The peacocks next door killed themselves accidentally, flying up into the roof of their enclosure because, says the neighbor who owned the birds, my father’s dogs barked at them.
Taking that neighbor’s word for it that peacocks cannot stand dogs barking, Dad reimbursed the man for the dead birds and had an electric fence installed to keep his dogs respectful of their neighbors.
This neighbor took Dad’s money, promptly gave up raising peacocks and then, much to my father’s amazement, he bought a dog-a fancy, blue-haired dog. The kind of dog, the neighbor says, that does not bark: “I’ve trained my dog not to bark, and he never does.”
That man’s boast is an outright lie. His dog always barks a blue streak at me, but it’s nothing compared with some of the other neighbor trouble we’ve had.
Because our Dad does not like to chain up Luke, his Labrador, for a while he would let the dog race along through the neighborhood beside Dad’s car. Though Dad and Luke enjoyed the thrill of this competition, the race angered some of the neighbors.
My nephew Matt reported, “The lady down the street said that if Dad ever runs over her Chihuahua while he’s racing Luke, she’s gonna sue him for a million dollars.”
“I’ve come to a complete stop to let that Chihuahua cross the street,” my father said in self-defense.
“That’s not all,” Matt added. “I hear that the policeman you sold that house to is waiting for you with the radar gun, Pa, and he’s gonna catch you racing Luke and give you a speeding ticket.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Dad commented, tight-lipped.
“I told you not to sell that house to those people,” Mother said. Dad pays scant attention to Mother’s intuition. He sometimes also ignores the so-called facts. He had helped the policeman get financing for his home. But he knew the cop had had some heavy medical bills recently so he chalked up the ticket comment to strain.
Dad’s the sort of person who thinks, “If I were in that kind of shape, I’d sure like someone to help me.” He doesn’t understand that people who accept help sometimes resent their benefactors.
He certainly can’t fathom the attitude of the former peacock owner, who told Matt he wants to watch Dad get that speeding ticket.
Dad can’t accept the fact that there is no pleasing some people. My mother understands. Good neighbors learn this lesson the hard way.
Now Dad ties Luke up whenever he leaves the house. He grieves, “I don’t know why anyone would want to see me in particular get a speeding ticket.”
There is one reason. I know Dad tries to be a good neighbor, but he is also infamous in the neighborhood as a dognapper. Lady, Spot, Big Shot and The Incredible Hulk all left neighborhood owners over a period of nine months to move in with Dad because he treats them so well. Neighbors who have experienced the public shame of being deserted by their pets have very long memories.
As a gesture of consolation, I bought Dad a T-shirt with the slogan, If You Can’t Run With the Big Dogs You Better Stay on The Porch.
“Wear this shirt when you drive by that Chihuahua’s house,” I suggested.
Other than the daily conflicts of living next door to expiring peacocks and a barking non-barker and claiming kinship to a confirmed dognapper, my own days in this neighborhood have stayed pretty much the same. The neighbor’s dog patrols the common fence that separates our properties. Whenever I pedal my bike past him on my way to the mailbox, he barks at me. I will bark back unashamed, “Shut up, you loud-mouthed, worrisome mutt!”
May heaven forgive me for taking my unneighborly anger out on that blue-blooded, show-off dog. But really, if I were a peacock, I’d be dead by now.
