My apartment complex is comprised of several odd little buildings on a plot of land half surrounded by a wooded "mountain" (hence the clever name, Tekoa Mountain Apartments). There are about 27 units in this complex, mine being in the back of the property, hedged in by several other units, all with their own, private outdoor entrances and backdoors leading out onto a green expanse of lawn, and of course, Tekoa "mountain" (I say "mountain" because it's more like an over-glorified hillside with lots and lots of trees). The wooded "mountainside" is home to all sorts of little and not-so-little woodland creatures. Some, I've seen with my own eyes--a fisher cat, for example, which is evidently some strange creature from the weasel family that likes to eat squirrels, and not an animal I'd like to have any sort of personal encounter with. There have been bear sightings in the woods out back. And, of course, there is an abundance of fuzzy little woodland creatures like raccoons, bunnies, chipmunks, squirrels.
Now, here in the frigid northeast, it gets dark by 4:30. The Ted, however, doesn't really care and still insists that I walk him after dark. No problem. I walk him in the lighted areas in front of my apartment and around the small property (and I use "lighted" in the loosest sense of the word--there are lights, and they emit a sort of luminescent glow, but it's more decorative than functional, but it's better than nothing which is what is out back).
So, I'm out walking the Ted--he has a routine when we walk, a list of specific points where he feels the need to leave his liquid calling card, places where he needs to snort around to see what's up with the other dogs in the apartment complex. So, we sort of follow a route around the property. And, on this particular occassion, the Ted has decided to poop in one of his usual spots. It's dark. It's about 7:30 at night. I've had a long, long, long day at work, involving adventures with irate strange students and endless department meetings. And, to top it off, I had no heat or hot water the day/evening before, nor that morning. So, I've been heating the apartment with my oven, and I havnen't been able to shower in over 24 hours. I'm tired. I smell. I haven't eaten since that morning. I'm standing, in the cold, in the dark, waiting for the Ted to finish his business, fumbling with the little baggy dispenser on his leash so I can clean up after he's finished with his business, and I suddenly hear this old, cranky, disembodied voice.
"Why are you letting your dog poop in my yard?"
I'm tired, and my brain's cogs are cranking at an unusally slow pace. My first reaction is, where is that voice coming from? I look around to see a floating head backlit in a small window of the nearest apartment. It's the kind of window they stick in a bathroom, it's small, and relatively useless--kind of like the outdoor lighting. And then, my next reaction is, YOUR YARD?? Where in your lease does it say this patch of grass belongs to you? I, of course, have yet to respond to Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants' floating head, so it speaks again.
"What do you let your dog poop in my yard for?"
By now, my brain has defrosted a bit, The Ted is finished with his business, and I'm scooping it up in a baggy. I respond, trying not to be rude, "Don't worry, I'm cleaning it up."
Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't hear me, or he doesn't care--I don't know, he's busy doing something in his bathroom while screaming at me. "Why don't you walk your dog out in your own backyard? You've got all that space back there."
Hmmmm, you mean the pitch black field adjacent to the wooded "mountain", Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? Where there have been bear sightings? "There's no light back there. The areas out front here are lighted at night." And I'm a total clutz and have a strange need to see where I'm going without getting mauled by happy little woodland creatures or falling flat on my face because the ground is uneven.
Again, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't seem to understand my crazy moon language. "How would you like it if I walked my dog in front of your apartment, and just let me him poop wherever?"
I'm tying closed the baggy I've scooped Teddy's poop up with--and let it be known, I'm one of the only tenants that cleans up after their pet, and Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants is NOT one of those chosen few who follow my example. I stared back at the floating head of Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants and replied as sweetly as possible, "I don't care where you walk your dog, as long as you clean up after it." And, at that I left Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants to grumble incoherently as I walked over to the dumster and chucked in my little blue plastic baggy of Teddy poo.
What makes this even crazier is that I've had polite conversation with Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants, on multiple occassions, one just recently. So where is this sudden animosity coming from? And where does it say on his lease that this corner of grass belongs to him? Bite me, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He, I'm sure, HAD heat and hot water for the last 24 hours. He's probably had a hot shower today. He's probably eaten dinner by now. I didn't see him at my interminable meeting. And whatever he's doing in his bathroom, screaming out the window at me, I don't know. But he and his poopy little dog can take long, midnight strolls in the field out back of my apartment any night they want. And get mauled by a bear. Or fall in a dark sink hole where no one will find them until morning because there's absolutely NO LIGHT back there.
What's that I hear--it's that fabulous Christmas tune: "It's the most wonderful time of the year . . ." Hmmm, yes. The Holiday season where everyone's full of happy holiday cheer. Happy Holidays, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. Teddy has a present for you. I wrapped it myself in this cheerful little blue plastic bag. Enjoy.
