up, ready to kick him again.”
 
“So what happened?”
 
“He finally got tired of trying to get Rocco and Daisy was trying to get him, but of course she couldn’t. Finally he took off toward Rte. 50 to stay away from Daisy.”
 
“Too bad he didn’t make it and play in traffic,” I said.  “What did you do?”
 
“I went straight to the office to report it. That is when I found out that Devon had walking behind us and seen the whole thing. No muzzle, and off the leash. It was unbelievable. The President lives two doors down from me, and he was there and he said that was it. He has called a special meeting of the Board, and they are going to act.”
 
“Whew. Daisy bought her unit at the top of the market. There is no way she can sell and get out from under it.”
 
“Serves her right.”
 
I had the thick book of by-laws out anyway, trying to figure out what it was possible to do to the idiot on the 7th floor, and looked it up later. In the construct of a condominium association, if residents cannot resolve a situation between themselves, there may be recourse through the Board. While no substitute for a police matter, this was a clear and present case in which the Board should act. Daisy is stuck, and there is no PowerPoint presentation in the world that is going to save her.
 
“Is it an open meeting?” I asked, thinking it would be pretty entertaining. “Will Anastasia be there to represent the interests of her subjects?”
 
“No,” said Ms Hamilton. “He said it would be closed.”
 
“That is probably the right thing. It is going to be emotional, when they tell Daisy it is doggy Dachau for Max.”
 
“It is about time. Do you know the most amazing thing? Rocco and I were leaving the office after talking to the Mayor. Daisy was outside the back door, putting the muzzle on Max. She was going to report me for verbally assaulting her.”
 
I shook my head. “They say after a while people start to look like their dogs, but I think it is more than that. I think the animals start to act like their owners.”
 
“You bet,” said Ms Hamilton, lying back on her couchette to catch the sun just right. “Nuts.”
 
Communal living has its challenges. I put the tube of sunscreen back in the pool bag, and wondered if I could swim for a full hour before the clouds came in.
 
Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com