Life on Cope Street

Barking dogs! They are always barking on Cope Street! Mean and nasty barks. Yippie, pouncing dogs shearing the air next to thick, dark, drooling dogs. All around the neighborhood dreadful barks can be heard from all sorts of dogs. Even the old dog across the street, a worn-out hush-puppy/Maltese, whoofs, but just barely enough you have to look twice to see what the hell that noise was. The dog that bothers me the most, however, is the pet of the trashy-est of trashy on Cope Street. Parallel and on the same level as my dinky apartment, my main window faces Mr. and Mrs. WT themselves. The fact that the sound between the six feet distance of our buildings is comparable to a large church, really doesn't help my bitter distaste for them. You got it, the crotch scratchin', spouse tasselin, slow ramblin, four-letter swearin, dog yellin, Alaskan WT-with an overweight, crazy-eyed Golden Retriever named : Mendy.

The first time I heard it, I thought I had mistaken. Surely, like most people repeat my name with something close to Mandy, or Cindy, the owner of this dog was slurring his usual words when rendering her from the sound tunnel between our two non-attached piece buildings. But then there were several other times, namely early in the morning, while half-conscience in my bed, when I would hear it again. WT had a dog with my name.

The fact that my neighbors frequently wake me up by their 40-year-cigarette-smoke-cough like they are heaving in my ear is enough to turn an early mo into someone even more not-so-happy. But the fact that this disgusting sound is followed by a demand instructing me to "hurry the hell up" can really just set a girl off.

I feel sorry for poor Mendy. Before I saw her eyes, I was going to ask WT if they just wanted me to take her off their hands.

"You just shout at her and let her bark into my window," I'd say. "It's obvious you don't really care about your dog. Plus she told me she needs a new name."

Obviously, I never did this, because once when I was trying to get her to shut the hell up outside my window, we gave each other the stare-down. I was trying to calm her mind with my tantric vibes, but while she seemed captivated for a short time, she would always resume to her high-pitched, pathetic bark. Help! Help! This dog has an empty soul with a frantic body, and Lord knows I don't need that.

I am thankful that WT don't say their dog's name often, but when they do, and I happen to hear it, I instantly turn clammy and shudder. It just suddenly happens and I am left feeling assaulted with this raw, hard fact: The people next door, who never leave the house except to scream at their dog, who have demonstrated their high status in the WT Association, have a dog with my name.

This may actually be more humiliating than snoring...