Butler Wren and the Dog in the Night

by Anthony Lukas

“Mr. Wren,” said the venerable Judge Hazel Von Bonnet, raising an eloquent eyebrow.

Butler Wren noted the court reporter staring at him and realized he had drifted off for a moment... or two. He pushed himself to his feet. “Yes, your Honor?”

“The court needs to take a short break for a teleconference before you proceed with your cross-examination and presentation of evidence. Would that discommode you?”

Discommode? Her Honor is both multitasking and multi-syllabicing today. “Not at all your Honor.”

“Very well, the court shall be in recess for half an hour,” Judge Von Bonnet pronounced and swept from the bench into the judicial chambers behind it.

Wren’s mind had indeed wandered a bit. He had been pondering if he had entered his Old-Cooter age as he had been idly watching the young plaintiff’s attorney leading his client through her testimony. Both the lawyer and his trendily clad clients were young generation something-or-others, and Wren found them all to be quite irritating.

Wren had been practicing law for almost four decades now. Was his annoyance with the young plaintiffs and their bespoke lawyer due to who they were or because they were so much younger than he? Was he becoming an Old Coot, disdainful of the young and the new just on general Old Coot principles?

Would he soon be seen in public, sporting wrinkled walking shorts, sprouting snow-white legs with knobby knees and tasteless polyester shirts and wander about with his mouth slightly agape as Old Coots do?

Jim Parker, Wren’s client, was of Wren’s vintage. The retired plumbing contractor had lived in his neighborhood for a long time. Parker had said when he and Wren had first met, “I moved in when a regular family could afford to buy here. Now, prices being what they are, only these software and tech folks can afford it. Young with a lot of money, but they haven’t lived much.” Wren liked Parker, he was a salt of the earth kind of guy.

Parker had admitted to being mildly resentful of these late twenty-somethings with enough cash to buy outright the house next door to him, while it had taken him and his wife into their late thirties to save enough for a down payment. Parker had shrugged. “That’s just the way things are nowadays, I suppose. Nothing to be done about it.”

Still, these plaintiffs seemed rather odious. New to Parker’s neighborhood and almost immediately agitating about this and that: appearances of front yards or condition of fences or how people parked their cars. And of dogs barking in the night. Newly wealthy people who fancied they should be able dictate the environment around them.

They had complained to Parker about the condition of his hedge that grew along much of the space between their two properties and of his choice of flowers at the front of their mutual property line. They thought his choice for the color for his house — sage — was inappropriate for the upscale neighborhood. “When the hell has the neighborhood gone ‘upscale’?” Parker had said to Wren.

Wren thought the presentation of evidence would take five minutes or less, but Wren pettily didn’t mind the delay if it inconvenienced the plaintiffs and their counsel in this very minor nuisance case of a barking dog. He sat down again as plaintiff’s lawyer and his two Gen-somethings or other left the court, all babbling on and texting at the same time. His defense consisted of a single witness and one exhibit. Wren smiled at the thought of both.

Precisely 30 minutes later, the venerable Judge Von Bonnet emerged from chambers and ensconced herself upon the judicial throne. “Mr. Wren, are you ready to proceed with the cross-examination of the plaintiff, Ms. Huff?”

During the break, Wren had reviewed his notes of the plaintiff’s direct testimony. Her lengthy testimony of the defendant’s dog’s “yipping” and “yapping” all night, causing immense emotional distress, sleepless nights and reduction in property values. She had testified with mournful countenance and a tear in her voice of the marital disharmony this canine disruption had caused. Wren had wondered how long she had rehearsed in front of a mirror.

Wren’s review had confirmed his memory that all of the plaintiff’s description of the noisome canine had involved “yips” and “yaps” and other such high-pitched and continuing nuisances. Wren had smiled and taken a few more minutes to prepare his questions and his exhibit.

“Your Honor,” said Wren moving to stand behind the podium, “I waive any cross-examination of Ms. Huff and wish to proceed directly to the presentation of our defense.”

Ms. Huff seemed to pout at this, no doubt having relished the chance for more dramatics, thought Wren.

