Can’t blame the dog. I refuse to blame myself. If it weren’t for bashful kidneys I’d start whizzing on their yards myself. It’s this letter we received last week.
Here is the letter.
The main thing that gripes me is that this constitutes the first notice. There was neither a knock on the door by what we considered a set of friendly neighbors beginning a couple of houses up, nor was there even a phone call.
We’ve had the 15-month-old Tibetan terrier six weeks. The writer of the dunning letter approached me in the second week to ask that Mani stay off his yard. Easily done, and we were glad to accommodate him. But neither then nor since was there mention of the concerns of others.
It’ll be difficult to work up any civility, much less friendliness, toward any of that group now, and we’ve lived here 10 years. (The neighbors who live below the so-called private community are excepted: We’re all cool.) I say “so-called” because these are not private drives. These are four public streets that after a block or two have a sign each indicating the POA (property owners association) begins at that point. Regardless, My Beloved and I would have been eager to have had that conversation and would have heeded their wishes at once. We did not know. Now that the dog has been dunned we feel shunned. Yet those people are no better than us. Where’s the class at the top of the hill?
The second issue is the writer’s sarcasm. If nerve was not available for a personal appeal, then this letter should have been dry and professional. Our “generous property” is the usual quarter-acre so at best the back yard is an eighth. As a matter of fact, the yard indeed is “inadequate for exercise,” which is why we walk briskly the dog on a leash, just like contemporary experts recommend. The two-block cul de sac is too short, and we drive to public parks that welcome dogs provided one cleans up after them. But the last six weeks have seen rains nearly daily, and the best we could do at times was trot up and down our own lane. We won’t take the little guy down to the cross street, a four-lane state highway spur, as it’s too busy. The dog never has been allowed to defecate anywhere but our yard; MB and I carry bags just in case. Note the official letter does not directly accuse Mani of that nor of us failing to clean up after him.
Speaking of class, I grew up with better. As a child in Fort Smith we had a succession of short-haired dachshunds then for four years an Australian terrier named George. When the dentist across the street drove over him, that was my last pooch until April. At George’s death I was 14, over 35 years ago.
The short Valley Lane (five houses on either side) in the 1960s had no fenced yards. The Daniels put up a chain-link in the back in the 1970s but that was to keep the children safe. Sam their bull terrier (as I recall) like all the other dogs had the run of the lane.
The dentist and his RN wife had Maggie, a black-and-tan longhaired dachshund. I think the Coffeys had a small gray poodle. The Hubbards next door had a cocker named Ginger. Paul Wolfe, a circuit judge, had a forlorn-looking basset named Happy. His stepson Lou had a raccoon for a time that frightened my mom terribly, especially when he’d bring it into our house to show me. With no leash law, the dogs did what they did wherever they pleased — and all us kids thought nothing of watching where we stepped when we played, and twigs always were handy to scrape stuff from the soles of our sneakers. Valley Lane was a typical midtown street, with a dentist, small businessmen like Dad and Mr. Coffey, Judge Wolfe and Rev. Roebuck, Mr. Daniel an engineer, real estate brokers like Mr. Taylor, and executives like Mr. Hubbard with the phone company. The residents of Valley Lane today are similar — all the above are long gone — as I know of the schoolteacher who bought our house and a Baptist pastor who lives in the Wolfes’.
My Aussie George got in trouble with the judge.
Dad taught George to fetch the morning papers — the Southwest Times Record and Arkansas Gazette — from our driveway and carry them into the house. George was so smart he crossed the street and brought us Judge Wolfe’s almost every day, too. I’d take it and throw it back, but His Honor did have a chat with my Dad. I was inside at the window, I recall seeing them laugh. They agreed we’d work on George bringing only our papers, but as a dog no more can read than he can see property lines, the judge would have to accept the occasional delay in getting his paper.
And that his paper would have tooth marks and sometimes a little spit.
