When I arrived at work the next day, my editor told me to cover an upcoming protest by the DWARVES (Defenders of Wetlands, Animals, Rainforests, Vegetation, Ecosystems, and Swampland). “Ira, I’m a sports columnist. Why are you giving this to me?”

“Because everyone else is busy and it wouldn’t hurt you to broaden yourself with something besides sports.”

“Well, they’re having Red Stepper tryouts at Assembly Hall tomorrow. Couldn’t you broaden me with that assignment?”

“You’re not covering a dance squad tryout.”

“What do you have against the Red Steppers? Do you hate them because they’re taller than you?”

“I don’t hate the Red Steppers.”

“Then let me go to the tryouts.”

“No, you’re covering the DWARVES. That’s final.”

“OK, but dancers sell papers, Ira. DWARVES don’t.”

I left him to ponder the financial implications of a front page cover photo devoid of Red Steppers and retreated to my office. After a quick check of my messages, I called the DWARVES to get more information.

“Thank you for calling the DWARVES,” said a familiar voice.

It was Maple, leader of both the DWARVES and the Bloomington Vegans. She loved trees and animals–unless, of course, you viewed humans as animals. Maple assaulted me in college when I was writing for the student newspaper. During an interview, I asked how someone who loved trees so much could eat salad with such reckless abandon. I then asked her if she heard the cry of the soybean as it was grotesquely slaughtered and converted into soymilk and other bland tasting products. The question that got me cold-cocked with a cafeteria tray, though, was how could she yank a defenseless, naked carrot from his home, skin him with a grater, and eat him raw without so much compassion as to numb him first?

That was also when I was kicked off the student newspaper even though I was the one who was assaulted. Vegan sympathy had infiltrated the decision-making offices of the Indiana Daily Student. I was an outsider, a hated meat-eater. I had dared expose the plight of defenseless farm produce. For my crime I was banished from the student press.

“Would you like to volunteer for our concert to save the Jordan River?” Maple continued.

“The Jordan River?” I asked.

“Yes, we want to put an end to illegal dumping in one of our most treasured local waterways.”

“The Jordan River? The one that cuts through campus. That’s what you’re talking about?” I was starting to lose focus because of the absurdity of what she was saying. You see, the Jordan River is one of the most inaptly named “waterways” in North America. It is not a river. It’s barely a stream. The only illegal dumping being done in the Jordan River is the occasional frat guy relieving himself on the way home from a party.

“Yes, that Jordan River,” she answered.

“Well, the concert sounds like one heck of a good time. And the cause is certainly worthy of your organization’s efforts. However, I’ve called about a more immediate situation. I’m calling from the Daily News. Could you tell me more about the protest you have scheduled this week?”

“Which one were you inquiring about?”

“Why don’t you run down all of them and I’ll pick the one I’m interested in.”

“OK, tonight we’re protesting the use of federal land for logging operations. That will be held in Dunn Meadow. Tomorrow we are holding a sit-in at the home of an attorney
who is cutting down all the trees in his yard. On Friday we’re marching down Kirkwood in support of—”

I cut her off, “What was that second one again?”

“We’re holding a sit-in at an attorney’s home.”

“Which attorney?” I asked.

“Frank Wolf.”

This was too good to be true. It might even be as fun to watch as the Red Steppers, for entirely different reasons of course. “Why is he cutting down the trees in his yard?”

“We learned he is putting in a pool. This will be the first in a string of protests we are planning to keep people from installing backyard pools at the expense of the environment.”

“So when is the Arborcide scheduled to take place?” I asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon at one-thirty,” she answered.

The next day, I pulled into The Wolf’s neighborhood and parked across the street from his house. A minute later, a photographer from the newspaper arrived. I got out of my car and told him to be ready to shoot a lot of film.

Minutes later, the DWARVES started to arrive in a parade of vintage Volkswagen vans, each complete with rust and dents and tie-dyed curtains in the windows. Some had as many as fifteen people crammed inside. They covered The Wolf’s yard like ants. To the untrained eye, the DWARVES appeared to be disorganized. However, there were three distinct groups, each with their own responsibilities. The Tree DWARVES chained themselves to his trees.

The Vandal DWARVES spray-painted graffiti on his house and driveway, then formed a circle in his driveway, sat down lit some candles and began chanting. Maple emerged from one of the vans, wearing a dingy white tunic and carrying a tambourine. Barefoot with a crown of flowers adorning her hair, she skipped and frolicked around the circle while singing and pounding her tambourine. Just as that particular song ended, the men from Truelove Tree Service arrived.

The DWARVES began a Gregorian chant that nearly caused the tree foreman to wet himself. The photographer moved in closer. The fl ash from his camera caused the DWARVES to stop chanting and start yelping. The yelping scared me. The third component of the group, the Marching DWARVES, proceeded to carry signs into the street to block traffic. As the servicemen tried to unload their equipment, the Vandal DWARVES circled their trucks. With their arms locked together, they began to alternate the yelping and chanting. Three tree servicemen considered the possibility of new careers that afternoon.

The foreman was able to compose himself long enough to call The Wolf’s office. That’s when the real circus began. It took The Wolf only seven minutes to make it from his office to his house. Arriving with him were several Bloomington police cars and a county sheriff. The police were there because The Wolf called them en route. The sheriff was there because The Wolf was doing eighty miles per hour in a school zone. The Wolf barreled out of his van screaming at everybody in sight. Veins in his neck bulged as he shoved DWARVES, a tree service guy, and even the photographer. When he saw me taking notes, he really lost his temper. He demanded an explanation while the deputy sheriff demanded his license and registration. The deputy threatened to cuff The Wolf, so he handed him his license and stomped back to the van for his registration.

The Bloomington police didn’t act immediately; the yelping threw them off. After a brief huddle, they decided to start with the Marching DWARVES. Surprisingly, they didn’t put up too much of a fight. The marchers moved from the street, onto the sidewalk, and on through the neighborhood. Unfortunately for them, countless years of marijuana smoking had left them directionally impaired. The subdivision, being rather large and having many streets and cul-de-sacs, swallowed them alive.

Meanwhile, the sheriff issued The Wolf a ticket. He could have given him a warning, inasmuch as his house was under siege. But The Wolf had many enemies. Years of burning bridges, bullying prosecutors, and frivolous lawsuits had eroded his fan base to blood relatives and the acquitted.

With a vein on his neck visibly ready to rupture, The Wolf turned his attention back to the tree foreman who refused to begin cutting. The Wolf threatened to sue Truelove Tree
Service. The foreman threatened to sue The Wolf. The Vandal DWARVES began to realize that there might be safer environmental battles to fight and began to flee. The Tree
DWARVES, by default, were left to answer to the police. The Wolf screamed at the Bloomington police to arrest as many of them as possible.

In all, seven DWARVES went to jail that afternoon, including Maple, who failed to fl ee with the Vandals. I called the police later that afternoon and was told that it took them all of about twenty minutes to make bail. A deputy told me that most of them called their parents and told them they needed money for books. I also went back to the neighborhood to look for the ten Marching DWARVES. Nobody I talked to could remember seeing them.

I took what I had and wrote a story that made the front page accompanied by many wonderful pictures of the Wolf and the DWARVES. I think the headline speaks volumes
about the seriousness of the event: WOLF CALLED HOME TO REMOVE DWARVES FROM TREES. I didn’t stop to think that this might make the Wolf an even bigger enemy.