Dogs

It has been over a month since I last blogged. What have I been doing? Absolutely nothing. Nada. Zip.

After the musical was over, I spent most of my free time studying for the GRE in mid-January (which I've come to the conclusion stands for Grades Really in Excess). I believe this because every publication I've read, the GRE is simply taken to prove to Graduate Studies Programs that you're willing to suffer months of self-torture, loathing, and convincing yourself that you might fail, only to scrape by and survive with only some minor degree of lupus or hemorrhaging. If you can survive that sort of flagellation, then graduate recruiters want your squishy pink hide to come and slave away for their researching professors. Every publication professes that the GRE is just one small aspect of what recruiters look at, like how a pimp may factor in the height of his newest employee's heels as just one part of the whole enchilada. So the stress was all completely unnecessary, and now I have a new batch of numbers that apparently help project what sort of intelligence I may have gleaned from sixteen years of schooling. I think in 30 seconds of conversation you can tell more than a glance at some digits; unless the digits are 666, then you shouldn't be friends with that person. And you should run. Fast.

Probably the primary reason I haven't written much recently is that nothing extraordinary has happened to me in the last six weeks. I took the GRE, some best friends moved out of town, a really good friend landed a job in Pittsburgh and is leaving, some other best friends are considering ending their marriage, and I got some free sandals from Teva. Thanks Teva, my old black, velcro sandals from 1998 are apparently no longer hip. These however, are hip. (and if your picturing it right now, NO I never wore socks when I wore sandals - completely out of the question).

Plus, I'm a summer junkie. That's when all the best and most interesting stuff happens - concerts, amusement parks, camping, road trips - all the fun stuff you can do in the warmth. How many times can I write "I chiseled my car out of the snow again today," and it still be interesting? 0.

So, here is the only minor, semi, kinda, sorta, mildly interesting thing that has happened (and I apologize in advance, since it's more of a rant than a comedic rendition, as I was livid when it happened, and I get livid just about as often as Bob Marley got NOT high).

Allison was scheduled to take the GRE this past Monday, February 2. We have both been resolved that we want a future, but we have no idea when to begin it or what it should entail. However, we feel the GRE is a semi-essential part to making that future happen - like bringing a pocket knife camping (you don't know when you'll need it, but the time will come, and you know you'll go "DAMMIT, if ONLY I had a pocket knife" when that time comes and you left it at home). She studied extremely hard for the GRE and put in tons and tons of hours studying (which means I put in tons and tons of hours of reading, napping, and video-gaming). The night before the exam, we wanted to guarantee she got a full night's sleep, to be fresh and ready to kick some serious Get Reading for Excitement testing. We opted to stay at my place. Why?

Allison lives in a circus. To begin, her apartment is WAY hipper and trendier than mine, she simply has an eye for decoration and style that apparently got stabbed out of my forehead when I was a simple infant (please see childhood photo: age 3, with the extra hole in the noggin, and I'm wearing a navy blue t-shirt with black pants and brown shoes). Although she has created quite the comfortable oasis sanctuary, elements outside of her control have taken the great zen of the dwelling, slapped it around, put it in a package, and mailed it to Bali.

The apartment is steam heated, which means two things. #1: The apartment is a sweltering tropical abyss in which the effort required to drink from a straw causes sweat and fatigue. #2: The pipes BANG all. freaking. night. Beginning at 11 p.m., and running sporadically throughout the witching hours, the pipes thunder and clang enough to cause objects to shake and rattle throughout the apartment; and at 3 a.m. without warning, makes you suddenly feel like the Blitzkrieg skipped London, flew to Cincinnati, and just went hog wild on your pillow. We have earplugs, but its kind of like taking a sponge to the day of Katrina and saying "stop wave, I'll sponge you!"

Allison also owns a cat, Jasper. I have been allergic to cats since I was born; but for Allison, I'm doing everything within my sinusy power to make it work. I'm becoming a little more accustomed to the cute furball (yes, I admit he's cute), but I still sneeze and cough pretty regularly when I visit. He is a nocturnal rocket, so the minute you lay down to sleep, he immediately wants to play invisible Twister on your chest, dives off the bed to show Michael Phelps up (not that Jasper smokes pot), and leaps from window to window constantly to investigate the oncoming intruding zombies he imagines are out there. Cute? Yes. Tolerable? No.

To layer it on more, Allison's upstairs neighbors are raging, around the clock alcoholics. Besides the fact that they're simply awkward and uncomfortable people to encounter in the hallway (picture Joe Dirt, but not charming), they create more noise than Fran Dresher laughing for three hours straight. Joe drives when they go out on the town to get sauced, and while they're away attempting to drown themselves (please see article: Economic Strategy: Drinking the Recession Away?), their massive dog barks consistently and deeply for hours on end. It's loud, and it echoes off the buildings around us. Despite knocking on the door and leaving messages, the dog has been allowed to continue to make this noise. I'm beginning to believe he's actually been hired as a sort of of lighthouse to keep cars from crashing into the building.

The neighbors fly into the backyard at around midnight with their stereo, which is made of three pieces of aluminum foil, a spring, and two trash can lids, blaring. You know the kind - one of those stereos the driver thinks is pimped out, but actually just rattles the metal of the car and sounds like your angry grandma rattling at the screen door to be let back inside in the summer? They then proceed up to their apartment, where they engage in Capture the Flag, wrestling, hide and go seek, and American Gladiator's final challenge Olympic games with their dog. For about and hour.

So, when it came to GRE night, we were staying at my place.

