I was working in the yard this morning (stay tuned for a series of posts about my battle with my horrendous yard, or don’t, since I am sure it will be as boring as watching cow patties dry in the sun), as I have done every morning this week (that’s right, fuckers, I have been OUTSIDE every goddamn day this week), except Wednesday, when I worked in the yard in the afternoon, whereupon I concluded that afternoons are not a good time for yard work, because it is hotter in the afternoon, which leads to sweating, and I am very much opposed to sweating, but mainly because people start blowing up my phone in the afternoon, especially my monster-in-law, with inane texts such as “I am eating various cups of soup that I heated last nite trying to find chile [sic]. Really they were half cups.” And I always fight my way across the yard, take off my work gloves (you know someone’s doing some serious ass yard work when she wears GLOVES), and check my phone to assure myself Husband hasn’t killed another car and isn’t broken down on the side of the road somewhere or Alice is not about to kill Shrek in a murderous rage and leave Hellbaby parentless forever (you might think these circumstances warrant a phone call rather than a text, but everyone who know me knows my phone rarely rings out here in the boonies, but for some reason texts come through fine, and even if my phone does ring, I rarely answer it, because, hello? Who the fuck talks on the phone these days? Send me a text, asshole [see, I did it right there, called someone an asshole. In my mind]). It is very annoying and disrupts my PROCESS.
My dogs like to hang out in the yard with me when I’m working, and that’s cool. They’re usually in the front yard anyway, which isn’t fenced, except for the privacy fence that runs down the side of the road in front of the house. They WILL NOT stay in the fenced back yard, and we have yet to construct a fence that can keep them contained. This is something of a worry, because we live on a corner, at a surprisingly busy intersection for the boonies. My dogs, like most dogs, like to chase things that they have no possible chance of catching. Like cars. But especially motorcycles. My dogs HATE motorcycles. They are probably telepathically picking up on my hate and merely being supportive, as dogs are wont* to do.
Vehicles that pass on the main road that runs beside our house don’t cause any problems. My dogs aren’t morons (well, maybe the doodle, but he is in his teenage years, after all, and aren’t all teenage boys morons?) so they don’t bother chasing cars that are going 45 mph or better. But the road that runs in front our house? That is their territory. Vehicles traveling that road as they pass our house are slowing to obey the stop sign at the corner, and my dogs enthusiastically run out to accost these (in their minds) interlopers. Or maybe they’re just saying hi. I mean, they’re just barking, not growling or anything. Except at the asshole motorcycles and ATVs. ESPECIALLY the ATVs, because my dogs know, because I told them, that those jerks aren’t even supposed to be on the road with their motherfucking ATVs in the first goddamn place.
Anyway, I was working in the yard. The dogs were lounging around, until this fucker comes tearing up the road in front of the house on a bright yellow motorcycle. Old guy, white hair, big white beard, face red as a boiled lobster (hello, skin cancer, you prick!). No helmet. I’ve never seen him before, I suspect he lives behind us. Our house is so surrounded by woods we can’t see any neighbors except the mobile home across the road way up the hill. And that’s exactly how we like it. But once a year, we HEAR the people behind us, because apparently someone or someones back there belong to a motorcycle club or a gang, probably a gang, they seem way more gangster-ish than club-ish, maybe they’re Hell’s Angels, I don’t know, and they throw a pig roast (we know it’s a pig roast because they post crude hand lettered signs at the corner directly across from us with an arrow pointing down the road saying “PIG ROAST THIS WAY.” And all weekend long motorcycles rev up and down the road and Southern rock rattles our windows until the wee hours of the morning and we hear people shouting and laughing and bottles breaking when usually we hear nothing but frogs ribbiting and dogs barking and Star Trek, which is what my husband uses as white noise to go to sleep (not that he finds Star Trek boring, mind you; it’s just that he’s seen every episode so many times he finds it soothing and doesn’t worry about missing any crucial points if he does doze off. It’s the same way I feel about King of the Hill). This goes on all weekend long.
