On June 4, the North Columbia Heights Civic Association held a meeting regarding the park at 11th and Monroe. All were welcome, and all were heard, as evidenced by this item in the very comprehensive minutes: “Anonymous resident (self-described drunk who hangs out in the park): people in the park aren’t that bad, come on into the park, we welcome kids, we welcome the church.”–Brian Reed

Lance, aka lancefromdc, is pissed. Someone stole his dog last night. The dog is very distinctive, with part of its ear missing. And this is actually the second time someone has literally yanked his dog from his front yard at 16th and S Streets NW.

Concerned, I fired off an e-mail to Lance, who this morning posted on the Adams Morgan listserv under the heading “Missing Dog!”

Then I clicked on the linked video. True, Lance did ID his dog as an “ornamental dog.” But I thought that was just some floofy dog-person nomenclature for a tiny pup you dress up in outfits and carry around in your man purse. But no, Lance’s dog is lawn art. If you see it, let him know, but the Humane Society can stand down.

A very occasional series about escaped cats.

Poor Hugo. He was a street cat rescued from West Virginia and carted to D.C., only to bounce around to friendly and supportive, but ultimately temporary, foster parents. Then Vikram Chiruvolu, 31, who works at home writing a book about philosophies of physics and information theory, met Hugo, loved Hugo, adopted Hugo.

And then Hugo jumped from his third-floor window off Belmont Street NW, swinging onto a nearby branch and landing on a soft patch of brush below. He left behind his collar, as well as his soft cat bed, his favorite game (an extended fishing pole with a string attached), and one very sad Vikram, who had never had a pet before and had Hugo for only about 10 days. “He’s a terrific cat, really friendly and social. He’s the most puppy-like cat, just loved to play and be around people,” says Chiruvolu.

So Chiruvolu papered Adams Morgan and North Dupont Circle with fliers. His friend and adoption coordinator, Omkar Sawardekar—he fosters pets with the foster-only rescue outfit Homeward Trails—dutifully put lost-cat listings on Craigslist and offered a $100 reward. One fine fellow called and said he had a cat in a box and was going to kill it if he didn’t get 50 bucks. Sawardekar says he called the Humane Society.

The whole experience of losing Hugo has opened a “whole world of strangeness” regarding cats, says Chiruvolu. A woman in his neighborhood—she is like the “Jedi cat lady,” he says—sought him out and asked him if Hugo was a recently neutered male. She has six cats, see, and a garage set up as a playground for strays and she had recently smelled some urine she didn’t recognize.

“She had six cat traps on her front porch and told me how they worked,” says Chiruvolu. They then walked around the neighborhood together and the Jedi cat lady taught Chiruvolu “how to think like a cat. I think I almost got it.” But, alas, they did not find Hugo.

Chiruvolu did see him once, completely freaked out with his hair on end, possibly after a run-in with a fox. Hugo bolted past him and into an alley. This was about a month ago and it’s the last time Chiruvolu saw Hugo. If you’ve seen him, e-mail the info to comm-668928260@craigslist.org.

Sports Illustrated has come into my life. My inlaws got some deal where they could send it to us for half of a penny or something like that, which is about what it’s worth in our household. The only sport we (OK, my husband) follow is hockey and this is pretty much accomplished by actually watching the games. So SI ends up in the recycling, unread, week after week.

Until this week of course! The swimsuit issue is here! The swimsuit issue is here! Only the swimsuit top on the cover? It’s beads. Strategically placed beads. Which my cat finds irresistably yummy. Yes, that’s her, licking the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. If only the magazine was this entertaining the rest of the year…

Last night, I awoke in the darkness to the sound of a low buzzing near my ear. A woman who was temporarily sleeping in my apartment was attempting to reach me by telephone. Though I questioned why she had called me from such close proximity, I answered.

“Hello,” I said.

“I found a mouse,” the woman informed me. As we were both stationed within the apartment, I could hear her voice clearly without the aid of the telephone. Still, we did not abandon the mechanism. “It ran under a pile of clothes,” she added.

Months earlier, my landlord spoke of a similar class of rodents that had invaded his home in search of shelter and food scraps. He informed me that though he had once been pestered by the vermin, he and his housemates had since been able to systematically locate, isolate, and delete the creatures. A housemate explained one particularly cruel game they had played: “All I had to do was corner the mouse into the sink,” she said. “Then, I took hold of the spray faucet and shot the mouse until it had drowned.”

