836. Horace turned left when he got to the northwest corner of Pratt Institute. He headed south on the sidewalk past the 9‐foot‐high iron bars, just like the White House ones, that enclosed the campus. Why the fence, he often wondered. Ahead of him, a big, ugly pit bull mix was squatting. Its pony‐tailed owner waited. When the dog finished doing its business, the owner walked away without putting the waste into a plastic bag. Horace walked past the fresh pile. A dog and a pig, he thought. He walked onto campus through the gate at DeKalb Street and sat down near one of the many intriguing outdoor sculptures. Works of art were everywhere on campus. Sitting next to a totally white, eight‐foot‐tall woman's head, he called his wife. Hearing about the woman and her dog, his wife said, "She didn't see it as poop; she saw it as performance art." 5.0