Fresh Sawdust Was Found On the Snow...

In the news today, a venerable old 'shoe' tree was cut down on a lonely stretch of Nevada highway. The tree, which for years had been adorned with the shoes of hundreds of passersby, Elvis having been rumored to be among them, was a 70' tall cottonwood, and as far as anyone could tell, never hurt anybody. Commentators of the article suggested many possible culprits: wild youths, Mexicans, Dick Cheney, the ghost of Elvis. All of these are speculative, of course. If I were assigned this case, I would begin by questioning the locals as to whether they had recently seen a large band of barefoot miscreants, possibly wielding axes or chainsaws, maybe breathing subtle threats like 'it goes down tonight' or 'aim for the highway side of the trunk'.
I think the thing I found most fascinating was that the article did not mention whether the tree had been removed, or the shoes, or if everything was just lying there in a horizontal shambles. If they found sawdust on the snow, couldn't they have found footprints, maybe bare coming up and booted or shoed walking away? If the tree was missing, wouldn't there have been a drag trench? Doggone it, people, couldn't the Lorax be summoned for a statement? He will probably be there on February 13th for the memorial service. Check with him then. A million to one he blames the Onceler.
The article mentioned that another 'shoe' tree had been burned down in Idaho last year. This is clearly a pattern. FBI profilers need to get on this. Sure, it's just shoe trees on Federal grounds now, but soon the thrill of remote accessorized landmarks will cease to be enough. The Onceler, in his bloodlust, will begin hunting closer to the fold, taking down topiaries, adorned mailboxes, and yes, even coat trees. I have a coat tree, a very old and sentimental one, a tree I am not eager to see felled. So, Uncle Sam, what is the next move--wait until there is so much sawdust on the snow that winter looks orange? Or do we go after the Onceler where he lives, in a caustic little factory near the last of the Truffala Tufts? I think you already know the answer.

This was brought to you while Hops, my girlcat, used my chair and torso as elliptical machines.