Mr. Pet Peeve
Becoming a dog owner opens up a whole new world of pet peeves—like walking the dog in the rain, paw prints on freshly waxed floors, and taking out a second mortgage just to pay the vet.
Before I had a dog, life was carefree. I came and went as I pleased, slept 16 hours a day, and wore diapers—just like Grandpa. Ah, to be six months old again, sponging off my parents guilt-free. But then those days vanished, and ever since, it feels like I’ve been attached to dogs by an umbilical cord. And, like my outie belly button, there are certain things that just bug me—like my neighbors, the Grimbolds.
They sit on their balcony all day, waving every time I walk by with the dog, forcing me to wave back, smile, and say hello. I’d love nothing more than to launch a custard pie into their grinning, wrinkly faces, but alas, I’m the neighborhood’s resident Good Samaritan. Not by choice, mind you.
Just ask Edna, the old lady down the block who lives in a shoe but still can’t figure out how to tie its laces, so I do it for her. Every day she tells me, “You’re a saint, Dave,” after her oldest kid, Bartholomew, unties that big ole lace—just because he doesn’t have a private bathroom.
“Bartholomew,” I try to explain, “you’re not getting your own bathroom until your mom gets running water—which, let’s face it, is a stretch when you live in a shoe.” But the kid won’t listen. He’s taken on airs ever since he moved into the big toe.
Just when I think I’m out, the leash pulls me right back into the neighborhood madness—three times a day, no less.
Then again, I’d miss running into Cheyenne, the lithe and lovely yoga instructor. She can’t seem to get enough of me, which is probably why she’s always asking me to mow her lawn, clean her gutters, or fix her leaky roof. I wasn’t born yesterday—I know when a hot babe is into me. I’ll bet one of these days she’ll invite me in for… ahem, tea for two.
Cheyenne, who somehow does yoga while texting and drinking matcha tea, has me convinced I’m her savior. What would she do without me? Bet she couldn't rely on those tanned, toned and sweaty guys hanging around her house all day like that psycho who does push ups in her bed all night. Talk about taking fitness to an extreme—what a nerd!
Now that I think about it, pet peeves aside, owning a dog does keep me connected to the pulse of the neighborhood—the clogged gutters, the gnarly shoe, and the Grimbolds’ relentless waving. It’s the kind of stuff I’ll remember when I’m stuck in an elevator crying, “Mommy!”
Because the fabric of life is woven from the ordinary, the annoying, the weird, and the wonderful—and nothing captures that better than the neighborhood. Nothing. Just ask Edna… maybe she’ll have running water by then.
Before I had a dog, life was carefree. I came and went as I pleased, slept 16 hours a day, and wore diapers—just like Grandpa. Ah, to be six months old again, sponging off my parents guilt-free. But then those days vanished, and ever since, it feels like I’ve been attached to dogs by an umbilical cord. And, like my outie belly button, there are certain things that just bug me—like my neighbors, the Grimbolds.
They sit on their balcony all day, waving every time I walk by with the dog, forcing me to wave back, smile, and say hello. I’d love nothing more than to launch a custard pie into their grinning, wrinkly faces, but alas, I’m the neighborhood’s resident Good Samaritan. Not by choice, mind you.
Just ask Edna, the old lady down the block who lives in a shoe but still can’t figure out how to tie its laces, so I do it for her. Every day she tells me, “You’re a saint, Dave,” after her oldest kid, Bartholomew, unties that big ole lace—just because he doesn’t have a private bathroom.
“Bartholomew,” I try to explain, “you’re not getting your own bathroom until your mom gets running water—which, let’s face it, is a stretch when you live in a shoe.” But the kid won’t listen. He’s taken on airs ever since he moved into the big toe.
Just when I think I’m out, the leash pulls me right back into the neighborhood madness—three times a day, no less.
Then again, I’d miss running into Cheyenne, the lithe and lovely yoga instructor. She can’t seem to get enough of me, which is probably why she’s always asking me to mow her lawn, clean her gutters, or fix her leaky roof. I wasn’t born yesterday—I know when a hot babe is into me. I’ll bet one of these days she’ll invite me in for… ahem, tea for two.
Cheyenne, who somehow does yoga while texting and drinking matcha tea, has me convinced I’m her savior. What would she do without me? Bet she couldn't rely on those tanned, toned and sweaty guys hanging around her house all day like that psycho who does push ups in her bed all night. Talk about taking fitness to an extreme—what a nerd!
Now that I think about it, pet peeves aside, owning a dog does keep me connected to the pulse of the neighborhood—the clogged gutters, the gnarly shoe, and the Grimbolds’ relentless waving. It’s the kind of stuff I’ll remember when I’m stuck in an elevator crying, “Mommy!”
Because the fabric of life is woven from the ordinary, the annoying, the weird, and the wonderful—and nothing captures that better than the neighborhood. Nothing. Just ask Edna… maybe she’ll have running water by then.