“Indeed?” said Judge Von Bonnet with an inquisitively raised eyebrow. “Very well, Ms. Huff, you may leave the witness stand.” Which Huff did with a mild huff. “And please proceed, Mr. Wren.”

“I call Mr. Nathan Parker to the stand,” said Wren.

Once Parker was duly sworn and seated, Wren asked, “Mr. Parker do you own a dog?”

“I do.”

“Just one dog?”

“Yes.”

Wren looked down and said, “Come on.” He led a dog from behind the podium and into the area in front the clerk and judge.

Judge Von Bonnet leaned forward and peered down, an eyebrow raised expressively. “Mr. Wren, you appear to have brought a basset hound to court.”

“Quite true, your Honor. Her name is Sweetie.”

“I see,” Judge Von Bonnet said and nodded slowly. And Wren knew she knew what was coming, because she owned of a pair of show bassets herself. “Please proceed.”

“Mr. Parker, is Sweetie your dog?”

“Yes.”

Wren looked down at Sweetie, The dog returned his look with the wizened yet wizardly gaze of all bassets. “Sweetie,” said Wren, “speak.”

Sweetie did, her deep baritone bark reverberating off the courtroom walls. She thunder-barked twice more.

“Thank you, Mr. Wren,” said Judge Von Bonnet, raising an eloquent hand to halt Sweetie’s performance. “You have made your point. Clearly Sweetie’s voice cannot be described as anything akin to the ‘yapping’ or ‘yipping’ or any of the other words the plaintiff has testified to as the cause of her distress. This case is dismissed.” And with a twist of the judicial knife, Judge Von Bonnet finished: “Plaintiff owes costs to the defense.”

* * *

Later at the dinner table of Casa Wren, Wren was regarding a lovely glass of gin with a small smile when Rose said, “Congratulations, Butler” and raised her glass. “Quite a little court triumph.”

“Yes, most satisfying, even on such a silly case.” He noticed his wife’s raised eyebrow. “What?”

“So whose dog was the cause of the noise problem?” she asked

“Well...” began Wren.

“Probably the Hung’s Lhasa Apso in next house over,” Parker had said, when Wren had asked him whose dog had been hectoring the poor plaintiffs. They had been sitting at the bar of the venerable John’s Bar and Grill, both sagging just a bit over their stools, having celebratory Irish whiskeys after their courtroom victory. “Yippy little thing. Barks at anything and seems to like to go out and just bark uselessly at the night.”

“You could have told the plaintiffs that they had the wrong dog at the beginning,” said Rose.

“Quite true,” said Butler.

“Well?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well...”

“And what would have been the fun in that?” Parker had said, when Wren had posed that very question. “Old Coot like me has to take his entertainment where he can.”

Wren had looked at Parker. “You consider yourself to be an Old Coot.”

“Hell yes, and am damn proud of it.” And Parker had grinned.

“I see,” said Rose, sipping, when she heard Wren’s explanation.

Wren looked out their dining room window at the view of the western neighborhoods of the city and the dark ocean beyond, the view that had convinced him to buy their modest house all those years ago. He furrowed his brow.

“What?” asked Rose.

“Am I an Old Coot, Rose?”

“Of course.” To Butler’s pained expression, “Oh, come on Butler, you’re getting grumblier by the week. Restaurant service not fast enough, kids making too much noise, people driving too fast and just young people in general...”

Wren sighed, Ah well. “At least I don’t wear wrinkled walking shorts.”

“With your legs, I wouldn’t allow it.”

They sat in companionable silence for a bit. Then Rose said, “Are you afraid of being an Old Coot or just of being old?

Wren shrugged. There was a bit of truth in that. Every new pain and ache brought it to mind.

“Nothing to be done about it,” she said. “At least we get to grow old together, right?”

After decades of marriage, Wren knew the answer to that one. “Of course, Rose,” he smiled reaching for her her hand. And he meant it.

He settled back. Rose was right of course, as she usually was. No use fighting it; it was a struggle that could not be won. To try was a useless thing.

Like a dog barking at the night.