The Neighborhood

Thankful it’s not colder than it is this morning.  Houses in the Deep South don’t take kindly to temperatures below the twenties.  There are no basements.  Water pipes run through attics and crawl spaces.

The Retired Old Farts Neighborhood Dog Walker’s Club, of which I am a member, is normally a peaceful group.  Trouble, when it happens, is usually caused by non-dog owners.

There weren’t any other dog walkers out this morning.  Of course, my spouse chimed in with, “There wasn’t anybody else crazy enough to walk in this cold weather.”  Before I retired, I worked outside in weather much colder than this.

Jack, real name not used, is a notorious, mercurial, neighborhood non-dog owner.  Rocky, however, is a real cocker spaniel.  It was a pleasant January day, when Jack, accompanied by his son, rolled up on his golf cart.

Without so much as a friendly hello–Jack went straight for the jugular.  “Why don’t you people walk your dogs through your own neighborhood?” Jack shouted.  “We’re tired of all the dog crap.”

Sam, blindsided–looked up from bagging Rocky’s droppings.  Rocky, his black cocker spaniel, was gentle, wouldn’t hurt a fly.  “This is a public street,” Sam answered–waited to see where the conversation led.

It was an unfair attack, from the same man that previously attempted to run down an unleashed nuisance dog, from a nearby trailer park, with his car.

Gizmo, the dog in question, was no longer around.  Problems arose when “free-range” owners let their dogs run loose.  Presently, there is a white pit bull, that roams freely after numerous complaints to the sheriff’s office.

Jack attempted to goad Sam into an argument.  Sam, wisely didn’t fall for it.  Jack’s flare-up blew away, just like the previous ones.

 

Someone Named Bob

Talk to “Old Bob” when he first got to work, and a folding chair could be tossed in your direction.  “Old Bob” talked, when his hangover-fogged mind was good and ready.  “Old Bob” was a hard core construction worker and one of my trainers.

Another Bob lives across the street, in my daughter’s new neighborhood.  Whether that’s the crabby neighbor’s name, is not important.  He fits the “Bob” profile.  For clarity, he will be referred to, as “New Bob.”

New Bob has a nice RV, kept cleaned and polished.  New Bob Jr. has a shiny Mustang–he loves the sound of its powerful engine.  New Bob introduced himself by complaining about barking dogs.

Every neighborhood has Bobs.  Bobs make your business their business.    They’re neighborhood crabapples–the get off my lawn people.

Too many Bobs lead to bored pets and pet owners.  Bobs expect to be indulged after late night partying.  No courtesies are ever reciprocated.

New residents find out who their Bobs are in due course–faster, if they have children and pets.  Potential residents would be well-advised to ask the question, “Who are the neighborhood Bobs?” “Are they manageable?”

Old Bobs, New Bobs, Bob “wannabees”–This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful to have all my Bobs in a row.

 

 

The Chase Was On

I only had one hand free, this morning, when the mayhem began.  The other hand, held a plastic bag full of doggy doo-doo.

When myself, and the two mutts walked around the brick parapet at the entrance of the subdivision, all heck broke loose.

One of the neighborhood “crazy cat lady’s” cats walked, stalked, or whatever cats do, in front of my dogs–who were leashed together.

The leash was out of my hand in an instant, and the chase was on.  Through the first neighbor’s yard, around their boat, parked in the driveway, into the second neighbor’s yard.

Max was baying like a hunting dog, until heard him yelp.  Oh well, they’ve caught up to the cat, I thought.  None of the three seemed any worse off from the experience.  Like is usually the case, no neighbors heard the ruckus.

While You Were Away

In a scene that may yet play out on the “Judge Judy” show, two neighbors were involved in a kerfuffle while walking their dogs.

“Bob M’s” female, Australian shepherd, allegedly jumped on the back of “Fred W’s” cocker spaniel, in an unprovoked attack.  Heated words were exchanged–the two dogs, and their respective owners, were separated.

Being a member of the “Neighborhood Retired Old Farts Dog Walker’s Club,” I know more than I can say, about behavior leading up to this event.

Disproving the “nothing ever happens here” skeptics, there was a recent car chase on the nearby county road, at speeds up to 90 mph.  It ended at the intersection of Wilson Rd. and the county road, when the speeding car met an immovable object.  Two victims, were air-evacuated by helicopter, due to serious injuries.  Details were forthcoming at this writing.

It hasn’t rained for six weeks.  The grass has turned brown, with just a little green in the damp spots.  I expected grass to be at least two-foot high on my return.

The weather has been the same every day–sixty at night, low eighties during the day.  Local meteorologists have put their forecasts on cruise control.  Perfect weather for yard sales.  There are plenty of them this Saturday morning.

Red Delicious Apples

After yesterday’s dismal road food, it was a complete turn-around at a familiar favorite restaurant in my old neighborhood.  The restaurant’s name is similar to the title.

“Under the apple tree,” would be a good guess.  After fifteen years, neighborhoods change.  The neighborhood’s all grown up now.  It’s a little more congested than before.

City planners–that silly traffic circle, serving the state highway and one subdivision entrance street–what’s up with that?

Breakfast was wonderful.  Good service, great food, at reasonable prices.  The parking lot was crowded; that was a familiar good sign.