As we laid down to bed around midnight on the silent, quiet, desolate winter street, we both breathed a synchronized sigh of relief to the peace and quiet that filled the room. And just as our eyelids lazily closed, and the sugar plums began to dance in our heads......

WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!

We both laid in silence, trying to pretend that it wasn't happening.

WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!

"dammit....." slipped like a noxious gas from between my lips.

We rolled over and looked out the window, and sure enough, the neighbor kitty-corner to me had left his dog outside (mind you, it's midnight on a sub-freezing winter evening) after the Superbowl. As the little black hound ran back in forth in the snow blanketing the fenced in yard of the person's hovel, he barked loud and consistently, probably something like, "help! I'm freaking cold! He's passed out drunk! Bacon!" But alas, his little barks that echoed off all of the brick buildings up and down my silent winter street were to no avail, and it just. kept. going.

This was a problem back in the fall, but just as I had called animal control back in September when the Animal Street I live on had reached it's maximum decibels of chorus, it got cold, and all the dog owners took their pets inside. But now, on the night we needed sleep the most, I had had enough. I hopped out of bed, put on my boots and disheveled "I'm really pissed and this is my disgruntled outfit" ensemble, considered arming myself (but didn't), and stomped outside.

I approached the guy's fence, and sir-wags-a-lot came up and announced his presence over and over again. I wanted to go to the guys' door and knock on it, but in case the dog's "I'm friendly, pet me" act was all just a ploy, and he was a flesh-hungry demon ready to devour me, I opted not to risk the front-yard endeavor. I considered throwing a snowball at his window; but we were below freezing, and the packed snow could be really hard, and the last thing I wanted was an angry neighbor coming at me with a shotgun because I smashed his window (but then at least the dog would have a way to jump back inside and be quiet). So, I did the most rational thing I could think of - I rattled the gate to the fence and shouted. Through his front door window, I could see the tv on and his head cocked back in the couch. Did he care? No. He had better things to do, like see just how far his butt could sink down in the cushion. Me? A priority? No.

After five minutes of rattling and shouting, I walked back across the frozen street as the dog behind me pleaded, "please, no, don't go, god I'm cold, he never lets me ride in the car!"

Back inside the warmth of my home, Allison and I debated our options. Both of our parents' houses were a good 30 minutes away, so it'd be 1 a.m. before we got to bed. Hotels in the area were just way too expensive, so a room for the night was out. I did the last thing I could think of - I called the police.

We anxiously sat by the window, our breaths fogging up the glass with each exhale, as we waited and watched for the cop to arrive and for swift, merciless justice to be dealt. Within five minutes, the cruiser pulled up (our hearts beat with victory) and then drove away. Really? That was it!? Then the cruiser came by from another street this time (ah hah, getting a better angle to drive into the guys' living room), but then he just pulled away. What the crap is he doing?! Then after fifteen minutes, the cop pulled up, parked, and got out of the car.

We thought the moment had come, that justice would be served and we would receive a night of dreamless, peaceful rest. He approached the fence, looked at the guys' front door, walked back and forth, rattled the fence door, shined his flashlight down the side of the house, AND THEN GOT BACK IN HIS CAR AND LEFT! Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I called the police back and explained what I had just witnessed, and ask how that resolved anything. "Officers can't enter a front yard where a dog is present," was her response. Woah woah woah woah woah. So let me get this straight. Cops can bust down doors where guys are makin' a meth lab and are armed with uzi's, assist in the salvation of residents in a burning building, and even perform routine traffic stops on a busy highway at rush hour in blinding snow, BUT YOU CAN'T ENTER A YARD IF A DOG THAT COMES UP TO YOUR KNEE IS PRESENT AND BARKING?! Holy mother of let-down. I asked, "so where do we go from here?" The dispatcher responded that the cop would check back again in the night, but couldn't enter the lawn until the dog was gone. THE WHOLE PROBLEM IS THAT THE DOG IS OUTSIDE. I gave up, and realized that yet again, red tape had ruined what seemed a simple solution.

Allison and I had a moment of very difficult frustration, which I will not go into detail here out of respect. But, things were not well in the household. We opted to drive back to her apartment, and sleep away the night with earplugs. As a final resort, we called some great friends of mine (at 1 a.m.) who live in the area, and asked if we could use their guestroom. They have the patience, kindness, and understanding of all the Buddhist monks in history put together. They graciously said "yes," and in all honesty, we had the best and quietest night's sleep we'd had in months. Allison took the GRE the next day, and did splendidly.

I wished the story stopped here, but on Wednesday night, when we hit sun-zero temperatures, the dog was left out again. I think the owner is testing to see how cold the dog can actually get, trying to prep him for the Iditerod. He barked all night, begging for salvation from the ice forming beneath his paws. In the morning, I called animal control, since the police refused to help. The man on the other end, upset by the injustice (yes, I was upset by the barking, but now leaving the little guy out in the sub zero is not cool, the only cool Sub Zero shot snowballs out of his hands), he promised to "pay that gentleman a visit" on Friday (today). We will see what happens.

I love animals, I always have. Growing up I had countless goldfish and Green Anole lizards, and four different dogs, who were all awesome in different ways (although I'm allergic to the little ones now). But when you're a dog owner, you have a responsibility to not only take care of your pet, but to respect your neighbors who are paying hard-earned money to live in that neighborhood. Giving your pet "fresh air" does not mean leaving it out all night in the frigid winter. There are tournaments, paintballing, road trips, and another show on the way - so I promise far more thrilling tales to come. But for now, please keep your dogs inside :).