It all began with a coincidence.

Although, by the time you reach Mr. Biddle's age, which is 65 and climbing, you realize there's no such thing. As unreasonable and troublesome as it seems, everything was meant to be.

In any event, the coincidence fell into two equal parts.

Part One occurred when Mr. Biddle was attempting to walk one of his three little brown dachshunds around the greenbelt in front of his Overland Park townhouse—not an easy task, for Mr. Biddle has difficulty walking and must keep himself upright with the assistance of a cane.

This is why the dog Mr. Biddle had selected for this modest summer adventure was Danny, the baby, the smallest and best-behaved of the three. Tommy, the bad one, always chooses the direction and tugs on the leash. Milton, the fat one, feels required to anoint every tree, bush, and flower. But Danny, a fluffy little longhair with short, stubby legs, was happy to let Mr. Biddle be in charge.

When they stopped at the corner mailbox to cross the street, a minivan passed by. The driver was a woman who was talking on her cell phone while a child, perhaps 12 years old, gazed out the open window.

"Look, Mom!" he shouted. "A wiener dog!"

"Can't you see I'm on the phone?" his mother replied, annoyed.

But not as annoyed as Mr. Biddle.

Danny is a pedigreed dappled dachshund, a highly desirable breed, a trained service animal and one of Mr. Biddle's closest friends. Indeed, it is Danny who sleeps in Mr. Biddle's arms each night while the other two take up positions by his feet or snuggle up to his side.

Danny is not a wiener. Nor is he a weenie. He is a dachshund, or "doxie," as some like to say, although not Mr. Biddle.

Mr. Biddle considered the use of the word "wiener" as a pejorative.

Wiener ranks right up there with redneck, hillbilly, fatso, bum, and congressman, Mr. Biddle thought.

Part Two of the coincidence happened that same afternoon, when Mr. Biddle was returning from the very same mailbox where Part One took place, his arms laden with catalogs and magazines from Doctors Foster and Smith pet supplies, Spring Hill Nursery, AARP, Cooking Light, The New Yorker, Time, Collier's, and a bundle of business envelopes containing investment opportunities, address labels from the Audubon Society, utility bills, and two checks—one from President Obama's economic stimulus program, the other from British Petroleum begging him not to sue. Most important, however, was a copy of the weekly local newspaper, The Johnson County Sun.

Here's why the newspaper was more significant than the unexpected money:

When Mr. Biddle sat down at the table in his sunlit, tropical plant-filled room to read through the mail and enjoy a tall ice-filled Shrek glass from McDonald's filled to the brim with Minute Maid limeade, he came across a small article at the bottom of page seven in The Sun.

"Five Seats Available on Task Force," the headline read.

The story began, "Annabeth Surbaugh, chairman of the Johnson County Board of Commissioners, is accepting applications from residents wanting to serve as Johnson County representatives to a metropolitan Animal Insult Task Force."

The item explained that the purpose of the task force is to provide recommendations regarding situations in which area pets and wildlife are treated as second-class citizens through the use of demeaning language. Although no examples were given, Mr. Biddle immediately understood the compelling need.

Tree rat. Cur. Fleabag. Road kill. Hound dog. Dust mop. Weenie.

Finally! Mr. Biddle thought. A politician steps up to the plate!

With the scissors that he uses to trim his short gray beard, Mr. Biddle clipped the article, prepared to follow up with the contact information it contained.

The two-part coincidence weighed heavily on what remained of his mind. But Mr. Biddle had reached the Age of Forgetfulness. The dogs' dinner had to be stirred in the slow-cooker. Their accidents (or were they messages?) had to be cleaned from the hardwood floor and the cleaning rags laundered. Mr. Biddle himself was overdue for a shower. One of his bills seemed to be a month past due. He had to run to Wal-Mart for a box of Cascade.

Life is maintenance. Just one routine chore after another.
Little wonder, then, that upon returning to the sunlit room one afternoon he discovered that he'd forgotten to respond to the broadly published invitation from the chairman to volunteer to help put an end to linguistic criticism of animals.
Mutt. Monster. Slime. Creepy crawler. Bottom feeder. Beast. Bloodsucker. Buzzard. Scum sucker. Offal. Fish bait.

Even in retirement, Mr. Biddle was a busy man. He was about to get much busier.

After downloading more than 20 pages of information from his computer, Mr. Biddle spent the entire day filling out the forms. Apparently the county wasn't going to accept just anybody, for the official application for membership on the task force bore on being nosey. Why did they really need to know Mr. Biddle's shoe size? What difference did it make if he'd once been to a free concert by Johnny Cash?

Despite his annoyance at having to complete the documents, Mr. Biddle pressed on, knowing that the eventual outcome was important to the future of the world. It was, within the big picture, a small sacrifice to make.

Whether local, county, state, or federal, government sets its own ways of doing things. The one thing government can't stand is someone who tries to change methods it considers rules. If the instructions say "Black Ink Only," only a fool would use blue. If they say "Print Your Name," you don't dare sign it, and vice versa. The most dangerous rule to break in government form-filling-out is marking something within a square that says "Do Not Write in This Space. For Office Use Only."

That's why Mr. Biddle became so anxious when Tommy, the bad one, placed a dirty paw smack dab in the middle of one of those potentially lethal squares.

Oh, my, thought Mr. Biddle. Do I have to start over? He imagined himself in a county courtroom having to explain his actions.

"Technically speaking, your honor," Mr. Biddle would say in his defense, "it isn't writing. It's merely a light coating of dirt. So, despite the obvious smudge, the rules have been followed to a T."

"Hmm," the judge might then respond, squinting closely at the document. "It appears you are right. Very well. Case dismissed."

When he'd finished, Mr. Biddle placed all the papers in a large manila envelope that he addressed carefully, using an attractive return-address sticker from the Audubon Society. With the scale he used when preparing homemade quarter pounders for his puppies, Mr. Biddle weighed the package, affixed a dozen stamps, and walked to the mailbox, this time with Tommy tugging at the leash like a schoolboy flying a kite.

Once again, quite by coincidence, perhaps, the same minivan passed by. From inside, the boy shouted to his mother.

"Mom, look!" he cried. "It's a weenie walking a geezer!"

"Don't say geezer," his mother reprimanded him. "Say coot."

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