Way Too Close

We live too close to our neighbors. Way too close. One day we hope to live on a place with some land around it. I'd like to be able to walk around in my fundawear outside or pee off my deck if I was so inclined or do that crazy Kevin Costner Dances With Wolves Dance out around a big fire out behind the house if the urge struck me. Or just sit and not be able to look inside someone's back sliding glass door. One day. Some day.

When you live in close proximity to neighbors you hear stuff. Way too much stuff. One of the many things we hear from some of our neighbors is their dogs. Two little Shit-zoos (I know the breed is spelled incorrectly, but it's the only form of violence I can extend toward the little buggers right now) who are "let out" regularly throughout the day. And when they're "let out," which is right behind our back fence, they do nothing but yip at each other until they're "let in." This is not the baying of a hound or the excitement of a beagle; no, this is a Shitzooean yip fest for twenty to thirty minutes.

We received a letter last week from the management group for our housing division. Subject? Repeated complaints of barking dogs. Now we have not formally complained, but evidently enough people have to warrant a letter being sent out. But you know the effectiveness of letters, right? A whole lotta nothing. I sat down at the dinner table last night, with the windows open to the brisk CO breezes, to ask everybody around our round table, "Well, tell me about your day?" And what to my wondering ears should appear? Barkapalooza. My girlfriend and I sit down later that evening to catch the forecast for the weekend and just at the moment our weather guru is about to tell us the temps - Yipee-tie-yay. Snuggled up beside the same girlfriend last night because Sept. nights in CO are made for snuggling, getting ready to whisper in her ear the attributes of her beauty and how I dream of peeing off the deck one day and suddenly the crisp, cool silence is broken by the sound of two little oriental of origin peckerwoods. This led to using words my mother told me never to say.

I'm not sure what the solution is, if there even is one. We live too close to our neighbors. Way too close. Of course, I guess I could just go ahead and start living out some of my dreams - walking around outside in my loincloth, relieving myself in broad daylight when I gotta go, and dancing native-like around a cracklin' fire until the wee hours of the morning. Maybe I will. But that would probably prompt a letter from the management group of our housing division. But you know the effectiveness of letters, right?