[This is a hypothetical situation. Assembly Bill 747, which would strengthen punishments against those convicted of violating animal cruelty laws, is still subject to public hearing. Although it remains unknown whether the bill will pass, it’s pretty tough to see anyone voting against it. After all, pets are the new babies.]

“We were just trying to motivate him,” Freddy said as the Wisconsin Dells police officer led him from the remnants of the abandoned amusement park to the back of a squad car.

“He was supposed to serve as the decoy for our trap — which frankly, he probably would’ve screwed up anyway — but Scoobs won’t do anything unless there’s food involved,” the ascot-clad blonde grumbled. “We weren’t starving him, we were just waiting until we removed the mask to give him some Scooby Snax. I-I-I… I don’t abuse animals!”

“Pipe down, Michael Vick,” the officer barked at Fred, reminding him that anything he said can and will be used against him in a court of law. “Now let’s round up your friends. Y’all are in way more trouble than old man Mohs over there, although he’s sure not happy with you meddling kids.

“Heh, I can’t see the judge being too happy with y’all, either.”

… . .

The interrogation room was small and sterile, and as the officer lumbered in, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, the entire gang looked to the girl in the oversized turtleneck. Velma, as intelligent as she was unattractive, was a savant when it came to legal matters.

“So what are we looking at here, sir? Class A misdemeanors?” Velma asked.

“Yup, I think so,” the officer replied as he scratched his head with the two fingers not already busy holding the Marlboro. “Although I must say, y’all are pretty lucky. Since the recent law change, all this animal cruelty stuff is mighty confusing. Had this happened in the presence of a minor, y’all’d be looking at felonies.”

It was at this very moment when a second uniformed man rushed into the room, phone in hand, saying they found a witness at the scene. It was Scooby’s nephew, and he’d been following them ever since they foiled Miner 49er. His name was Scrappy Doo, and he couldn’t have been more than six.

As the interrogator heard the news, he leaned back in his chair and deliberately ashed onto the floor. “Woo-boy, guess I spoke too soon. Did I say Class A misdemeanors? I meant Class I felonies.”

“Jinkies,” Velma sighed. “We’re fucked.”

… . .

The gang had wasted too much money on gas, food and polyester clothing to afford a private attorney, so it waited for the public defender to arrive. Once he did, he carefully explained to Velma, Freddy, Shaggy and Daphne the implications of Assembly Bill 747.

“Essentially, we’re treating animals like diplomats,” the public defender explained. “Just be lucky you’re only looking at a Class I. What’s that, up to $10,000 or three and a half years? That’s nothing.

“Look at it this way, if Scooby can prove he suffered great bodily harm at your hands, you’re looking at a Class E. Hell, it’s a Class D, thanks to the little nephew tagging along.”

“What exactly is ‘great bodily harm?'” Daphne snapped back.

“Look honey, I’m a public defender, I don’t know. All I can tell you is that it’s around 100 grand or 25 years. Or both.”

Velma was in shock. 25 years because of a dog? It wasn’t simply unreasonable; it was irrational. It was unethical. She quickly ran through a list of all the Class D felonies she could remember: Felony drunk driving, felony vehicular homicide, enticement of a child. And dogs?

With the room in silence, the public defender began gathering papers and packing up. “Look guys, I have about 40 more cases to handle today, but don’t worry about all this, I’m sure it’ll be… well… at least you have each other.”

After their lawyer left, an officer escorted each member of Mystery, Inc. out of the interrogation room into separate cells. After all, if these kids would hurt a dog, who knew what they’d do to each other?

… . .

About 48 hours later, the gang found itself back in the small, sterile room with its lawyer. He looked tired. They looked tired. The atmosphere did not seem to indicate good news.

“Scrappy’s been talking non-stop. He says this isn’t the first time it’s happened,” the public defender said. “Not that it probably mattered. The D.A.’s office doesn’t look to settle these cases very often. We’re God -fearing people up here, and we don’t look too fondly upon your kind.

“Even more, it doesn’t look like Scooby is going to make it. They found enough chocolate ice cream in his belly to drown a Swiss pre-school. That could push it to Class C, guys. 40 effin’ years. What’s wrong with you people?”

One by one, they exhaled heavily. First Freddy, then Daphne, Velma and…

“Wait, where’s Shaggy?” Velma chirped.

“Oh, him,” the lawyer explained. “The police found drugs on his person. It’s not looking good for your friend right now.”

Freddy, the gang’s leader, started to cry. He realized it was going to be a long time before he, his friends or the Mystery Machine saw the outside of a tall, chain-link fence. As he dabbed at his cheek with an ascot, he said:

“If I told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times, ‘Never carry more than you can eat.'”

Sean Kittridge ([email protected]) is a senior majoring in journalism.