And we don’t mind. Except that we’re not invited. But if a bunch of old redneck farts want to get together and cut up once a year, good for them.
Anyway, this old fart zoomed up the road on his Hog, or his Harley, or his whatever-the-fuck-it-is, and my dogs went nuts. They ran out to the corner, and I was hollering at them to come back, but they probably didn’t even hear me over the goddamn racket that guy’s engine was making. But I wasn’t really that concerned about it, because people around here know my dogs and there’s no leash laws and lots of people’s dogs run loose without even any pretense of a fenced yard. We’re in the country, yo. People’s COWS get out and wander the road. There are goats loose in people’s yards. I’m not excusing my dogs running in the road, but until I can build the equivalent of the Chinese wall, there’s not a lot I can do about it. We do shut the dog door and keep them inside during prime traffic times, but they are going to get out. And so far people have been cool with it and no one has run over them and when they bark people might yell out their window for them to shut up, but generally everyone ignores them.
But not this jackass. From across the yard I heard him SCREAMING. He had stopped and gotten off his motorcycle and was stomping toward my dogs and cussing his head off, “YOU MOTHERFUCKERS GET IN THE MOTHERFUCKING YARD MOTHERFUCKERS THAT’S A TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLAR MOTORCYCLE MOTHERFUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS.” Normally I would be impressed with such swearing ability, but asshole was at my driveway now, making threatening gestures at my dogs, who had retreated to the yard. I called across mildly, “I am quite confident that my dogs have no intention of harming your twenty thousand dollar motorcycle.” I don’t think he even heard me, because as soon as I started talking he started screaming at ME, “KEEP YOUR MOTHERFUCKING DOGS IN THE YARD.” Then he stomped back to his motorcycle and took off.
I looked at my dogs severely and said, “Did you hear that? You motherfuckers stay in the yard.” And I went back to raking leaves and lopping wisteria and privet.
About twenty or thirty minutes later I heard the unmistakable sound of his goddamn motorcycle and I called to my dogs to come to me, but they recognized the sound too, and off they went. Fucker rounded the corner and STOPPED. Now, there was no reason for him to stop except to be a fucking dickhead. It was a right turn and he had the right of way, but he wanted to stop and have a goddamn STARE DOWN with my dogs. Because that’s what he was doing when I crossed the yard, carrying the loppers with me because if he made an aggressive move toward me you can be damn sure I was at least going to poke him and maybe even lop something off of him, and went to retrieve the dogs, because they of course were circling around him like a pack of wolves barking furiously. And he was just sitting there, arms crossed over his massive beer belly, puffed up like a sunburned bullfrog. I told my dogs to come, but of course they were dancing around, dodging me, making me look like a totally inept dog owner. Jerks. I asked dickhead, “Why are sitting here aggravating my dogs?” He did not respond. Maybe he had used his voice up from his tirade earlier. Then I managed to grab Alpha Dog, which was the best dog to grab, because I knew if I got him back into the yard the other two would follow. And then it just came out of my mouth, “I guess it DOES take all kinds of assholes to make this world.” And I wanted to say more, but I was concentrating on not letting 70-pound Alpha dog get lose and not dropping the loppers, and I dragged struggling, crying Alpha dog back into the yard, the other two, as I predicted, following closely alongside. ONLY THEN did asshole fired up his twenty thousand dollar motorcycle and go on down the road.
And it’s ON. I declare VENDETTA, even though nobody’s been murdered. Just wait. You think we’re going to be so accommodating next time the pig roast’s going on full decibel force? HELL, no. I’m calling the authorities and making a NOISE COMPLAINT.
*Alice says I need to explain that this is not a typo, after we had a heated argument in which she insisted that WONT is not a word and I informed her that it most certainly is, and she said she had never heard of such a thing, and I said I couldn’t help it if she were an illiterate ignoramus, and she said everybody else would think it was a typo also and I needed to change it and I said my readers (all three of you) are more literate and intelligent than that and I would not insult them by changing it.