Illuminations

Ever since my return to life as a ground dweller, I have been alternately terrorized and infuriated by the animal sounds that all too regularly bellow, bark and bray their incessant way through my bedroom’s black air night after nearly sleepless night. And I’m not [just] talking about the Daisy’s kids.

I’ve lived in two-story homes in closely built, residential neighborhoods before. In fact the number of years—inclusive of my childhood years—that I’ve spent in such dwellings far outnumber the years I’ve spent as a tenant in the sky. But NEVER, as in never EVER have my resting hours been as commonly and casually disturbed by the neighbors pets as they are here, in Jackhole, Florida.

People here seem to just leave their ‘effing dogs outside all night long. And those dogs? They get to talking. It only takes one to set off the entire canine chorus and, once begun, the cacophony usually continues ‘til the sunrise. And NEVER, as in EVER does it occur to so much as one of those animal owners to DO A DAMN THING ABOUT IT.

I have opened the windows, thrown open the doors and screamed at these beasts to shut up, hoping that if the owners are so inculcated to and inoculated from the sounds of their beloved beasties then at least they’ll hear ME.

If they do, none of them give a shit.

As much curse as blessing, if there’s one sense I’ve got it’s the sense of hearing. I used to enjoy listening as a certain car would pull-up, the car doors close and, never looking up from my book, informing my parents that “Aunt Mary and Uncle Frank are here.” His face twisted in confusion, my father (who even now at age 85 has naught but normal-to-good results on his hearing tests) couldn’t even get out “Wha…?” before the doorbell would sound and…guess who would be there?

Admittedly it was as much Stage Magic as my own Super Sonics: Uncle Frank’s Chevy wagon didn’t sound anything like Uncle Neil’s Caddy sedan, but it was the even more distinct music of the closing doors that would tip me off every time. Cut to a life littered with ever increasingly esoteric hi-fi equipment and you get the picture.

Be careful what you think of me. I just might hear you.

So if a mouse breaking wind in my basement has a solid 40/60 chance of waking me from a sound sleep (oxymoron alert), you can just imagine the aural delight I experience with no less than three screaming fur-bags-of-shit within mere yards of my own back door and another four adding harmony in the not-distant-enough distance. And speaking of “in the distance”…

In the distance there is a rooster. Yes. That’s right. A fucking ROOSTER.

I have mentioned hearing this animal crow in the past to the Daisy, and could only take her lack of any response as an indication that she thought I was insane and just needed someone to talk to. But last night she heard it, too. And this is one mixed-up chicken stud because he starts his calamity at sundown, not sunup. Just my luck. Unpacking my stuff within hearing distance of the rare and illusive Nocturnal Rooster. Perhaps even a vampire rooster.

It should be clarified that, while this is a shit kickin’, four wheelin’, mud-splashed and tar-heeled backwater of an often shirtless and occasionally ignorant Right Wing bible-misinterpretation stronghold, I do NOT live anywhere in the vicinity of a farm. That would indicate that this particular barnyard Casanova is less an agrarian professional and is more likely employed in the cockfighting business, suggesting that his Cock-a-doodle-doo is, more accurately, Crack-a-doodle-doo.

Another lovely “what has become of my life” ornament to contemplate as I lay awake tormented by those much closer neighbors; the Hounds of Hell.

“It must be a Jacksonville thing,” I’ve said more than once to anyone who’ll listen (because as you all know, I say EVERYTHING more than once). Leaving domestic pets outside all night long and not acknowledging the slightest sense of civic or personal responsibility to control the animal’s ensuing opera of abandonment anxiety “must be a Jacksonville thing.” This assumption was only waxed to a high sheen during a verbal spar with the human [SIC] neighbors a couple months ago.

We, that is to say my Lady of the House and I, got into a bit of a tiff with our immediate neighbor about allowing her daughter to roam about their backyard screaming as though she were being murdered as late as (and later than) 9PM when the similarly-aged sprogs in our home have been in their beds, trying to sleep, for at least an hour. She countered that her little darling was “just having fun” and furthermore, unlike us mere renters, “we own.” For this I offered them our sympathies (that home being on the market for the past three years) and asked if, as owners, they likewise felt entitled to leave their two little lap dogs outside all night, barking like fraternity pledges over a toilet.

She just looked at me with the sincerely blank stare I’ve grown accustomed to down here and replied, “But they’re dogs. They BELONG outside at night.” To which I replied “They aren’t timber wolves, for christsakes!  They’re Shitzhus!”

Then along came today and my recently acquired habit of skimming the local news for a laugh and lookie what I find!...

JACKSONVILLE, Fla. - A man was found dead in a driveway in the 1100 block of West 9th Street Christmas morning -- hours after neighbors said they heard gunfire. Police identified the victim as 40-year-old Wayne J. Brown.” I knew something was going on because my dogs constantly barked, barked, barked all night along," a neighbor told Channel 4. "I thought it might be a trash can my dogs knocked over, but then when the sun came up, I looked out again and that is when I discovered the body."

I am NOT making that up. The report above is a direct cut-and-paste from local NBC Affiliate WXJT’s news site. And I’d like you to read it again. “…my dogs constantly barked, barked, barked all night long,” this deplorable dipshit is quoted as saying, “…but then when the sun came up I looked out…”

His dogs…all night…and he didn’t do a damn thing until the “sun came up.”

What The Hell Is Wrong With These People?

And just in case you think I’m pulling your leg about that news story, here’s another one, also spotted today, on the same site, under the title “Police: Shot Fired at Dog Hits Neighbor.”

For a second my heart skipped a beat. Have I, in a severe state of sleep deprivation, actually acted upon those violent fantasies I fabricate to console my boiling, 3AM hatred for the area’s dog population?

Nah. I don’t own a gun (although I’m thinking about it). And this incident occurred not in my supposedly urbane neighborhood but in a trailer park (although I may soon end up in one). 

The article explains: “The bullet went through the wall of a nearby mobile home and stuck a woman in the back as she was holding her 18-month-old child. Officers investigating a previous crime in the neighborhood heard the gunshot and responded. The victim was taken to Shands-Jacksonville Medical Center where officials said she was recovering. While police said the neighbor's shooting was unintended, the woman who fired the shot could be charged with culpable negligence and discharging a firearm in public. Police did not release the names of either the victim or the woman who fired the shot.

Officers said the dog was gone when they arrived.”

Understandably you'll be all doe eyed about the fact that the victim was "holding her 18-month-old child"  when the shot landed. But trust me, "holding" probably translates to "shaking" and in addition to the 18-month-old there were almost certainly a 4-month, 27-month and 6-year-old playing with cigarette butts in the same double-wide.

Let Darwin work.
 

If only I had the resources, I myself would mount this shooter’s legal defense. Because while she may have missed the dog, she at least pegged the owner.

Even better.