I did not relate this to the woman over the telephone. “What should I do?” she asked me.

Several years ago, while living in the Los Santos province of Panama, I found the helix of my ear caught between the jaws of a large and brazen rat. I had been sleeping soundly at the time–lost in the midst of a strange, hallucinatory dream, the specifics of which I do not recall–when the rat approached, squeaked violently, and bit. After the modest flow of blood from my head confirmed that I was not, in fact, still hallucinating, I located a man outside my domicile for help. The man offered me illicit drugs, an oversized conch shell with which to conceal a gaping, rat-friendly hole in my bedroom wall, and an outdoor hammock as a temporary bed. I accepted two of his offers.

Back in my apartment, I considered the mouse. I had no drugs, nor shells; my sole hammock was folded deep within my closet, out of use during the cool winter months.

“Sleep on the futon,” I suggested to the woman. “I will call my landlord in the morning.”

As we mentioned above in our roundup, people here love to argue over anything. Cleveland Park’s message board popped up a musty one this morning over unleashed dogs. I was all ready to snark on this really lame issue until I read a posting by Deidre Flippen. It is perhaps the most heartfelt toe dip into this issue ever:

“I feel the need to respond to the not too infrequent posts about unleashed dogs. I love dogs they are beautiful, fun, playful and just make you feel real good. But since a young school age child many years ago, I have always been afraid of dogs. I lived in NE DC and at that time “German Sheppards” were the rage. They were big and beautiful and most often unleashed when walked by owners. Moreover, even when in a yard with an enclosed fence they prowled and barked scaring me terribly when “walking” to and from school. Even today when I try to do my exercise walks, as a much older person, down and up Connecitcut Ave (sometimes off the avenue), I walk carefully and with caution by homes. And when I see or hear a dog barking, those old fears come back.

Dogs are lovely, and like even cats, must be managed, by their owners who must be responsible dog or cat owners. Let me just say that I was even a reluctant cat owner of 12 years now. I used to be afraid of Cats too. But a friend talked me into saving a stray kitty back then and I regret nary a day. She has all her sharp claws and teeth but is a mostly sweet indoor cat.
Nevertheless, when guests come over I secure her in her own space happily or monitor her with others. Anyone with Cats with claws understands. Such care has to be taken with dogs too both in the home and outside the home. Even on my own block when leaving for work in the back folks are out walking their dogs unleashed. I usually stop and make some kind of visual contact with the owner, let them know I’m there. The expectation is that if their dog is not under control they need to do something. It’s very, very uncomfortable for me. I appreciate the idea of allowing their beloved pets a little natural freedom to walk unleashed on their own steam but it can be potentially harmful or even dangerous to others (and their pets leashed). My experience is that even the sweetest dogs if encountered the wrong way will at first
act to protect their owner. And dog owners who act unresponsibly should understand and follow DC’s rules to protect our community.

So its early in the morning and I’m rambling. But I just want to say that people with dogs unleashed need to be way more sensitive to people who encounter their unleashed beloved dogs. The best thing, leash them when walking, next if you see folks, get them leashed right away and under your control. Just understand that our pets are our responsibility as a
community.

There are so many scary things out there. It seems to me that fear of pets should not be one of them in our community.”

An MPD officer shot and killed a D.C. family’s dog on Christmas Eve, Fox 5 is reporting. Stories about pets who are shot to death seemingly write themselves. Still, Fox 5 has outdone itself by managing to recover possibly the most sympathetic accompanying photograph ever:

This shooting victim isn’t just adorable doggy; he’s an adorably patriotic doggy. An internal investigation into the incident is pending: The officer claims Scooby lunged, while the dog’s owner says Scooby was sitting still. Now, I’m no police investigator, but the only photograph of Scooby I’ve ever seen is of him sitting still, lovin’ the U.S. of A. I rest my case.

This Week: How To Lose a Beloved Pet and Almost Get Stabbed By Not Having Enough Cash To Tip the Pizza Guy

Tiki the cat is an indoor cat, or was before Tiki’s owners in Alexandria let in the pizzaman on Sunday night. Realizing too late they did not have enough cash to tip him, Tiki’s mom ran to an ATM, leaving the pizzaman holding the door ajar. Tiki’s owners then proceeded to dispatch with the pizzaman. They enjoyed their pizza and went to bed. But in the morning, only Peaches, their younger cat, arrived on their pillow to get wake them. Where was Tiki—Tiks, if you will—their beloved, gray cat who makes a small chirping noise instead of meowing (”erp, eep, burp, ark, etc.”)?

