Release the Hounds!

My mother and I always knew our neighbors were strange. By neighbors I don't mean one couple, I'm referring to several homesteads. When we first moved into this home, when I was still in middle school, there were some chance events that led to these revelations. To be brief, my mother found out that this old feller down the road enjoyed sippin’ his glass of whiskey while tattered in a black Victoria’s-Secret style satin shirt and some tighty whiteys. He also tended to have a rusty six-shooter settled right alongside the remote. We called him “Lingerie Bob.” He called himself “Bashakill Bob” – thought himself a fisherman of sorts (The Bashakill is a local watershed…rather gorgeous spot).

Across the street there lives a couple who hung tarps around the perimeter of their backyard, which, in itself isn’t too unordinary – maybe they can’t afford a new fence or something. The thing is dark brown and I’m not sure if they felt it would blend in with the surrounding woods, but the artificialness of it stands out more than a unibrow in a class photo. Anyway, the story goes that a local contractor was walking through the woods behind their house and happened upon their yard, planning to ask them a question. When he walked beyond the woods he saw that they were relaxing around the area, stark naked. Now, I cannot confirm that they let their balls and boobs hang loose, but it’s not entirely implausible.

Thankfully, even farther down the road is the man I like to refer to as the Mayor of Doll Rd, George Paradise. As with all of the neighbors, it’s not that they’re bad people (‘cept for the next group maybe) they’re just a bit odd; no more so than myself in their eyes. George though is an ex-Marine who owned about half of the property along the road before it was all bought up after subdivision. The issue is that he thinks that because he once owned the land, he retains the rights to oversee it and determine all aspects of activity on the land. I don’t think he’s got much to do with his time and I can’t help but feel somewhat sorry, but don’t surprise my friends and me at 11pm!

Ok, and now for the coup des gras, the folks next door that we like to refer to as “the Goths.” There are far too many oddities surrounding this group of people to discuss in depth here. As with any home, there have been developments over time. During the first year or two there was an occasion where my mother made her way over to their front door. I’m not sure if it was an introduction or asking for some sugar, but it’s neither here nor there. She was welcomed by the wife who proceeded to walk her down the pitch black hallway with black candles protruding from the wall. Since the incident, there hasn’t been a return trip, which I’m aware of. There are the typical backyard sword fights that generally occur on a rather steady basis during pleasant weather. The lawn rarely receives a trim; accept right before the annual bash, which usually takes place towards the end of the summer. In the past year or two we’ve noticed that they’ve raised a flag, posted their ship’s steering wheel and installed a pair of canons on either side of their back deck. I’ve yet to see one shoot off, however my mother attests that it has happened in my absence. The recent months have been the capstone to the fairy tale lives of these strange individuals.

Over the past few weeks my mother noticed some rustling amongst the conniving group next door. They had been spending a bit of time in the woods behind their house. Not being one to steer clear, my mother had a look; she said they were making a bit of a clearing. About a week later she noticed that they began lining the perimeter of the clearing with stones and that these stones were coming from the rock wall that separates our property from theirs. Not having this, she told the young cult follower to stop taking stones from here, to which he replied, “But we have a project.” Having another look at the progress, my mother reported that the clearing was now lined with stones and the four corners each had a large stone. Directly behind the stones, about head height, were white crosses posted on trees. Low and behold, it seems as though they held a marriage ceremony in the spot during Memorial Day weekend, although I’m not sure they have retired the clearing. It may still serve as some sort of sacrificial temple, although I’m just taking it to the extreme. I’m sure they’re harmless; as my mother would say.

I can deal with the long grass and the canons. I can handle the batter between swords and occasional loud, obnoxious music. I can even accept the sacrificial shrine in the middle of the woods. However, the medley of barking Border Collis needs to be dealt with. At first there were just one or two dogs. Mind you, these little things barked more than the crickets’ cricket at night, but it might have been manageable. It seems that they’ve decided upon breeding the poor animals thinking that they’re going to make a pretty penny on them. There are now no less than five petite Border Collis that cannot seems to SHUT UP. And, I don’t blame them one bit! These dolts have confined the dogs to a cage that can’t be more than 20’x40’. They’re Border Collis. They should be out in a pasture chasing sheep to their heart’s desire, not plugged up in a small wooded cage. The noise isn’t just bothering my mother (and occasionally me), but the nudists have issued a complaint with my mother in general passing conversation. I’m concerned that these animals are not being treated properly. I doubt that there are any physical abuses going on such as beating or harsh training, but they are most definitely not allowed to run freely, a physical abuse as far as I’m concerned. It’s about damn time that these crazy neighbors release the hounds and take their place in the cage!