The Ballad of George and Whiskey.

New York, as it is wont to do, has seemingly emptied out this weekend in anticipation of Christmas. The cavalcade of weekend athletes circling Central Park's asphalt has thinned to a trickle and we were up early to take Whiskey, my nine-month-old Golden Retriever, out for a frolic.

There is a large wooded area on the East Side just north of the Great Lawn and south of the reservoir that is ideal for dog frolicking. Since the storms of summer, Sandy in particular, the large space is strewn with branches and covered with fallen leaves. Whiskey loves to play fetch and there is no shortage of sticks to retrieve and fat park squirrels to tree.

This morning, however, I almost got arrested.

Arrested by two park police who took exception to me having Whiskey romp leash-less.

Of course I knew I was in violation of the law. But Whiskey and I have played there a dozen times without incident. There are never any people about. Besides, she is as gentle as a 'good guy with a gun.'

The cop and I quickly got into it. He grabbed my left shoulder as I tried to walk away.

"You're not allowed to touch me," I screamed, shrugging his hand away.

"You're going to make this difficult," he said, sounding like Ward Bond in a bad 50s-noir.

"No, I'm going to make it easy. I'm walking away."

He got in my face.

I got in his.

In the end, the law, not justice prevailed and I was hit with a $100 fine.

My wife, of course, looked on the bright side.

"What if he shot you," she hoped.

To that end, in the style of Bob Dylan, I have written this, "The Ballad of George and Whiskey."

They we're walking in Central Park,
That's the story I will tell,
When the leash a-holdin' Whiskey,
From George's hand it fell.

The cops they came a-running,
Their sirens screaming loud,
We're arrestin' George and Whiskey,
We'll do our cap'n proud.

George and Whiskey didn't stay there,
They turned on their heels to run,
When George was shot in the back,
By two bullets from the po-lice-man's gun.
By two bullets from the po-lice-man's gun.

They shot him in the back,
In the park they gunned him down,
Running from the po-lice,
In old New York town.