Code Name Edna
LJ Idol, Week Eleven
In the back yard of our house, there used to be a dog run nicknamed Dogcatraz. Originally, this ominously named structure was built to contain Crystal, the Labrador puppy we obtained shortly after moving into our house five years ago.
I know what you're thinking, "Labrador puppies are so sweet! If you have a fence, why not just let her play in the back yard when you're not at home?"
Clearly, you've never actually owned a Labrador. The problem was that young Crystal loved chewing on wood. No, not just harmless wooden sticks, her hunger included the rocking chairs on our patio (since replaced with ones made from wrought iron), the wooden privacy fence surrounding the back yard, and even the wooden fascia around our back door. In short, if our house hadn't been primarily made from brick, I have no doubt that she would've done her doggie best to literally eat us out of house and home.
So, my wife and I decided to build Dogcatraz, a chain link fence surrounding several feet of the back yard, floored with paving stones to avoid escape through digging. After a few successful escapes over the top of the fence line, and failed attempts to solve the problem with various tarpaulins, I also built a wooden roof for Dogcatraz in the garage. This endeavor involved several two-by-fours, three sheets of ply wood, nails, and a hammer. When completed, I had created a monstrosity which required assistance from our next door neighbor to be put in place, two very sore thumbs, and an aversion to carpentry in general. Even worse, as if to add insult to my very tangible injuries, once installed, the glorious kennel cover had a noticeable sag in its middle.
Bruised ego and thumbs not withstanding however, for a few weeks after the roof installation I thought that I had finally solved the "Crystal problem." What I didn't count on was the arrival of an unexpected and uninvited guest.
Who was the guest? I'm sure you've heard of him, the hammer-wielding Norse God of thunder, also credited as being the embodiment of storms and lightning. (With all that hammer swinging he did, I wonder if he ever got sore thumbs too?) Yup, I'm talking about Thor.
His dramatic arrival one Spring evening had no discernable affect upon Crystal, but thoroughly spooked my Seeing Eye Dog, Marshall. Although I pretty much always take Marshall with me when I'm traveling, I have often left him at home to keep Crystal company when the family and I were out running errands. On this occasion, we had just returned home, and I was using the bathroom in the master bedroom. My first indication that anything was seriously wrong was when I heard a startlingly loud crashing noise from the back yard.
Temporarily trapped, I yelled to my wife and both kids, but they had decided to stay in front and play an impromptu basketball game, and were consequently out of earshot. When the crashing noise from the back yard was repeated, I quickly finished what I was doing, and ran outside.
When I emerged from the back door, I was greeted by an exuberant Crystal, and occasional grumbling rolls of thunder from the unwanted guest, Thor. In the few minutes since I had last been outside, the temperature had dropped several degrees, and occasional wind gusts were kicking up leaves around my feet. Yellow, not only in color, but also in temperament, Marshall, the cause of the crashing noises I had heard, was hurling himself against the gate to the back yard.
That was when I made the mistake. I grabbed a convenient leash, hooked up Crystal to one end, rounded up Marshall, verified that he wasn't bleeding, and connected him to the opposite end. I towed both dogs back across the yard to Dogcatraz, and unsuccessfully tried to get them both to go back inside.
Yes, I know, my baby was frightened, and by all rights I should've taken him inside immediately, but the noise he had made crashing into the gate had thoroughly unnerved me and sounded pretty destructive. For some reason, I thought it was important to make sure our gate hadn't been seriously damaged.
Unfortunately, although Crystal was happy enough to go anywhere I aimed her, Marshall wasn't pleased with the idea of returning to the enclosure from which he had so recently escaped. Eventually, I got them both inside, and while blocking the open gate with my legs, started twisting the gate latch they had knocked askew back into position. Marshall shoved at my legs, and pushing him back with one leg, I firmly told him no.
As soon as I had successfully latched the gate and turned a way, a hysterical voice screamed at me.
"I saw you kicking your dogs!"
Shocked, I turned and stared at the back fence where the voice had come from.
"I did not!" I protested.
"You did too!" she retorted, still screaming. "I saw you, and I'm going to call the police!"
Exasperated, I said, "I don't know what you thought you saw, but I would never kick my dogs."
I turned away, and again started walking towards the back gate. Her response to my denial, still voiced at the top of her lungs, was a string of obscenities, interspersed with repeated threats to call the police.
"Look," I said, once again turning to face her, "I don't know what medication you're on, but go ahead and call the police if you want to." By now, I had recognized her voice, and knew which neighbor I was dealing with. "You can tell them what you think you saw, and I can tell them about how I hear you constantly screaming at your kids."
I don't doubt that things would've degenerated further, but right about then, her husband came outside, convinced her to lay off, and ushered her back inside their house. I assessed the back gate, found it surprisingly free of damage, and then did what I should've done from the start, took both dogs inside.
