We are increasingly dog-centric over here these days. It's the fur. It's messing with our minds. It's getting in through our noses and planting puppies inside our brains where they consume our brain tissue and grow. And grow. And no one ever suspects a thing because the missing brain tissue doesn't really seem to be a problem. And then, ONE DAY they come bursting out of our heads RAWWRRRR! in the middle of the workday or during drinks at Elle or at the Ghetto Frys deli. RAWWRRR! Crazy brain puppies tearing around everywhere, skidding down the ice cream aisle and licking all the deli guys and peeing on the archaeology and getting little wet noses into the calamari.
Believe it or not, I meant to transition smoothly after that second sentence up there into a story about the dog next door, Daisy, who has not eaten anyone's brains that I am aware of but who has started crying.
(Lesson #1: see what happens when your creative writing teacher tells you: "Let the story create itself. Let it goooo where it willll. Whooooo! WHOOOOO!" Apparently if you actually do this, your story becomes a story about brain-eating puppies that explode out of your head at inopportune moments in public places. Obviously a suppressed fear of mine. So, all I'm saying is, be careful if you attempt to use this technique.)
But I digress.
As I was saying: The neighbors around here are really starting to disappoint the crap out of me.
Not puppy crying anymore, but desperate, tragic crying, is Daisy's. She's also tearing down her fence to get to Lila. I'm so sad for this dog, who is about a year old, the furry daughter of a mohawked young man who seems like a good, honest kid. She has a little pink collar and leash and when they came over that one time so she could play with Lila, he seemed to be totally smitten with her and we thought: good. A neighbor who will have a healthy, happy dog and who doesn't own a gun as far as we can tell.
But Daisy's no puppy anymore. She's grown up to become a real dog with needs other than eating and sleeping and mouthing things. She's burst out of the brain of puppyhood, you might say, and can no longer sustain herself on gray matter alone. And I don't think her needs are getting fulfilled.
The kid rents the place next door - a guesthouse with a yard the size of a kiddie pool - and he works all day long. So Daisy is confined day-in, day-out in a tiny yard with no room for running or leaping, surrounded by other dogs that she can't get to. As far as we can tell, Daisy never gets out for walks or play, and she has taken to crying all day long, even when he's home, and he has taken to yelling "Shut up!" which leads me to believe the relationship has moved out of the honeymoon phase into the I-wanted-a-puppy-that-doesn't-actually-require-me-to-do-anything-not-this-raging-beast-that-needs-to-go-on-walks-and-eats-my-shoes period. Which so many people get to who haven't thought the whole thing through.
I understand the desire to get a dog, I really, really do. I wanted one for years before I felt like I had room for one and had gotten out of my system the inclination to go out after work and stay out until five in the morning. It's awesome to have a dog waiting for you when you get home, with the slobbering and the sob-sob-sob-oh-I'm-SO-UNBELIEVABLY-HAPPY-that-you-came-home-you-don't-KNOW!!!! But it's not so awesome, I guess, for the dog who's doing the waiting. Especially if she's a puppy who barely has room to chase a ball in her own yard.
Poor Daisy. I wonder if she still has her pink collar?