Once again new renters have moved into the rundown house and mobile home (both on the same property) diagonally across-the-way in back. None of the renters ever stay long. They're there for a few months, leave, and a few weeks or months later the next batch moves in.
Some have been friendly, some haven't been. Some have been older, some young. Some have tried to keep the place up while they were there, others haven't given a hoot.
The only thing they all had in common were animals. Dogs, cats . . . One guy moved in with a veritable barnyard: dogs, cats, geese, turkeys, goats . . .
With few exceptions, they've all (including Mr. Barnyard) allowed their animals to just run loose.
That tends to tick us — everyone else in the neighborhood, too — off. Especially on trash day.
(Call Animal Control? That's another story and I won't go into except to mention in passing one particular high point: the time I found a citation from them tacked to my back gate because of a complaint they'd received that I wasn't providing my cats with appropriate food, shelter and medical care despite the fact that I didn't — don't and never will — have any.)
So long as the animals stay OUT of our fenced yards and don't bother us when we're
out of them, if they don't care if their animals become tire patches up on the main road why should we.
The "New Crew's" dogs changed that easy-going attitude, at least here, when they pushed through my bungee-corded back gate once too often. The two big dogs (One looks like it might be a Pit-Chow mix; the other may have some Boxer in it.) pushed their way back out as soon as they saw me. But one dog decided to stand its ground and challenge.
Please don't laugh.
Bracing its legs, the Chihuahua began growling at me when I objected to its not only being in MY yard, but scouting out MY garage and the trash cans next to it.
(Behind me, inside the house, chaos ensued as Tank (the Yellow Lab) and The Wonderdog raised their own objections.)
The Chihuahua finally backed down and away, following the path back out the gate its buddies had taken.
A few weeks later I spotted the two big ones — this time accompanied by a cute floppy-eared puppy of undecipherable parentage — back in the yard again headed for the garage. I started to go outside when Hubby quietly said, "Let it go. Da Kid's in the garage."
In seconds Da Kid was in the house taking a rifle from the gun cabinet.
I pitched a fit. One helluva fit. One of my truly classic ones.
"Mother," my son said to me disapprovingly. (I hate it when he calls me ‘Mother.') "It's a BB gun. I know what I'm doing."
Pumping between rapid-fire shots, Da Kid then popped their asses right out of the gate.
"At this distance, Mom, two pumps," Da Kid said after they'd fled. "If they were closer I'd only go once. I've dug too many BBs out of animals to take chances with any more than that. You don't want to break the skin, just sting ‘em."
"Want to try it?"
I did hit the side of the hay shed. Unfortunately, that wasn't what I was aiming at.
This morning Da Kid was packing lunch and dinner before leaving for the 12+-hour shift he works every Sunday at an emergency care hospital for animals.
"Your buddies are back," I said looking out the window.
After a long absence the two big dogs (with the Chihuahua, the fast growing pup PLUS a new addition) were working on pushing our bungee-corded back gate open.
Da Kid looked, and headed for the gun cabinet.POP