A couple of hours passed, and I had pretty much forgotten all about the evening's back yard incident when the doorbell rang. I answered it, only to find a rather apologetic police officer on my doorstep, telling me that my neighbor had in fact reported me for animal abuse, and asking to see both dogs. I let him inside, related my version of events, and showed him where both dogs were sleeping on a sofa we had bought them from Ikea. After petting each of them, he said that the animal abuse report would have to go on my record, but that it would include his statement saying that he saw no evidence of any abuse.
Months passed, and we eventually decided to disassemble Dogcatraz. Unlike its namesake on the west coast, it had proven to be remarkably ineffective at containing the inmates in its care, and to my chagrin, was also evolving into a rather unsightly eyesore. Doggie free time in the back yard was closely monitored, and both pups were rapidly brought inside whenever Thor began clearing his throat.
As for the hysterical neighbor, my wife and I had code named her Edna, mostly for concealment when we were discussing her antics with our friends in the back yard. Sadly, I still heard her yelling at her children upon occasion, but she thankfully refrained from screaming at me over her fence again. Perhaps influenced by my former efforts with the ill-fated Dogcatraz, she and her husband constructed what my wife reported to be a hideously colored and oddly shaped pergola, which fragrantly violated our HOA's standards by extending above their house's roof line. Then, I found Tucker.
Tucker was an adorable little wiener dog who trotted into my garage one afternoon while I was packing equipment for an out of town trip.
"Why hello there," I said, scooping him up. "Where did you come from?"
I noticed that he was wearing a collar with a tag, but given my visual limitations, couldn't read it. I half expected his owner to come hurrying around the corner calling him any second, but after several minutes, no one had appeared. I tried ringing the doorbells of the neighbors to either side of me, but nobody was home.
I took him inside, gave him some water, and contacted animal control. They told me that they had no reports from owners of any missing dogs in my area, and unhelpfully said that they couldn't pick him up until the next day. I let him camp out in my office while I continued packing, and had my daughter read me his tag when she got home.
"His name is Tucker," she reported, "and there's a phone number too."
I called the phone number Amanda read me, reported that I had found Tucker, and was told by a grateful sounding man that his wife would be by to pick him up shortly.
Soon after, a relieved lady rang my doorbell, thanked me several times, and departed with Tucker.
"Daddy," Amanda said as soon as she left, "that was Edna!"
I gawked at her in disbelief for a moment, and then said, "Rats! You should've told me it was her. Now we'll have to scale the back fence and rescue poor Tucker."
Humming the Mission Impossible theme, both of us, along with Marshall and Crystal, adjourned to the back yard to formulate the rescue plan.
Dan
In the back yard of our house, there used to be a dog run nicknamed Dogcatraz. Originally, this ominously named structure was built to contain Crystal, the Labrador puppy we obtained shortly after moving into our house five years ago.
I know what you're thinking, "Labrador puppies are so sweet! If you have a fence, why not just let her play in the back yard when you're not at home?"
Clearly, you've never actually owned a Labrador. The problem was that young Crystal loved chewing on wood. No, not just harmless wooden sticks, her hunger included the rocking chairs on our patio (since replaced with ones made from wrought iron), the wooden privacy fence surrounding the back yard, and even the wooden fascia around our back door. In short, if our house hadn't been primarily made from brick, I have no doubt that she would've done her doggie best to literally eat us out of house and home.
So, my wife and I decided to build Dogcatraz, a chain link fence surrounding several feet of the back yard, floored with paving stones to avoid escape through digging. After a few successful escapes over the top of the fence line, and failed attempts to solve the problem with various tarpaulins, I also built a wooden roof for Dogcatraz in the garage. This endeavor involved several two-by-fours, three sheets of ply wood, nails, and a hammer. When completed, I had created a monstrosity which required assistance from our next door neighbor to be put in place, two very sore thumbs, and an aversion to carpentry in general. Even worse, as if to add insult to my very tangible injuries, once installed, the glorious kennel cover had a noticeable sag in its middle.
Bruised ego and thumbs not withstanding however, for a few weeks after the roof installation I thought that I had finally solved the "Crystal problem." What I didn't count on was the arrival of an unexpected and uninvited guest.
Who was the guest? I'm sure you've heard of him, the hammer-wielding Norse God of thunder, also credited as being the embodiment of storms and lightning. (With all that hammer swinging he did, I wonder if he ever got sore thumbs too?) Yup, I'm talking about Thor.
His dramatic arrival one Spring evening had no discernable affect upon Crystal, but thoroughly spooked my Seeing Eye Dog, Marshall. Although I pretty much always take Marshall with me when I'm traveling, I have often left him at home to keep Crystal company when the family and I were out running errands. On this occasion, we had just returned home, and I was using the bathroom in the master bedroom. My first indication that anything was seriously wrong was when I heard a startlingly loud crashing noise from the back yard.
Temporarily trapped, I yelled to my wife and both kids, but they had decided to stay in front and play an impromptu basketball game, and were consequently out of earshot. When the crashing noise from the back yard was repeated, I quickly finished what I was doing, and ran outside.
