Real Friends Post Bail
and forgive you even if they ♥ PETA. My backyard neighbors are asshats. The whole goddamn lot of them. Between the two I'm connected to they have about 145 dogs. Or maybe it just sounds like that because they neglect them so horribly. And they bark. and bark. andbarkandbarkandbarkandbarkandbark. All too often over the past six weeks or so a couple of them hit this pitch that gets my Xanax nerve, and it occurs several hours a day during the day, and several hours a night.
Let me backtrack. I've called Animal Control. I've played the "document the barking" for 20 days game. Basically it's just punishment for the crazy lady. The asshats get nothing. Oh, the ones directly behind us had to bring their dog's immunizations current. And their children then tormented mine for it.
So about three weeks ago RoboCop was sleeping elsewhere and the barking wasn't ceasing. After about an hour I was having a panic attack. Another half hour and I was fully hysterical, my only lucidity being the argument in my brain about how Dr. Adorable would agree with me that after FOUR MONTHS of abstaining THIS would, indeed, be a Xanax moment. But I decided, HELL TO THE FUCK NO I am not going to break my sobriety over this bullshit.
I jammed my feet into some shoes. Stomped through the house into the garage and grabbed a claw hammer. I blazed through the backyard, along the back fence where the back neighbor's pitbull was jumping almost eye to eye with me and barking away (the grade is off, so it's not 6 feet). I hit the fence with the broad side of the hammer a couple of times and growled at him, "SHUT THE FUCK UP". He backed down. The coup de grace, though, was my next move. I climbed our giant tree in the back corner so I was facing the back of the corner neighbors house and yelled at the top of my lungs (rather from the bottom of my diaphragm- thank you cheerleading camp 1989), "SHUT YOUR FUCKING DOGS UP". I stood there in the tree, with my claw hammer, just waiting for someone to give me shit, because if they did I was gonna come down out of that tree and bury it two inches into their skull, but lo and behold they called their dogs in.
So I walked across the yard, into the garage, threw the hammer in with the tools making quite a ruckus, and slammed my way into the house where the lights were now on and a jaw-dropped, dazed RoboCop asked me what I was doing. I pushed past him and shouted, "DEALING WITH IT." And we went to bed.
Amanda's was silent like night in the desert.
For many nights.
And there was much rejoicing.
But it's starting again and it's hitting that Xanax nerve. I told RoboCop they wouldn't be alive when he got home. He got online and started looking at radioultrasonicantibarkers, and telling me to make friends with them. Feed them. Get them so fat they can't bark. I laughed.
There was no laughing, though, when he asked me not to go to jail over some dogs.
Let me backtrack. I've called Animal Control. I've played the "document the barking" for 20 days game. Basically it's just punishment for the crazy lady. The asshats get nothing. Oh, the ones directly behind us had to bring their dog's immunizations current. And their children then tormented mine for it.
So about three weeks ago RoboCop was sleeping elsewhere and the barking wasn't ceasing. After about an hour I was having a panic attack. Another half hour and I was fully hysterical, my only lucidity being the argument in my brain about how Dr. Adorable would agree with me that after FOUR MONTHS of abstaining THIS would, indeed, be a Xanax moment. But I decided, HELL TO THE FUCK NO I am not going to break my sobriety over this bullshit.
I jammed my feet into some shoes. Stomped through the house into the garage and grabbed a claw hammer. I blazed through the backyard, along the back fence where the back neighbor's pitbull was jumping almost eye to eye with me and barking away (the grade is off, so it's not 6 feet). I hit the fence with the broad side of the hammer a couple of times and growled at him, "SHUT THE FUCK UP". He backed down. The coup de grace, though, was my next move. I climbed our giant tree in the back corner so I was facing the back of the corner neighbors house and yelled at the top of my lungs (rather from the bottom of my diaphragm- thank you cheerleading camp 1989), "SHUT YOUR FUCKING DOGS UP". I stood there in the tree, with my claw hammer, just waiting for someone to give me shit, because if they did I was gonna come down out of that tree and bury it two inches into their skull, but lo and behold they called their dogs in.
So I walked across the yard, into the garage, threw the hammer in with the tools making quite a ruckus, and slammed my way into the house where the lights were now on and a jaw-dropped, dazed RoboCop asked me what I was doing. I pushed past him and shouted, "DEALING WITH IT." And we went to bed.
Amanda's was silent like night in the desert.
For many nights.
And there was much rejoicing.
But it's starting again and it's hitting that Xanax nerve. I told RoboCop they wouldn't be alive when he got home. He got online and started looking at radioultrasonicantibarkers, and telling me to make friends with them. Feed them. Get them so fat they can't bark. I laughed.
There was no laughing, though, when he asked me not to go to jail over some dogs.