Deb: Dear Neighbour,
You can imagine how moved I was when I met you on the street today and you greeted the news of our pet’s passing with a slight grin and an “Oh”. In your eyes, I could see the gleam of “Good! One down, one to go.” My soul was further stirred by your milk of human kindness pouring out all over my head as you railed on about how much they bark and how this is disturbing your television watching. I explained to you that while the dogs do bark at squirrels and raccoons, what you fail to realize is that they lay out there for hours at a time making no sound at all. I also reminded you that when they bark for more than a few seconds, we come out to stop them or bring them in. But then I HATED myself for making any excuses to you at all, you dried-up old humourless lifeless sour pinched prune.
You also went on to express your displeasure at the reno going on beside our home and when I said that I was happy for them, you sneered your displeasure. I have one basic question for you: Why the hell did you move to this neighbourhood? With its dogs and cats and children and renos? Our son is a grown man now and yet we still love to hear the little ones with their laughter and screaming and whining and crying. These are the sounds of living, you dried-up old humourless lifeless sour pinched prune. HAD to say that again. Cause frankly it was the only thing stopping me from hitting you with the bitch-mama of all words, the C word! MY KINGDOM for the sound of its hard consonant hitting your flat smug face like a plank! My mind was racing! Don’t do it. Soften the C! Dear God, soften the C!
So gathering my composure which was no small feat, I will say this, you chunt...
If a barking dog is the only thing that ever makes your life a tragedy than you will be a very lucky woman indeed. I hope their yips are the only sorrow you experience in your life. But without question, this neighbourhood is an odd choice to live in with someone of your discerning tastes and boundaries. I think an adults-only no dogs/no cats/no chunts condo would be more your style. But of course the no chunts rule would catch you up, wouldn’t it?
Well, I guess your only recourse if you choose to stay in this hood is to hire a plumber to pull the tree trunk out of your ass. Then neighbour, sit for just a minute, turn off the TV and listen to life around you. And if it isn’t too late, join in. You won’t regret it.
****Thanks in advance to our dear fun and liberal followers for allowing me to vent in the blog. This is the EXTREME version of the more polite version I wrote to prunie. I had full intentions of slipping it into her mailbox. Now, I don’t have to. Wow, blogging is waaaaaaaaaay cheaper than therapy.
Barbara: Call me a chunt, but c’mon, Deb, have you never heard the awful racket of birds outside your window at six in the morning?! Their incessant little chirps just grating on your nerves and driving you batty? And cats? Have you not had at least one or two over the summer meowing at your doorstep, rubbing their catty fur all over your mat while they beg for attention? Or squirrels?! How the hell can you stand their caterwauling from tree to tree? And don’t even get me started on crickets. Have you ever tried to read a book on your porch while these annoying pests lay waste to the peace and quiet of a city night? I much prefer, you know, REAL sounds, like honking horns and electric hum and TV voices. Or best of all: that deathly silence that spreads out between a bored couple with nothing to say to each other. Now that is grand.
