Well, the neighbors upstairs who played their music loud at all hours have been gone awhile. Fortunately, I was able to store some of my belongings in the empty apartment during (non-)Hurricane Rita.
But new neighbors have moved in upstairs. And their very large Rottweiler. He’s on the front porch, he can drape his front paws over the top of the wooden balcony railing. Interesting thing about him is that he’s just like my friend’s Rottweiler, Britta: He only goes stark, raving, Cujo-mad when there are other dogs or cats around. Humans, strangers and family alike, bother him not. Which is why I was able to coo silliness at him yesterday morning when I left to go get breakfast for Robert and me.
However this morning dawns a new day of annoyance. Shitstorms. Literally. I THOUGHT I heard an odd crackling noise while I was sitting at my computer this morning. It sounded like Sunny sharpening his claws on my rattan plant stand. But I looked over and saw Sunny laying on the floor in the hallway. Hmm. Maybe the fat old thing does move that fast.
Nope. Guess again. When I went outside this morning, it hit me like a wall of bricks. The stench was enough to gag a buzzard. The dog had diarrhea-ed all over my front window, bricks, porch. Fortunately, he missed the patio chair and custom cushion. I ran upstairs to tell the neighbors — unfortunately my first (and hopefully LAST) encounter with them — that I just couldn’t do the dog diarrhea thing. Then I called the landlord and voiced my extreme displeasure at this turn of events. (Honestly, it’s time to get the hell out of that place. I’ve had enough.)
So after about 20 minutes, she comes downstairs to start cleaning up. She made excuses that he was only on the front porch this morning. Nope, I corrected her. He was out there all morning yesterday morning too, because I saw him and talked to him. Try again. And, I added, pleasantly, if you continue to keep him out there, I can make a prediction right now. He’ll continue to shit all over MY porch. Yeesh.
She told me she was seven months’ pregnant. (“It’s not easy” she said.) Well maybe not. It should be easy to figure out you can’t keep a 110 pound dog on a 4′ x3′ patio enclosure and not expect to have to mop shit and pee once in awhile. She disclosed that her husband had the dog before they got married. Well, then, JesusFuckingMaryMotherofChrist, why isn’t HE down here cleaning up after HIS DOG?
The mind reels.
Oh, and get this shit: The landlord calls me back trying to placate me and said that they told him that they were sorry they “upset me.” Upset me? UPSET me? UPSET ME? There’s steaming diarrhea dog shit all over the windows, walls and doors outside my house with flies all around. What exact reaction were they expecting? Glee? And the landlord said that the new tenants didn’t realize the apartments use gas so they have no way to cook. Aw, gee. And this is my problem HOW? (Why do people seem to expect ME to solve their problems yet show no interest whatsoever in mine? Or at the very least keep their problems to themselves so that they don’t become my problems?)
One thing’s for certain, by hook or by crook, Robert and I are out of that place no later than March (when I get my income tax refund). Even if we have to stay in a fucking broom closet. Or better yet pay an extra $600 a month to keep the damn upstairs unit empty all year long, throw a New Year’s Eve bash and charge everyone $100 admission! Pay for an entire years’ worth of rent in one evening!