Maybe I'm Just a Jerk

Okay. I need advice. Lymburnites and former visitors to Lymburn, do you remember Nana the Barking Dog? Owned by Alex, the Russian pickup-truck-opera-singer? Son-in-law to Smirnoff-Limeric-Guy? Well, there's a dog across the street from us that makes Nana seem... well, downright loveable.

For those of you who haven't been out to visit us, we like in a sort of subdivision in the country. All the lots in our neighbourhood are about an acre. But it's not the country, it is defintely a subdivision. Kitty-corner from us are neighbours that we haven't met yet. They have a big, German-Shepherdish dog. The dog gets tied outside to a short rope near their driveway around 6:30 a.m. every day and stays outside until nighttime. And it barks. All. Day.

Now, this is fairly annoying at 2 p.m. when I'm trying to study, or in the summer when I'm gardening and it's barking at me the whole time, but whatever. I can deal with it. What I'm finding increasingly hard to handle is the unremittant (sp?) 6:30 to 8:30 a.m. barking. Should I mention that I don't have to get out of bed until 8, or 7:15 at the very earliest? So I lie there, tired and cranky for up to an hour and a half, listening to this dog's constant barking until my alarm goes off.

Last summer, I was working at the garden centre in Sackville, a half-hour from the house. Back then, I had to be up shortly after 6 to get to work. One night, while Trent was away on a business trip, I went to bed shortly after 10. Immediately, the dog started barking. And didn't stop until after 1 a.m. Finally, shortly after midnight, almost in tears, I called a noise complaint in to the police. Althought it didn't stop the dog barking that night, I didn't hear the damned beast for over a week after that. Now, you should probably know that I felt terrible about calling the police on my neighbours, especially since I've never met them. It's the first time I've ever done that, and so far, the last... now here's where I need your help.

We only know three of our neighbours really well. Two of the three have mentioned Barking Dog to us--it seems to be a neighbourhood annoyance. And there are other barky dogs around (they're dogs--they bark. I know this, and generally, I consider it a minor nuisance) but none that bark early in the morning, all day long, and sometimes late at night. Also, it makes me angry that these people even have a dog--I've never seen them walk it, and it spends literally all day tied to a short leash. Frankly, I feel sorry for the thing. However, I feel even more sorry for me at this point.

Now. I know that I can sometimes be a little... less than reasonable when things annoy me, so I need some advice here. Do I:

• Call in another noise complaint early one morning?
• Send a letter or email to the noise police and maybe the SPCA?
• Go across the street, introduce myself, and ask them not to let their dog bark in the morning?
• Just learn to deal with it?

Or is there another solution I haven't thought of yet?

The Tequila Guy's Name Was Che Che.

We had a fantabulous trip to Mexico... and a rotten flight home. I'll tell more about it later. For now, I'll leave you with a few pics from Mom & Dad's camera... I won't say much about them, except that our Las Caletas trip featured an open bar. See if you can pick out the pics from the boat ride home...

Don't Take This the Wrong Way But...

...I hope it snows on your heads all next week. On account of Trent, Mom & Dad S., Paulie, Phidit and I will be basking in the Mexican sunshine. With cervezas and kaluhas con crema. And somehow, tropical vacations are always better when you know that you've escaped some really crappy weather.

Three more sleeps! (Actually, two-and-a-half more sleeps, since we have to get up crazy early to catch our flight on Saturday.)

Pero El Mono Es Muy Loco...

So. Tiger for Marlowe, no tiger for Ozzy. And I feel pretty bad. After all, he's 0 for 2 now. I call Trent and work and tell him the story and ask him to please please please stop at Superstore on the way home and pick up the monkey I'd vetoed in favour of El Tigre. And I spend an anxious afternoon, coddling and apologizing to Ozzy, while secretly celebrating the fact that Marlowe is half-trotting, half-stumbling around with a little yellow catnip tiger in her mouth. And Enkidu gets in on the excitment, and starts carrying her plush mouse around, meowing through it to let me know what a mighty hunter she is.

Finally Trent gets home, triumphantly pulls the monkey out of the package, and presents it to Ozzy. Ozzy sniffs it and walks away distainfully, still eyeing El Tigre. Trent and I try the switcheroo: Mono for Tigre, but Marlowe doesn't want the monkey either. Nobody wants the monkey.

Ozzy did, however, display a brief interest in the plastic wrapper that Mono came packaged in...

El Tigre Es Muy Macho.

Last Fall, we got an exciting "birth" announcement: Greg and Nadine sent us a picture of their new kitty, Ruby Soho. ("Oh, cute! Trent, let's get a new kitten, too!" "No.") So we picked out a fuzzy little catnip toy for Ruby Soho (and one for James Brown, too-can't leave the older sibling out). Only, before I had a chance to wrap and send it, Ozzy found it and tried to make off with it. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of point in giving Ozzy cat toys, because Marlowe usually just gets them and eats them. Plus, this was Ruby Soho's toy. Sorry Ozzy.

Now, since Marlowe hurt her back, she's been too sore and weak to play much. And, while I was grocery shopping last week, I found some other cute, little catnip toys. I had trouble choosing between the yellow tiger and the brown monkey, but I eventually settled on El Tigre. I brought it home, took it out of the package, and gave it to Ozzy, who sniffed at it in his usual, cautious way. ("Mom wants me to have this. Is it safe? Can I betray my enthusiasm and bite it like I really want to, or do I have to maintain my dignity for another minute here?") So I start putting away groceries, and I hear Marlowe getting out of bed. (Since she can hardly move her hind legs, "getting out of bed" is actually a euphemism. She kind of drags her bed behind her until her hinquarters finally slide free.) A moment later, I hear her little nails clicking on the tiles much more quickly than they have been lately, and her collar jingle as she shakes herself. I look over, and Marlowe is looking much happier than she has since her trip to the Emergency Vet clinic: her tail is wagging, she's standing, not falling over, and her ears are perked up. Oh, and she's got El Tigre in her mouth. Ozzy looks from Marlowe to me as if to say, "What just happened here?"

You know what? I've just decided to serialize this post, a-la-Victorian-novel. Stay tuned for the continuation.