[Dailydrool] traffic management, basset style

[Elizabeth Lindsey]

> The other day we were out on a walk and got talking to an elderly  
> neighbour who has lived in the village all his life, and he is  
> nearly 80 years old.? We talked for a fair time and Morse lay down  
> and in the end fell asleep, flat out, on the pavement as we  
> talked.? Watching him,?neighbour Geoff remembered that, back in the  
> late 1950's, a basset used to live in the village and this basset  
> also would go flat basset.? However, he chose to do in right in the  
> middle of the road.? Back in those days there wasnt much traffic  
> and the roads were more like lanes and not busy.? Apparently the  
> basset would lie in the middle of the road and any traffic would  
> use the basset as a roundabout.? Everyone knew him and accepted  
> that he wouldnt move, and so he was like a traffic island. It could  
> only be a basset!
>
Back in the early 1980s in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, a large basset  
named Abigail used to do this. Abigail lived on the corner of a five- 
point intersection, and she'd periodically wander out to nap in the  
middle of the intersection. People in Swarthmore knew to watch out  
for her and would carefully drive around her supine, slumbering mass  
in the middle of the road.

During the school year, she'd head out the door with the kids in her  
family every morning, parting ways with them at the sidewalk. She'd  
spend the next hour sitting on the sidewalk in front of her house  
soliciting pats from all the children on their way to school. I was  
one of those children who made sure my route went past Abby's house  
so I could receiver a greeting from her. She was really gratifying to  
pat--would lean into the pats, roll over on her back and everything.  
When I wasn't looking forward to being in school that day, knowing  
I'd be patting Abby on the way there was comforting. I suspect there  
were a few other children on her route who felt the same way about  
the informal pet therapy services she offered.

One morning Abigail disappointed her children by not sitting in front  
of her house. About two blocks from school, however, our paths  
crossed. She was heading back home with a full loaf of sliced bread,  
still perfectly packaged in its wrapper. Ordinarily, she was a slow,  
lumbering basset. But on this morning, she was trotting toward home  
at a good clip, with her head held high and exuding a very  
businesslike manner. She was much too preoccupied with getting her  
find safely home to have time for niceties with schoolchildren that  
morning. She weaved cordially but briskly around us in a way that  
ensured none of us could come into contact with either her or what  
was in her mouth. I still wonder where she found the bread and how  
much of it she was able to eat before she was caught.

When Abigail died of old age sometime in the 1990s, her obituary ran  
in Swarthmore's weekly newspaper. Under a photograph of her  
celebrating a birthday at a party (complete with birthday hat), her  
family noted the many years of service Abby had given to the  
community in the form of greeting schoolchildren every morning, and  
they thanked everyone for watching out for her when she took her naps  
in the middle of the intersection. Some of the responding letters to  
the editor had "Abigail stories," and all noted how much they'd miss  
this town character.

Elizabeth