The Woeful Tales Of Expired Neighbors IT MUST HAVE BEEN 1985. ...or 1986. ...or maybe 1987, even. I was in high school, anyway. A number of neighbors lived next to us between Jan. 8, 1978 and October 30, 1994. But Jenny had to be the most "interesting". She had a lower, back-o-th'-throat kinda voice, thick in British accent. You could hear her muttering constantly to nobody, her daughter, Tom Brown and eventually Troy. At the very first, she was neighborly, this turned sour quickly, as most OCDs are easily offended. Our trash can "grazing" the property line between us was the first of many such occurrences. Tom Brown was quiet. He was always there. Never made much fuss about anything. Always being berated to the point of torture, she totally “owned” him. Oh yea, Tom Brown is a type of Terrier and yes, a dog. He acted like one, too. We had once a turkey in the freezer that was much past its good date. Eventually the time came for this bird to give up its estate in the freezer for food more appropriate for consumption. Mom said to throw it out. So I did. I did exactly that. I threw. It out. Out the back door. There were woods, and a hill. No problem. I watched as that bird rolled about 10 feet and hit a tree. It rested at the base of this tree. I went inside. About 2 days later, in the middle of a very hot summer, the turkey revisited our home. Not through the way it left, no. But through every other way, mostly the windows, which had to be firmly shut by this point. I was very sorry. Jenny and Tom Brown went for walks in the evenings, and the way of the woods was frequented by their outings. We were uncomfortably inside our house-oven one such evening, then the words... No. No! NOOOOO! TOM BROWN! NOOOOO! TOM BROWN! BAD DOG! Somehow the stench and the heat were a little more bearable at this point in time. And a story is born that will be told and received with many tears of laughter, but alas, this chapter in the story is over, and so is Tom Brown, having been “assigned” to pushing up daisies. TROY WAS FROM SCOTLAND. ...or at least his ancestors. He was a Scotty. And a mutt. Every day when I got home from school Troy was waiting on me. He was not quiet like his predecessor. He was a rogue. I would come home, and through the fence (which was about 7 feet high, and wooden so one could only see through the slits) Troy would abuse me. Constantly. I could still hear him inside the house where I was safe. Many days did I absorb his insults which were high in pitch and went a little like this... ROU ROU ROU ROU ROU (“khhhhhhhhhhh”, [as he drew with rage and bile-rising ferocity more of God’s precious oxygen to further his taunts at me]) ROU ROU ROU ROU KHHHHHHHHHHH.... ROU ROU *sigh* I did, day after day, week after week, month after....ok. I must devise a plan, oh yea! Mom’s got some mace in the desk drawer.... ...to the slated fence, and Troy’s choking vehemence, I sprayed a thin, silent stream of hell right into that mutt’s mouth. ...silence... ...more silence... “Oh my god...” as I ran upstairs to see over the fence to what I did to this lady’s dog. Dragging his mangy face along the ground in hope of some, any, relief, Troy found no comfort. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. “I’ve killed this dog. Oh no...” But alas, he made it through his ordeal. Some relief, equally matched by disappointment. Well, at least the “episode” is over. I wonder if it did any good? 3.30, home from school, open the fence... ...silence... ...still silence... “Troy?” -Yes. Silent. Good. Well, Jenny’s hair eventually turned white as snow as the cancer took its toll on her, and as the ambulance pulled away with her in it I didn’t realize I would never see her again. Troy survived her, but as it’s been 15 or 20 years he, too, joins his “brother” whom he never met, Tom Brown. Tom Brown will show him the ropes, exactly what is involved in daisy pushing and how long they must endure it, and new neighbors will come and go, just as we did. And just as the story begins, so it ends.... IN CAPITOL LETTERS...

The Woeful Tales Of Expired Neighbors

IT MUST HAVE BEEN 1985.

...or 1986.

...or maybe 1987, even. I was in high school, anyway. A number of neighbors lived next to us between Jan. 8, 1978 and October 30, 1994. But Jenny had to be the most "interesting". She had a lower, back-o-th'-throat kinda voice, thick in British accent. You could hear her muttering constantly to nobody, her daughter, Tom Brown and eventually Troy. At the very first, she was neighborly, this turned sour quickly, as most OCDs are easily offended. Our trash can "grazing" the property line between us was the first of many such occurrences.

Tom Brown was quiet. He was always there. Never made much fuss about anything. Always being berated to the point of torture, she totally “owned” him. Oh yea, Tom Brown is a type of Terrier and yes, a dog. He acted like one, too.

We had once a turkey in the freezer that was much past its good date. Eventually the time came for this bird to give up its estate in the freezer for food more appropriate for consumption. Mom said to throw it out. So I did. I did exactly that. I threw. It out. Out the back door. There were woods, and a hill. No problem. I watched as that bird rolled about 10 feet and hit a tree. It rested at the base of this tree. I went inside.

About 2 days later, in the middle of a very hot summer, the turkey revisited our home. Not through the way it left, no. But through every other way, mostly the windows, which had to be firmly shut by this point. I was very sorry.

Jenny and Tom Brown went for walks in the evenings, and the way of the woods was frequented by their outings. We were uncomfortably inside our house-oven one such evening, then the words...

No.

No!

NOOOOO! TOM BROWN!

BAD DOG!

Somehow the stench and the heat were a little more bearable at this point in time. And a story is born that will be told and received with many tears of laughter, but alas, this chapter in the story is over, and so is Tom Brown, having been “assigned” to pushing up daisies.

TROY WAS FROM SCOTLAND.

...or at least his ancestors. He was a Scotty. And a mutt. Every day when I got home from school Troy was waiting on me. He was not quiet like his predecessor. He was a rogue. I would come home, and through the fence (which was about 7 feet high, and wooden so one could only see through the slits) Troy would abuse me. Constantly. I could still hear him inside the house where I was safe. Many days did I absorb his insults which were high in pitch and went a little like this...

ROU ROU ROU ROU ROU (“khhhhhhhhhhh”, [as he drew with rage and bile-rising ferocity more of God’s precious oxygen to further his taunts at me])

ROU ROU ROU ROU KHHHHHHHHHHH.... ROU ROU

*sigh* I did, day after day, week after week, month after....ok. I must devise a plan, oh yea! Mom’s got some mace in the desk drawer....

...to the slated fence, and Troy’s choking vehemence, I sprayed a thin, silent stream of hell right into that mutt’s mouth.

...silence...

...more silence...

“Oh my god...” as I ran upstairs to see over the fence to what I did to this lady’s dog.

Dragging his mangy face along the ground in hope of some, any, relief, Troy found no comfort. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. “I’ve killed this dog. Oh no...”

But alas, he made it through his ordeal. Some relief, equally matched by disappointment. Well, at least the “episode” is over. I wonder if it did any good?

3.30, home from school, open the fence...

...silence...

...still silence...

“Troy?” -Yes. Silent.

Good.

Well, Jenny’s hair eventually turned white as snow as the cancer took its toll on her, and as the ambulance pulled away with her in it I didn’t realize I would never see her again. Troy survived her, but as it’s been 15 or 20 years he, too, joins his “brother” whom he never met, Tom Brown. Tom Brown will show him the ropes, exactly what is involved in daisy pushing and how long they must endure it, and new neighbors will come and go, just as we did.

And just as the story begins, so it ends....

IN CAPITOL LETTERS...