Several sightings have been recorded. Jackson Thomson, who, along with his fiancee, brought Tiki home to their former apartment in Michigan two years ago, found out his neighbors in Orleans Village saw Tiki in the building at 8:30 p.m., 10, and 12:30 a.m. One guy stumbled home after the bars closed around 2 and claimed to make out the visage of Tiki before passing out. “He’s, like, my boy,” says Thomson of Tiki.

So Thomson got serious. And then he (almost) got mugged. Upon realizing Tiki was gone, Thomson distributed some 375 fliers around his neighborhood. But then he figured something out: His fliers were in English. Many of his neighbors speak Spanish. So he had a friend print up a Spanish flier and he and his fiancee went about handing them out Wednesday night on and around Southland Avenue. One man approached him and “I went into my spiel,” Thomson says. “I told him there was a reward—mucho dinero—and he said, ‘Give me.’” So Thomson gave him a flier, which wasn’t exactly what the man was looking for. He grabbed Thomson by the coat and said, “Give me all your papers,” meaning money, and then he pulled out some sort of knife, maybe a Leatherman.

Thomson took off, the would-be mugger took off after him. Thomson tried to flag down cars on busy Southland. “Of course, this being Washington, no cars stopped,” he says. “Still, I figured I’d rather get hit by a car than stabbed.” His fiancee had been talking about Tiki to a large man originally from Africa. They heard Thomson yelling and ran toward him. Then Thomson and his new African friend turned and ran after the mugger. They didn’t catch him and, evenutally, the cops came. They picked up a minor whom Thomson says is “99 percent the guy,” but since he’s not 100-percent sure, the cops held the kid, then let him go.

Meanwhile, Tiki is still out there. Have you seen Tiki? If so, e-mail Thomson at savetiki [at] gmail.com.

A young couple showed up at the Cleveland Park Petco on Sept. 9 with an unusual request: They wanted information on snake adoption. When the clerk clarified that Petco was a store and only exchanged snakes for cash or credit, the couple went into the aisles and came back with scaly new pets in cardboard cases. Perhaps the price tag was a shocker, because they soon had a change of heart and put the snakes back in their cages. Or at least, that’s what they pretended to do, according to Andy Solberg, a D.C. police department commander.

As the couple walked out the front door, the clerk noticed an unlikely wiggle in the young man’s pants. The clerk gave chase and stopped the thief, who surrendered a $50 king snake from each pocket. Police caught up with the couple two blocks away, discovering an $80 ball python nestled in the woman’s knickers. The young man, 21, and his female accomplice, 28, were arrested.

Solberg says this is the first snake thievery he’s heard of since an incident about 15 years ago, when a man stole a snake, stuffed it in a sack, took a bus across the Duke Ellington bridge, and got bit. That hot snake had poisonous venom, and the thief nearly died.

City Desk readers solve the problems of District folk

The problem of the day is pinched from a woman named Laura who posted her canine struggle on the First District listserv. The crisis doesn’t compare with violent crime or auto theft, she writes, but “at what point does a barking dog legally become a nuisance?”

Laura says a small dog left in a yard in her neighborhood howls day and night, driving neighbors out of their heads.

“I’m wondering what my neighbors and I can do to keep what’s left of our sanity,” Laura writes. A good question. Any solutions for Laura?

1. After reading the Washington Post story today about the 23 Virginia Tech students hospitalized for carbon monoxide poisoning, I’m beginning to wonder. Every university has its share of stupid and tragic. My alma mater—Penn State—had a school shooting, an incident where a student was killed by a falling tree branch, and a massive riot one summer. And we all know about the University of Maryland’s troubles. But, shit, Virginia Tech just can’t get a break. Is the campus cursed?
2. If you cat-sit, you are supposed to change the feline’s water and replenish its food bowl. A good sport will keep the litter box clean. I’ve done all those things for Blakey. But then the cat—which is huge, almost panther-huge—seems to want some sort of attention. So I sit on the couch and pat at the cat’s ears and head for a while. But petting a cat is kind of boring. So how long do you have to play with your friend’s cat as part of your cat-sitting duties? And do you even have to bother?
3. During halftime of the Redskins second exhibition game, Joe Theismann was featured “interviewing” a pre-injured Jason Campbell. The interview was stultifying in the usual Theismann way. The former Skins quarterback talked more than enough about himself. He also came to the interview dressed in gym shorts. And let’s just say the way the interview was shot, I kept thinking we were going to end up seeing Theismann’s balls. Thankfully, the viewers were spared such sights. Instead, we got a good look at his fucked-up leg. So my question: Why are TV producers still putting Theismann on the air?

