I got rid of the Pontiac that day. I removed my last name from my mailbox and traded "Paulson" for "Jones". The mailman asked me why, and I just indicated the sign. He looked quizzical, but asked me no more. I guess he understood, but was awed by my tacit acknowledgment of fate. Maybe he knew that the same fate awaits him sooner or later.

What to do with my dog was a dilemma. Obviously I couldn’t own a poodle any longer, but having owned Oscar for nine years, I didn’t want to lose his camaraderie. Finally I decided that breed names weren’t that significant, and now Oscar is a terrier. Some folks start to argue the statement when they hear it, but I aim their attention to the sign and motion wildly for quiet, and they don’t argue any more. I sense that they don’t feel the looming authority of the sign like I do, so I’m tolerant with them.

My whole neighborhood is affected, as the man in the blue denim clothes and the orange truck installed the same sign all along the street. I don’t know how my neighbors are managing. The signs seem to have made them odd. Whenever I have asked about their individual situations – for instance, Mrs. Miller’s pansies, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver’s poplar, Mr. DeLuca’ s pool - always with a hushed voice and a look around to ensure isolation, they look at me and shake their heads. Some have the temerity to laugh at me. Some tell me I’m a great kidder. None seem to take the situation seriously.

Me, I’m taking no chances. The city wants things a certain way, and I am being obedient, no matter the cost to me. Just a good citizen doing his duty, obeying the sign. That big white sign, with the big black “P” inside the big red circle with the slash. Yes, there are no “P’s” at my home. Just ask Oscar, my terrier.