Thoughts on waking (because, as you know, I work* nights).
The nextdoor neighbor's doggie has apparently detected that his bossman -- let's call him Young Master Rotund -- has an infestation of, well, nextdoor neighbors, as in, y'know, us. For some reason the threat we pose to the doggie's turf is at its height when I use the toilet...so, for some time now, every daytime bathroom visit is met with a resolute chorus through the wall, from the neighboring bathroom:
arf arf ARF arf
arf arf ARF ARF ARF
arf ARF ARF arf ARF
He sounds like a good doggie; golden retriever, perhaps? And he certainly is indefatigable in his devotion to protecting their bathroom. Let me tell you, if I had ever considered taking a sledgehammer to that wall, squeezing relentlessly through and using their toilet, I'd definitely be reconsidering about now.
Who's a gooboy? Is he a goodoggie? Yessss, heisagooddoggieyesheis.
Understand, this is a nice apartment complex, with thick walls. Other than late at night there are in fact only two circumstances** in which I'm even aware we have neighbors (and it's always and only these same neighbors): (1) Young Master Rotund's rare forays into sexual intercourse -- mercifully*** brief; and, alas, (2) the rather frequent outdoor telephone calls of both Young Master Rotund and his damsel fair, Mistress Braylaugh.
Aye, there's the rub.
Whether because they prefer to smoke ciggies on the patio, or from a desire to share the melodrama of their lives with all in earshot of their stunningly resonant (and penetrant) voices, Young Master Rotund and Mistress Braylaugh regularly take their charming cellular devices outdoors and shout drunkenly into them at very high volume, usually about matters of quite amazing intimacy. For some reason, neither music nor television of ours -- even piped through massive TimeWindows speakers! -- proves capable of drowning them out entirely...and so it is that I know, among many, many other things:
+ That his wealthy parents, who foot his quite impressive bills, are under the erroneous impression that he's still enrolled in classes at the cheesy religious college they sent him here to attend;
+ That he took Mistress Braylaugh to a party recently where they got it on (not his precise words) on a sofa, and that Mistress Braylaugh didn't much like it when a friend of his crawled over to clutch a stray boobie during the proceedings, but felt herself, as a guest, in too delicate a position to object;
+ That -- but no: surely my readers are themselves too delicate to hear the long and poignant struggles which might be politely shorthanded as: Ride the caboose? Yes or no?...in which controversy, predictably, YMR sides with Yes, and MB with No (so far) -- it being, naturally, her caboose at issue in the matter. Were it his, you can be sure, opinions might well differ.
No, no. I shall be discreet.
Our moral, then: large dogs, particularly those left alone all day, might possibly be better situated somewhere other than apartments...and intimate conversations might best be held somewhere other than out of doors: your cellular phone does not, in fact, come equipped with a Cone of Silence, and perhaps even she of the Braying Laugh might prefer her caboose be discussed with your friends, if at all, only in private.
Back to work, then. :D
93 93/93 -- AJ
* And surf pr0n, of course.
** Okay, three. Young Master Rotund regularly drinks to excess, and has occasionally provided related sound effects: porcelain fixture worship, even the odd thundering collapse. This seems, however, to have fallen off since Mistress Braylaugh moved in. Behind every successful man, as they say...
*** A fine example of relativity in action. The strikingly short duration of these otherwise enthusiastic events is plainly no mercy to the unfortunate Mistress Braylaugh...one reason Young Master Rotund tends to loudly sob and apologize for some while afterwards. Oh, for covering fire then from a vigilant arfbag!