When I emerged from the back door, I was greeted by an exuberant Crystal, and occasional grumbling rolls of thunder from the unwanted guest, Thor. In the few minutes since I had last been outside, the temperature had dropped several degrees, and occasional wind gusts were kicking up leaves around my feet. Yellow, not only in color, but also in temperament, Marshall, the cause of the crashing noises I had heard, was hurling himself against the gate to the back yard.
That was when I made the mistake. I grabbed a convenient leash, hooked up Crystal to one end, rounded up Marshall, verified that he wasn't bleeding, and connected him to the opposite end. I towed both dogs back across the yard to Dogcatraz, and unsuccessfully tried to get them both to go back inside.
Yes, I know, my baby was frightened, and by all rights I should've taken him inside immediately, but the noise he had made crashing into the gate had thoroughly unnerved me and sounded pretty destructive. For some reason, I thought it was important to make sure our gate hadn't been seriously damaged.
Unfortunately, although Crystal was happy enough to go anywhere I aimed her, Marshall wasn't pleased with the idea of returning to the enclosure from which he had so recently escaped. Eventually, I got them both inside, and while blocking the open gate with my legs, started twisting the gate latch they had knocked askew back into position. Marshall shoved at my legs, and pushing him back with one leg, I firmly told him no.
As soon as I had successfully latched the gate and turned a way, a hysterical voice screamed at me.
"I saw you kicking your dogs!"
Shocked, I turned and stared at the back fence where the voice had come from.
"I did not!" I protested.
"You did too!" she retorted, still screaming. "I saw you, and I'm going to call the police!"
Exasperated, I said, "I don't know what you thought you saw, but I would never kick my dogs."
I turned away, and again started walking towards the back gate. Her response to my denial, still voiced at the top of her lungs, was a string of obscenities, interspersed with repeated threats to call the police.
"Look," I said, once again turning to face her, "I don't know what medication you're on, but go ahead and call the police if you want to." By now, I had recognized her voice, and knew which neighbor I was dealing with. "You can tell them what you think you saw, and I can tell them about how I hear you constantly screaming at your kids."
I don't doubt that things would've degenerated further, but right about then, her husband came outside, convinced her to lay off, and ushered her back inside their house. I assessed the back gate, found it surprisingly free of damage, and then did what I should've done from the start, took both dogs inside.
A couple of hours passed, and I had pretty much forgotten all about the evening's back yard incident when the doorbell rang. I answered it, only to find a rather apologetic police officer on my doorstep, telling me that my neighbor had in fact reported me for animal abuse, and asking to see both dogs. I let him inside, related my version of events, and showed him where both dogs were sleeping on a sofa we had bought them from Ikea. After petting each of them, he said that the animal abuse report would have to go on my record, but that it would include his statement saying that he saw no evidence of any abuse.
Months passed, and we eventually decided to disassemble Dogcatraz. Unlike its namesake on the west coast, it had proven to be remarkably ineffective at containing the inmates in its care, and to my chagrin, was also evolving into a rather unsightly eyesore. Doggie free time in the back yard was closely monitored, and both pups were rapidly brought inside whenever Thor began clearing his throat.
As for the hysterical neighbor, my wife and I had code named her Edna, mostly for concealment when we were discussing her antics with our friends in the back yard. Sadly, I still heard her yelling at her children upon occasion, but she thankfully refrained from screaming at me over her fence again. Perhaps influenced by my former efforts with the ill-fated Dogcatraz, she and her husband constructed what my wife reported to be a hideously colored and oddly shaped pergola, which fragrantly violated our HOA's standards by extending above their house's roof line. Then, I found Tucker.
Tucker was an adorable little wiener dog who trotted into my garage one afternoon while I was packing equipment for an out of town trip.
"Why hello there," I said, scooping him up. "Where did you come from?"
I noticed that he was wearing a collar with a tag, but given my visual limitations, couldn't read it. I half expected his owner to come hurrying around the corner calling him any second, but after several minutes, no one had appeared. I tried ringing the doorbells of the neighbors to either side of me, but nobody was home.
I took him inside, gave him some water, and contacted animal control. They told me that they had no reports from owners of any missing dogs in my area, and unhelpfully said that they couldn't pick him up until the next day. I let him camp out in my office while I continued packing, and had my daughter read me his tag when she got home.
"His name is Tucker," she reported, "and there's a phone number too."
I called the phone number Amanda read me, reported that I had found Tucker, and was told by a grateful sounding man that his wife would be by to pick him up shortly.
Soon after, a relieved lady rang my doorbell, thanked me several times, and departed with Tucker.
"Daddy," Amanda said as soon as she left, "that was Edna!"
I gawked at her in disbelief for a moment, and then said, "Rats! You should've told me it was her. Now we'll have to scale the back fence and rescue poor Tucker."
Humming the Mission Impossible theme, both of us, along with Marshall and Crystal, adjourned to the back yard to formulate the rescue plan.
Dan