Bad Neighbors: Part 3 (Rubber Chickens, Bloody Corpses, and Dumb Dogs)

Which way did he go? I have to poo! I love my master! SQUIRREL!!!

One thing I have learned from living in apartment buildings is that the people for miles around assume the building's dumpster is intended for the entire town. Though I live in a much nicer building in a much nicer neighborhood now, the same still rings true here. Random cars pull up to our dumpster all day. Strangers hop out, unload the contents of a small village, and drive away with no remorse whatsoever. Since we moved here, In recent years, I have turned to quietly expressing my displeasure by hanging out of my window and - when I'm really annoyed - shooting video of the offender. Once in a while, I'll go so far as to ask, "Do you live here?" and if I get a no, I add a "Well, then get out of here."

What would these people do if I followed them home and sometime the next day I put all of my trash on their front lawn? They would not like it, but it wouldn't be any different than what they do to me.

The family living in the house beside our second apartment was arrogant - the kind of people who ignored you if you said hello, then laughed as they walked away. They, too, had no problem using our dumpster for all of their disposal needs. Most people throw their trash away as fast as possible, presumably so they can avoid being caught. Our neighbors took their time, looked you right in the eye as they did it, and dumped their stuff several times a week.

There was no limit to the types of things these people would throw in our dumpster - trash, lawn clippings, tree branches, dead appliances, a bloody deer carcass...

It was November, deer-huntin' season 'round these parts, and my husband went out to the dumpster to unload some trash. First, he saw the familiar looking flies swarming the bin. Then he got closer and realized there was a huge bloody, skinned corpse inside. I wasn't there at that moment but, oh, how I wish I could have been. I imagine he had the same look I had when I first saw the bloody corpses dangling from the laundry rack next-door to our old place. I imagine he blinked at least 20 times to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Mr. Arrogance saw the bag of garbage dangling from my husband's hand, and the glossy-eyed stare on his paralyzed face and came walking over. "Oh, sorry," he said. "I'm a hunter and I put my deer remains in there every year." Then, he walked away.

All my bewildered husband could say was, "He obviously doesn't know anything about skinning deer."

Our landlord - the one who replaced the exploded oven downstairs with a hot plate - put a lock on the dumpster. It felt like a small victory until everyone in the building complained about having to open it in the dead of winter and losing their keys. The lock came off as quickly as it went on.

The longer we lived there, the more I started to lose it. Shotgun fire woke us up in the middle of the night for weeks on end. The police suspected a deer poacher, but nobody could get to the scene (or the sound) in time to catch the offender. It wasn't in the distance - it sounded like the shooter was firing from our porch. And then, at the crack of dawn, the illegal daycare next-door had me on my feet. I don't think I slept for 3 months straight.

But gunfire became a regular sound in our home.
One afternoon, while trying to write my book with cotton balls stuffed in my ears and the paintings shaking on the walls from the herd of children running loose in apartment 1, I was startled out of my concentration by a loud "BANG!" Fearing neighborhood carnage, I ran to my window.

Mrs. Arrogance was standing there with a pistol as his dog, who was cute but dumber than a box of hair, ran around the yard in a frenzy. Mr. Arrogance went over to the corner of the yard and retrieved something I couldn't quite make out. He whistled for the dog's attention, threw the item in the air, and fired the gun over his head.

The dog ran in 15 circles, tried to bite his own tail, peed on a shrub, went over and licked his owner's foot...then ran to the tossed item and laid down on it.

Mr. Arrogance berated the dog for his stupidity and picked the item up off of the ground. That's when I realized it was a rubber chicken. The neighbor was trying to teach his dog to hunt with a rubber chicken, and it wasn't going well.

Again and again, Mr. Arrogance threw the chicken across the yard, fired his gun (I tinkled a little every time), and I watched as the dog did everything but fetch his intended prey. He pooped three times. He drank out of the bird feeder. He rolled on his back and howled. He chased a butterfly. He mostly ignored the chicken. His owner was furious, but it didn't register in the dog's mind. It was playtime! The more the dog failed to complete his tank, the angrier Mr. Arrogance got.

This went on every day until winter, when snow finally blanketed the ground and Mr. Arrogance couldn't back even his enormous SUVs out of the driveway. It's hard writing a book when a gun going off every thirty seconds, but I never complained to anyone because, honestly, it was hilarious.

I might have finished that book a lot sooner, had I not spent many afternoons staring out the bedroom window, giving that dog a high-five with my mind. Goooood dog, I wanted to say. Good puppy! Make daddy look like a weenie! That's for putting your bloody deer carcass in our dumpster!

*******************************************************************************

All decorated for Christmas, the Clampets sit down for a nice family dinner.

When the Arrogance family moved away, I was a little disappointed, knowing my autumn entertainment was leaving me. I wondered what the next owner might be like. That summer, I found out.

A family full of leather-clad hillbilly types moved in, parking numerous beat-up cars and trucks all over the street and on their front lawn. They had so many vehicles and so little concern as to the appearance of their property that one June afternoon they had their front yard torn up and replaced with concrete. After that, the house was nearly invisible behind their mud-encrusted, dented, 1970-something vehicles.

When Christmas rolled around, they were overcome with holiday spirit.
They placed a life-sized, antique-looking plastic Santa in a lawn chair on the front porch. There he stayed until almost February, standing on the chair and being held up by the garage door.  

Merry Christmas.









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