Walking past the flagpole with her husband, Martha Stonery wore an exalted look.
"All over America dogs will cry out in protest against the Russian crime," she said. "I have kindled a flame, George, that will sweep away the Kremlin. I, a weak woman...."
She insisted on driving herself home in her new station wagon.
Sirening police cars passed Stonery three times as he drove home in the evening. Outside the tan stucco ranch-style house on Euclid Avenue, cars blocked the driveway and a crowd milled on the lawn. Stonery parked under the oak tree at the curb and got out.
Martha stood in the living room by the picture window and harangued the crowd through a screened side panel. Centered in the window her spaniel Fiffalo writhed, hanging by a hind leg from the massive gilt floor lamp and yipping piteously. Martha had on her suit of gray Harris tweed and her diamond brooch.
"... moral pressure the Russians simply cannot resist," Stonery heard her shouting as he joined the crowd. "The men talk, but the United Dames of the Dog are not afraid to act. Putting a dear little dog on the moon to die of heart-break!"
Several young men near the window scribbled on white pads.
"How many members do you have, Mrs. Stonery?" one asked.
"The U.D.D. is bigger than you think, young man. Bigger than the Russians think, for all their spies and traitors!"