Ralph tossed the stick end-over-end. Frodo retrieved it more reluctantly each time, adding saliva. “Damn.” Ralph rubbed his sore elbow. A wet stick is difficult to direct accurately, never mind jerk from a dog’s jaws. Frodo seemed to drool excessively that Sunday in the park, as Ralph continued erratically throwing. He would be 37 next week. He would not celebrate his birthday with Francine, who suggested they see other people. Still, he had the Labrador retriever.

The park had walkways, a fountain, and grass more brown than green. Beneath a maple tree, Sam and Sylvia Plotkin sat on ‘their bench’. They thought of it is theirs, although the concrete structure with wooden planks had been donated to the municipal authority by Mrs. H. L. Marbury, heir to the Marbury costume jewelery fortune. The Marbury money came from cheap paste. Sam Plotkin, for the past 43 years, had worked in tile and floor covering. Sylvia was a retired court stenographer.

Ralph aimed for the fountain in the middle of the park, but the slippery stick, following an erratic, parabolic path, landed dangerously close to the carpet salesman.
“You should take greater care and at least know what you’re doing,” shouted Sylvia in Ralph’s direction as Frodo panted toward the stick. Having transcribed many legal proceedings, she talked formally. “Or realize the consequences of your actions.”
On the next toss, it came even closer to the plaque screwed to the top strut of the bench that read, ‘Gift of Mrs. H. L. Marbury’.

Was there much difference between a relief pitcher for a losing team–say, the Red Sox–and Ralph, who trudged slowly toward the bench? Frodo shied away from the irritated couple. The dog went from sitting to lying and drooling.
In the maple tree branch above, a jay looked down on the scene of potential conflict. The sun produced photons, as it had for the last several billion years. The entire scene was visible only because of electromagnetic radiation. Otherwise, everyone and everything would have been dark, isolated, and non-existent.
The bird thought about relieving itself on Sam Plotkin. It knew a tile and floor covering salesman when it saw one. Sam wore a straw hat as protection from high-energy photons. Consequently, the bird had not yet defecated. It zeroed in on unprotected heads.

“Are you trying to kill us?” protested Sylvia.
“Or perhaps you just have a terrible arm and shouldn’t be throwing objects. Where I work, we don’t let just anyone throw tiles around,” added Sam, as Ralph groped for the saliva-coated stick.
“It’s wet,” explained Ralph.
“That dog’s head should be wrapped in a towel.” Sylvia glared at the animal. “At least its jaws.”
Frodo did little more than scratch his right ear with his hind leg.
At that very moment, Mrs. Marbury, in her gated mansion, on the second floor, scratched her own ear with her middle finger. She never wore costume jewelry, preferring sapphires. She put down a solicitation letter on her desk.
“If that stick of yours hits me,” shuddered Sam, “it could do as much damage as a floor tile.” He had hardwood in mind.

Maple is not the hardest of woods. Sunday, not the hardest of days. Consider a Monday or Tuesday in a carpet and floor covering store. Or Thursday in municipal court for a stenographer. Dogs have it easy every day, so Frodo simply watched as Ralph grabbed the stick.
“I was only trying to give the dog some exercise,” he offered.
Sylvia scowled like a municipal judge. “As I said, you should give it a towel, not a stick.”

Mrs. Marbury rejected the idea of donating another bench, as proposed to her by one of the city councilmen. She knew that another bench would lead to requests for others. If that kept up, she couldn’t purchase a sapphire she had in mind.

Another bench? Another couple? The chances of someone being clobbered by a stick doubled, especially with Ralph throwing.
Frodo looked up at the bird. The jay looked at Frodo. Sylvia looked from Ralph to Sam, as Ralph looked from Sam to her. Sam looked to Frodo, then Ralph, who massaging his sore arm, looked ruefully at the stick. These were only a few of the possible combinations of looks and stares in the small park at that moment, as the bird shat on Ralph’s head.