In Which I Somehow End Up Explaining My Dog's Reproductive System to a Random New York City Parks Department Employee

Scene: Isham Park, Inwood. I am walking my dog, Dora. A Parks employee is emptying the garbage can near the entrance as I approach. He calls out to Dora.

PARKS GUY: Hey Dexter! Hey, Dexter! Dexter! Did I get his name right?

ME: Her name is Dora, actually. You got the "D" right.

PARKS GUY: Dora! So she's a girl?

ME: Yeah.

PARKS GUY: You got a boyfriend, Dora? Or is she, you know, did you fix her?

ME: She's fixed, yeah.

PARKS GUY: Now how do they do that with girl dogs?

ME: Um... [I don't actually know whether they just tie dogs' tubes, or remove the uterus, so I give my best guess.] I think it's like a hysterectomy.

PARKS GUY: What?! They go up her butt?!!

ME: No! Uh, it's like, they remove her uterus.

PARKS GUY: Oh, so she ain't got no cunt.

ME: Well, not... uh, yeah, basically.

PARKS GUY: But if a boy dog wanna come get with her, she ain't got no hole there?

ME: She still has a hole, it just doesn't, like, go anywhere.

PARKS GUY: Huh.

OTHER PARKS GUY WHO JUST WALKED OVER: She doesn't have a hole?

ME: And I mean, I don't think any boy dog is going to, you know, because she doesn't have any hormones.

PARKS GUY: Any what-mones?

ME: Hormones.

[Dora and I walk away. From behind us:]

OTHER PARKS GUY: I don't see no hole there.

PARKS GUY: No, me either.

THE END

Jackson Pollock in Inwood

Two days ago a mysterious and striking piece of public artwork appeared on Park Terrace East in Inwood, my neighborhood in New York City. Propped up in the plastered-over doorway of an adandoned nunnery that's now owned by a Seventh-Day Adventist high school is a wooden frame, maybe nine feet by ten feet, with a black-and-white photo printed on it.

Upon closer inspection, the photo seems to be of Jackson Pollock working in his studio.

The image is printed on what appear to be a hundred-plus pages of an advanced mathematics text, carefully pasted up to assemble the photograph.

It's a fascinating piece, made more fascinating by its size and mystery. How did this immense collage get here? Why Inwood, a neighborhood not particularly known for its visual arts scene? Why did the artist choose to prop up his or her work underneath a dripping overhang with no protection from the elements? How long will it last before it's removed by the school, or trashed by the Department of Sanitation, or vandalized by neighborhood kids or the high schoolers who pass by in packs every morning and afternoon?

And who the hell made it?