BAG THE DOG (Park): Some Eastern State neighbors would prefer Simon and the other dogs play elsewhere. : Michael T. Regan

OK, not murder, but it's been unpleasant. You see, at least once a day, I run Simon at the Eastern State Dog Pen, a 9,200-square-foot rectangle of fence and gravel along the Corinthian Avenue wall of Fairmount's historic prison. To me, the park is a triumph of urban planning: My dog gets to run off-leash without darting into traffic, and I get to sit in the shade and read The New Yorker. It's one of the reasons I live in Fairmount.

A few months ago, signs popped up along the fence announcing unspecified "renovations" to the park. Before long, rumors were flying that "renovations" might mean "removal." Park users knew that several neighbors disliked the park, and we wondered if they had arranged for its demise, or at least its drastic reduction.

The dog pen already had a sordid history. It was built in 2001 by a nonprofit neighbors group called Friends of Eastern State Penitentiary Park (FESPP), which had received permission from the city to manage the ramshackle property. The pen was intended to be temporary—a place for dogs to run until the actual park could be built—and was never approved by the city, but because of time and funding constraints, it became a fixture. Dog owners formed an organization (Dog Owners Group, or DOG, a subsidiary of FESPP) to collect dues for upkeep.

About a year ago, the volunteer bureaucracy disintegrated. According to a FESPP rep, DOG members became hostile; this either caused or resulted in FESPP removing DOG from its board. (A former DOG member, reached by phone, declined to speak about the episode, saying it was "very unpleasant.") Now, it seemed, decisions about the park were proceeding without dog-owner input.

A new group of park users wanted to get involved. David Major, owner of a weimaraner and a rottweiler, took the lead, reaching out to FESSP President Eric Diaz, who assured Major that renovation plans were preliminary—the goal was to preserve the park while assuaging the neighbors' concerns. But when Major asked for representation and some maintenance, Diaz said it was "not the time for demands."

Not long afterwards, a dog-walker heard "on good authority" that the park would soon be reduced to a flea-sized circle. Major responded with an angry e-mail to Diaz, challenging him to make a written commitment. Another dog owner followed up with an e-mail questioning FESPP's use of DOG funds. Meanwhile, a hose that was used to give dogs water was found chopped up in a trash can.

For civic life, things were getting ugly. Dog owners were suspicious. Diaz was being asked, on volunteer time, to mediate between two passionate groups. And the people across the street — well, what was their deal, anyway?

Curious, I knocked on the door of the woman said to hate the park most. Her name, it turns out, is Rosemarie Cipriano (her husband, Ralph, has written for City Paper) and, contrary to her dog-park reputation, she is not mean and crazy. She is strongly in favor of reducing the park, and not enthusiastic about compromising. Cipriano was part of the original FESPP group that set out to rehabilitate a run-down lot, and now finds herself living across the street from a dog pen that is bigger and closer than planned, and noisy. She was also upset to be considered a bad guy by her neighbors (but not all of them; she has collected 100 signatures supporting her position.)

So, an old neighborhood group that built a public space has one vision for it, a new group that uses it has another, and since everyone involved is a volunteer, the channels for resolving the dispute are muddy. Just before press time, a FESPP board member named Laurie Wallace promised that, while the reductions will happen, dog owners will have input. That's good news—not only because Simon needs to stretch his legs, but because I haven't enjoyed making enemies over a dog park. As Cipriano says, this fight is just "a lot of very nice people thinking very bad things about very nice people."