Before the world focused on Michael Vick’s alleged grotesqueries—look for “rape stand” to be added to future editions of Webster’s thanks to this case—he was among the most sought-after pitchmen in all of sports. Perhaps the coolest product he pimped came from inventor Jay Spiegel of Mount Vernon. Spiegel concocted the five-panel football, which has an extra piece of pigskin and, therefore, one more seam than the traditional four-panel ball. While trying to get various football sanctioning bodies to approve the use of his brainchild, Spiegel licensed the ball to Rawlings, which in turn got Vick to endorse it a few years ago.

Vick remains the five-panel ball’s only celebrity pusher.

But Vick’s value as an endorser is now, as Elvis Costello would say, less than zero. It’s bad enough when PETA and the ASPCA come after you, but when Al Sharpton gets on your case, as Don Imus found out, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. Sharpton and Russell Simmons sent a letter to Vick’s benefactors, including Rawlings calling for everybody to take a stand against dogfighting and those who participate in the bloodsport.

“Stand up for what is right, and speak out against what is wrong,” Sharpton et al. wrote.

Via e-mail, Spiegel says Vick did a fine job of hawking his invention, which at its peak in 2005 was used by “about 600″ high schools across the USA, and that “as a dog lover, I hope the charges are false.”

Even before the dog-fighting mess became public, Vick’s relationship with Rawlings was set to end this year. Spiegel says he wishes Rawlings worked harder to get the ball approved for use by the NCAA, and he is now trying to find another company to take over the marketing of the five-panel, which he still insists is “fundamentally superior to 4-panel footballs.”

In May I started seeing the owner of an intelligent, well-trained Basset mix. The dog and I seemed to have an agreement from the beginning: I would stay out of his way, and he would stay out of mine. Faithful to my end of the bargain, I didn’t cover my girlfriend in kisses when she was throwing a chew toy across the room. Faithful to his end, the dog didn’t force his way between us in bed.

This was how it went, until one night, when all got tense. My girlfriend and I were doing one of those things in which dogs do not generally participate. As I lay afterward in a pleasant exhaustion, she said: “Aw, man. Your shoes are fucked.” Actually, they were masticated. Her dog had chewed the left heel and the right tongue off of my leather Red Wing loafers, which were sent by my grandmother and had become the sole possession on which I always relied.

The dog and I have made amends. I didn’t know—still don’t know—why jealousy took my shoes in its jaws. But I knew I couldn’t go around in those mangled excuses for loafers. So I bought a cheap pair of Mossimo slip-ons. One day I was trying to learn what sort of shoes they were, and a friend thought he had it. “Those are boat shoes,” he said.

“Really?”

“Totally.”

Since he attended Georgetown and should know, I took his opinion. My buddies were trying to get a houseboat at that time, and yes, I could imagine myself on deck, leaning into the dusk wind that sprang off the Potomac.

Then my girlfriend expressed a more sober thought. “Those are prison shoes,” she said.

“No, they’re not!”

But if she said so, they probably were. I walked through the city ashamed, afraid that an inspector was tracking my movements, or that some derelict would remember that I was his comrade in chains. The restlessness continued through this week, when I determined not to play Jean Valjean any longer: I bought new black-and-white Chucks in the middle of the workday.

Good shoes should bring good fortune. For two days, I enjoyed more esteem from my friends, more success in the office, more confidence in bed. But this morning, I’m sad to report, some low-minded cur left a mess in my path, and some snotty owner didn’t scoop it. I tried napkins, I tore paper towels, I covered the sole in heavy-duty cleaner and scrubbed it down hard with a dish pad. The stench remains.

Dear dogs, what did I ever do to you? Why do you have it out for my shoes?