The Worst Neighbour

I believe in speaking up when you think someone isn’t doing an adequate job as caretaker of another living being. I believe in being neighborly. And in avoiding unnecessary confrontation. 

And today, in this case, I say, F*** THAT. ALL OF IT.

Hold on. I think you’ll understand.

Let me rewind. I’ve been having neighbor issues, since the very day we moved, on the first of June. I’ll count for you- that’s a little over nine months ago. By neighbor issues, I mean this list of fun:

1. Within twelve hours of the moving van driving away, a neighbor came to our door twice, the first time to peek in the house and ask if we need help changing our door name plate (nope), and the second time to kindly ask (read: TELL) us not to park our cargo bike next to her car. Although my immediate internal reaction was prickly (because this is a city where people park their bikes where they damn please), I complied and moved it next to our front door. Fine. Five minutes later, and I was over it.

2. Until the next day, when minutes after catching her nonchalantly peeping in our front window under the guise of watering her flowers, our landlord rang to say “one of the neighbors” was concerned about the fact that we’d removed the garden-level window grates. He sounded tired, obligated. We assured him that we were only waiting for our bed to be delivered and slipped through the windows, then we’d re-attach them. Unless the feared home intruder had an incredible arsenal of power tools, any of our neighbor’s homes would be perfectly safe. Nosy started to sound more likely a reason than thoughtfulness.

3. Another day or two passed, and the landlord called again, this time to say, again, that “one of the neighbors” is concerned that we were leaving the windows cracked all day while we were gone. Despite being a seemingly adept collector of neighborhood intelligence, she missed the fact that I’m home all day. Again, reassurance. I set down the phone and fixed my best death glare/poop stare in her general direction, then let it go. 

4. A month or so later, my mom was visiting. We were hanging out in the living room, when the doorbell rang. A sweet-but-concerned-looking blonde woman presented a business card. Animal Protection. I assumed she was looking for a donation and gave a polite “No, thank you,” and started to shut the door. She planted her foot between door and frame and firmly explained that an “anonymous neighbor” (hmmm…) complained that we were away on vacation for a few days and left “some dogs” locked on the balcony. 

Wait, WHAT? 

We hadn’t traveled since the birth of our second child, months earlier. Before the move. My mom and I had hardly left the house during her visit. A few playground dates, the supermarket, a short walk. The dogs spent their sleeping hours and minimal alone hours on the balcony (breezier and roomier than the laundry room, where they go during the cold months). I’m talking a maximum of sleeping time plus 2-3 hours during the day. We explained that our male dog would pee ALL OVER FUCKING EVERYTHING if we left them to their devices in the house. She nodded, then inspected our home, checked the dogs’ food, water, living quarters, and overall health, asked me a battery of questions, and left satisfied, albeit confused. I was at first shaken by the unexpected inquiry. And then, my emotional bruise morphed into fury like a CareBear-turned-Wolverine, Transformer-style. But, still, I had an infant, a toddler, and three old dogs, including a heartbreakingly ill one, to care for. I didn’t have time for Agnus, err, this “anonymous neighbor” who kept reappearing.

5. Our babysitter arrived one Saturday night, and by the time we left five minutes later, chaos. It was bedtime, and both kids were overtired and hysterical. But our sitter is made of steel and patience, and I knew she’d have the situation handled in a few minutes. A quick getaway on our part was crucial. I saw the curtain next door flutter as we descended the stairs and hurried off to our movie. Hours later, we returned to a quiet house, and the sitter informed me that seconds after we left, she caught Agnus peeping in the front door window. When confronted, she had a “Oh, I’m just checking to see if everything is okay!” ready. Bull. shit.

6. So, yesterday. A friend was visiting for lunch, and my toddler was behaving atrociously, in dire need of a nap. I took him downstairs to bed, where he proceeded to deliver a roundhouse kick directly to my jaw. He knows the drill. I told him he could either sleep or play quietly in his bed, and left, stunned by the velocity of his tiny little leg. He transitioned into a temper tantrum of incredible force for the next twenty-five minutes, during which I continued to lunch and chat, ready to go down and re-evaluate at the first sign of calm. A head popped around the partition between our balconies. Agnus. I held up a hand to let her know we’re fine, offered a tight smile. She lingered. I opened the door to her trademark, “I just wanted to see if everything is okay,” adding a dramatic finger point down towards the cracked window leaking angry toddler screams. I have nothing but “YES.” for her, and a sharply shut door.

Last night I prepared a speech-version of the letter below, including this clincher:

We will continue to live perfectly legal, fulfilled lives. None of these decisions, unless they are clearly breaking some law, will ever concern you again. And you: you will stop peeping into those lives and windows, in on our babysitters, and over the garden wall to “make sure everything is okay.” Believe me, if it wasn’t, no one in this house would be coming to you for help. 

 

I suggest you get a pet or a television to busy yourself, and if you already have one of each, teach the former a trick and start watching some new material on the latter. When you’re ready to sweeten up that sour little life of yours, swing by. I’m a damn fine baker.

I say speech because there will be no discussion when I ring that doorbell. For nine months she’s done the talking, and I’ve taken it with a strained smile and a wriggling, slimy, gut-boxing knot of anxiety. 

No, this time I talk. Agnus listens.